Arthur M. Winfield - "The Rover Boys at School"

John Lothrop Motley - "The Rise of the Dutch Republic, Introduction II."

Frank Gee Patchin - "The Pony Rider Boys in the Rockies"

Don Manoel Gonzales - "London in 1731"

New Philadelphia Book Publisher Highlights Local Talent
Book and Publishing News from Publishers Newswire(tm)

Looking for Child to be on Cover of a New Book, 'The Model Child'
PHILADELPHIA, Pa. -- The Philadelphia literary world will celebrate the launch of two new players today, April 10th: Kay Square Press, a new publishing company focused on Philadelphia-area artists, their stories, and their art; and Kay Square's first release, 'With the Rich and Mighty: Emlen Etting of Philadelphia' (ISBN: 978-0-9815129-0-7), a critical biography by Kenneth C. Kaleta.

FlatSigned Press Alleges Don Imus Remarks Damage Legacy of President Gerald R. Ford
NEW YORK, N.Y. -- Nathan Yungerberg, an accomplished model scout and professional child photographer is launching a nation-wide casting call to find the cover model for his highly anticipated book release, 'The Model Child: A Parents Guide to the Child Modeling Industry' (ISBN: 978-0-9817018-0-6).

Books: Huntingtower

J >> John Buchan >> Huntingtower




The tinklers of the Garplefoot took themselves off, and where they may
now be pursuing their devious courses is unknown to the chronicler.
Dobson, too, disappeared, for he was not among the dead from the boats.
He knew the neighbourhood, and probably made his way to some port
from which he took passage to one or other of those foreign lands
which had formerly been honoured by his patronage. Nor did all the
Russians perish. Three were found skulking next morning in the
woods, starving and ignorant of any tongue but their own, and five
more came ashore much battered but alive. Alexis took charge
of the eight survivors, and arranged to pay their passage to one
of the British Dominions and to give them a start in a new life.
They were broken creatures, with the dazed look of lost animals,
and four of them had been peasants in Saskia's estates. Alexis spoke
to them in their own language. "In my grandfather's time," he said,
"you were serfs. Then there came a change, and for some time
you were free men. Now you have slipped back into being slaves
again--the worst of slaveries, for you have been the serfs of fools
and scoundrels and the black passion of your own hearts. I give you
a chance of becoming free men once more. You have the task before
you of working out your own salvation. Go, and God be with you."



Before we take leave of these companions of a single week I would
present them to you again as they appeared on a certain sunny
afternoon when the episode of Huntingtower was on the eve of closing.
First we see Saskia and Alexis walking on the thymy sward of
the cliff-top, looking out to the fretted blue of the sea.
It is a fitting place for lovers--above all for lovers who have
turned the page on a dark preface, and have before them still
the long bright volume of life. The girl has her arm linked
in the man's, but as they walk she breaks often away from him,
to dart into copses, to gather flowers, or to peer over the brink
where the gulls wheel and oyster-catchers pipe among the shingle.
She is no more the tragic muse of the past week, but a laughing child
again, full of snatches of song, her eyes bright with expectation.
They talk of the new world which lies before them, and her voice is happy.
Then her brows contract, and, as she flings herself down on
a patch of young heather, her air is thoughtful.

"I have been back among fairy tales," she says. "I do not quite
understand, Alesha. Those gallant little boys! They are youth,
and youth is always full of strangeness. Mr. Heritage! He is youth,
too, and poetry, perhaps, and a soldier's tradition. I think I know
him....But what about Dickson? He is the PETIT BOURGEOIS,
the EPICIER, the class which the world ridicules. He is unbelievable.
The others with good fortune I might find elsewhere--in Russia perhaps.
But not Dickson."

"No," is the answer. "You will not find him in Russia. He is what
they call the middle-class, which we who were foolish used to laugh at.
But he is the stuff which above all others makes a great people.
He will endure when aristocracies crack and proletariats crumble.
In our own land we have never known him, but till we create him
our land will not be a nation."




