Baroness Emmuska Orczy [Full name] - "The Elusive Pimpernel"

A. Merritt - "The Moon Pool"

C. E. Orr - "How to Live a Holy Life"

Oscar Wilde - "Poems"

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: The Junior Classics Volume 8

S >> Selected and arranged by William Patten >> The Junior Classics Volume 8




"Come on, boys! I've shoved him through. I'm going right up after
him. Nothing to pull away but some sods."

"Dat's de tog!" exclaimed Mr. Hamburger. "Keep shtill, black poy!
De rest of dose vootshucks is coming. Keep shtill."

Nothing but some sods to pull away, to make that hole large enough,
and then Abe Selover's curly head popped out, and the rest of him
followed, grimy and dirty, but in a great fever of excitement and
fun.

After him climbed the other boys, one by one.

"Mr. Hamburger, did you see where that woodchuck went to?"

"De vootshuck? I don't know him. But de black poy haf run after de
tog, ant he vas run so fast as nefer you saw. Vare you leetle
vootshucks coom from, eh? You climb oonder mein pasture?"

"No use, Abe," said Mart Penniman. "We've missed that woodchuck
this time."

"We've found the cave, though," said Pete Corry. "It's through that
he got away from us so many times."

"I dell you vat," said Mr. Hamburger; "de nex' time you leetle
vootshucks vant to chase dat oder vootshuck, you put a pag ofer
dese hole. Den you shace him round among de rocks, and you will
catch de tog ant de vootshuck into de same pag."

"That's what we'll do," said Abe Selover. "But not to-day, boys. He
was the finest woodchuck I ever saw, but we've missed him this
time."



THE FAITHFUL LITTLE LIZARD

By Lieutenant-Colonel W. Hill James



On the diggings near the Avoca River the lizard's future master
had, as was the digger's custom, come out of his hole, or shaft, at
eleven o'clock for a short half-hour's rest between breakfast and
the midday meal. He threw himself down in a half-sitting posture,
and was dreamily smoking his pipe when from beneath a neighboring
rock, popped out a little lizard who eyed the stranger with
inquisitive interest, as quickly retiring, to return again in a few
minutes.

This was repeated several times, the lizard's keen eyes always
fixed on the face of the intruder.

Presently the digger's foot was approached, and evidently approved
of for its warmth. After a retreat to the rock a farther advance
was made, this time to the knee of the stranger, to whose face the
two brilliant little eyes were still enquiringly directed. Before
the half-hour's rest was over the left arm of the smoker had been
mounted, his neck rounded, and the right arm descended, the
venturesome journey ended by the lizard squatting contentedly on
the back of his new-found friend's right hand. Confidence had thus
been established between the two, but not to the extent of capture,
for on the gold-seeker attempting to place his left hand over his
new acquaintance, he scuttled away to his rock with almost
inconceivable quickness. The digger's smoke over, he returned to
his work in the hole, leaving his blouse where he had sat.

When the work of the day was finished the tired gold-seeker mounted
to the surface and, taking up his blouse, was about to march to his
camp, three miles away, when, to his great surprise, he discovered
his little four-footed friend lying hidden in the fold of the
garment. He carried him gently in the blouse to the camp, and
there, with the usual courage and confidence of his race, the
little reptile quickly adapted himself to his new surroundings in
the digger's tent. He was carefully fed, kept warm at night, and
soon began to like his new quarters with the gold-seekers. In
return for much affectionate attention he was, in a few days, quite
at home with all the party.

On the walk to camp he had made his home in his master's serge
blouse, running up the arm of the loose garment or round the full
front above the tight waistband, as fancy took him, and enjoying
the warmth of his master's body. It was very interesting and
amusing to see him poke his little head out between the buttons, or
through a buttonhole of the blouse at intervals to ask, with
glittering eye and jerky movement, for an occasional fly from his
master's hand caught on the shafts or cover of the cart.

When the camp was pitched for the night, Master Lizard would employ
himself by making the most inquisitive scrutiny and inspection of
the immediate surroundings within and without the tent. He made
himself acquainted with every stone, tuft, stump, or hole, within
what he considered his domain, eventually retiring with the sun to
the blanket on his master's bed, where he invariably slept.

On one occasion, during the darkness of the night, he became
extremely restless, and ran about on the bed, evidently with a view
to awakening his protector, who, being a sound sleeper, was not
easily disturbed. Failing to attract attention, he proceeded to run
rapidly backwards and forwards over the sleeper's face, making at
the same time a low spitting noise, like an angry cat. By this
means he at length roused his friend, who gently pushed him away
several times, speaking soothingly to him in the hope of quieting
the excited little animal.

But the lizard would not be soothed. Having attracted attention, he
continued his inexplicable movements with redoubled energy, until
at length his master, convinced that something must be amiss, got
up, struck a light, and looked round the tent, the sharp eyes of
the lizard following every movement with intense interest. As
nothing unusual could be seen, the gold-hunter retired once more,
after pooh-poohing the lizard for his fears.

Scarcely had he dropped off to sleep, when he was again disturbed,
and, losing patience at these repeated interruptions to his
slumbers, he seized the lizard and threw him lightly across the
tent. In this involuntary flight the little creature unfortunately
struck the tent-pole with considerable force, and half of his tail
was broken off--a matter of no very great importance to a lizard,
perhaps, but still a discouraging reward for a well-meant warning.
Notwithstanding this the little reptile returned to the bed,
keeping close to his master, but he continued to be very restless
and excited for the remainder of the night.

When day dawned, preparations were begun for the day's march. The
tents were struck and the bedding was rolled up, ready to be placed
on the rough digger's cart. Then the mystery was explained. In the
twigs and ferns thrown underneath the scanty bedding, to keep it
from the bare ground, a huge tiger snake with several young ones
was discovered. This snake is of a deadly description and is much
feared by the colonists. Like all snakes, it gives forth a strong
odor, which, no doubt, made the lizard aware of his enemy's
presence, unless, perhaps, he saw it creep under the curtain of the
tent. Of course, the snakes were killed at once.

After this our little friend with half a tail became a greater
favorite than ever, because we recognized that he was protector as
well as friend.



TOBY THE WISE

By General Rush C. Hawkins

The chief subject of this truthful history is a jet-black,
middle-aged bird, commonly known in England as a rook, but
nevertheless a notable specimen of the crow family.

In his babyhood he was, in the language of the ancient chroniclers,
grievously hurt and wounded full sore, and particularly so in the
left wing. He was so badly disabled that he had to forego the
pleasure of flying through the air, and was obliged to content
himself as best he could with trudging about on the rough surface
of mother earth.

In his sad plight, with the maimed wing dragging painfully along,
he chanced to pass the window of a library belonging to and
occupied by a charming old English gentleman, a perfect example of
the old school, learned, benevolent, and very fond of animals and
feathered pets. No one can tell what chance it was that brought the
unhappy and wounded young rook to the window of this good man. But
possibly it was a real inspiration on the part of the young bird.
Toby was wet, weary, wounded and hungry, and as he looked in upon
the cheerful wood fire and the kindly face of the master of the
house, his longing expression was met by a raising of