Half a mile away on the edge of the Laver glen Dickson and Heritage
are together, Dickson placidly smoking on a tree-stump and Heritage
walking excitedly about and cutting with his stick at the bracken.
Sundry bandages and strips of sticking plaster still adorn the Poet,
but his clothes have been tidied up by Mrs. Morran, and he has
recovered something of his old precision of garb. The eyes of both are
fixed on the two figures on the cliff-top. Dickson feels acutely uneasy.
It is the first time that he has been alone with Heritage since the
arrival of Alexis shivered the Poet's dream. He looks to see a
tragic grief; to his amazement he beholds something very like exultation.

"The trouble with you, Dogson," says Heritage, "is that you're a bit
of an anarchist. All you false romantics are. You don't see the
extraordinary beauty of the conventions which time has consecrated.
You always want novelty, you know, and the novel is usually the ugly and
rarely the true. I am for romance, but upon the old, noble classic line."

Dickson is scarcely listening. His eyes are on the distant lovers,
and he longs to say something which will gently and graciously
express his sympathy with his friend.

"I'm afraid," he begins hesitatingly, "I'm afraid you've had a bad blow,
Mr. Heritage. You're taking it awful well, and I honour you for it."

The Poet flings back his head. "I am reconciled," he says.
"After all ''tis better to have loved an lost," you know.
It has been a great experience and has shown me my own heart.
I love her, I shall always love her, but I realize that she was
never meant for me. Thank God I've been able to serve her--that is all
a moth can ask of a star. I'm a better man for it, Dogson.
She will be a glorious memory, and Lord! what poetry I shall write!
I give her up joyfully, for she has found her mate. 'Let us not
to the marriage of true minds admit impediments!' The thing's too
perfect to grieve about....Look! There is romance incarnate."

He points to the figures now silhouetted against the further sea.
"How does it go, Dogson?" he cries. "'And on her lover's arm she leant'
--what next? You know the thing."

Dickson assists and Heritage declaims:


"And on her lover's arm she leant,
And round her waist she felt it fold,
And far across the hills they went
In that new world which is the old:
Across the hills, and far away
Beyond their utmost purple rim,
And deep into the dying day
The happy princess followed him."


He repeats the last two lines twice and draws a deep breath.
"How right!" he cries. "How absolutely right! Lord! It's astonishing
how that old bird Tennyson got the goods!"




After that Dickson leaves him and wanders among the thickets
on the edge of the Huntingtower policies above the Laver glen.
He feels childishly happy, wonderfully young, and at the same
time supernaturally wise. Sometimes he thinks the past week has
been a dream, till he touches the sticking-plaster on his brow,
and finds that his left thigh is still a mass of bruises and that
his right leg is woefully stiff. With that the past becomes very
real again, and he sees the Garple Dean in that stormy afternoon,
he wrestles again at midnight in the dark House, he stands with
quaking heart by the boats to cut off the retreat. He sees it all,
but without terror in the recollection, rather with gusto and a
modest pride. "I've surely had a remarkable time," he tells himself,
and then Romance, the goddess whom he has worshipped so long,
marries that furious week with the idyllic. He is supremely content,
for he knows that in his humble way he has not been found wanting.
Once more for him the Chavender or Chub, and long dreams among
summer hills. His mind flies to the days ahead of him, when
he will go wandering with his pack in many green places. Happy days
they will be, the prospect with which he has always charmed his mind.
Yes, but they will be different from what he had fancied, for he is
another man than the complacent little fellow who set out a week ago
on his travels. He has now assurance of himself, assurance of his faith.
Romance, he sees, is one and indivisible....

Below him by the edge of the stream he sees the encampment of the
Gorbals Die-Hards. He calls and waves a hand, and his signal is answered.
It seems to be washing day, for some scanty and tattered raiment
is drying on the sward. The band is evidently in session, for it is
sitting in a circle, deep in talk.

As he looks at the ancient tents, the humble equipment, the ring of
small shockheads, a great tenderness comes over him. The Die-Hards
are so tiny, so poor, so pitifully handicapped, and yet so bold
in their meagreness. Not one of them has had anything that might
be called a chance. Their few years have been spent in kennels
and closes, always hungry and hunted, with none to care for them;
their childish ears have been habituated to every coarseness,
their small minds filled with the desperate shifts of living..
..And yet, what a heavenly spark was in them! He had always
thought nobly of the soul; now he wants to get on his knees
before the queer greatness of humanity.

A figure disengages itself from the group, and Dougal makes his way
up the hill towards him. The Chieftain is not mere reputable in garb
than when we first saw him, nor is he more cheerful of countenance.
He has one arm in a sling made out of his neckerchief, and his
scraggy little throat rises bare from his voluminous shirt.
All that can be said for him is that he is appreciably cleaner.
He comes to a standstill and salutes with a special formality.

"Dougal," says Dickson, "I've been thinking. You're the grandest lot of
wee laddies I ever heard tell of, and, forbye, you've saved my life.
Now, I'm getting on in years, though you'll admit that I'm not that dead
old, and I'm not a poor man, and I haven't chick or child to look after.
None of you has ever had a proper chance or been right fed or educated
or taken care of. I've just the one thing to say to you. From now on
you're my bairns, every one of you. You're fine laddies, and I'm
going to see that you turn into fine men. There's the stuff in you
to make Generals and Provosts--ay, and Prime Ministers, and Dod! it'll
not be my blame if it doesn't get out."

Dougal listens gravely and again salutes.

"I've brought ye a message," he says. "We've just had a meetin' and
I've to report that ye've been unanimously eleckit Chief Die-Hard.
We're a' hopin' ye'll accept."

"I accept," Dickson replies. "Proudly and gratefully I accept."




The last scene is some days later, in a certain southern suburb of Glasgow.
Ulysses has come back to Ithaca, and is sitting by his fireside,
waiting for the return of Penelope from the Neuk Hydropathic.
There is a chill in the air, so a fire is burning in the grate,
but the laden tea-table is bright with the first blooms of lilac.
Dickson, in a new suit with a flower in his buttonhole, looks none
the worse for his travels, save that there is still sticking-plaster
on his deeply sunburnt brow. He waits impatiently with his eye
on the black marble timepiece, and he fingers something in his pocket.

Presently the sound of wheels is heard, and the pea-hen voice of
Tibby announces the arrival of Penelope. Dickson rushes to the door,
and at the threshold welcomes his wife with a resounding kiss.
He leads her into the parlour and settles her in her own chair.

"My! but it's nice to be home again!" she says. "And everything
that comfortable. I've had a fine time, but there's no place
like your own fireside. You're looking awful well, Dickson.
But losh! What have you been doing to your head?"

"Just a small tumble. It's very near mended already. Ay, I've had
a grand walking tour, but the weather was a wee bit thrawn.
It's nice to see you back again, Mamma. Now that I'm an idle man
you and me must take a lot of jaunts together."

She beams on him as she stays herself with Tibby's scones, and when
the meal is ended, Dickson draws from his pocket a slim case.
The jewels have been restored to Saskia, but this is one of her
own which she has bestowed upon Dickson as a parting memento.
He opens the case and reveals a necklet of emeralds, any one
of which is worth half the street.

"This is a present for you," he says bashfully.

Mrs. McCunn's eyes open wide. "You're far too kind," she gasps.
"It must have cost an awful lot of money."

"It didn't cost me that much," is the truthful answer.

She fingers the trinket and then clasps it round her neck, where the
green depths of the stones glow against the black satin of her bodice.
Her eyes are moist as she looks at him. "You've been a kind man to me,"
she says, and she kisses him as she has not done since Janet's death.

She stands up and admires the necklet in the mirror, Romance once more,
thinks Dickson. That which has graced the slim throats of princesses in
far-away Courts now adorns an elderly matron in a semi-detached villa;
the jewels of the wild Nausicaa have fallen to the housewife Penelope.

Mrs. McCunn preens herself before the glass. "I call it very genteel,"
she says. "Real stylish. It might be worn by a queen."

"I wouldn't say but it has," says Dickson.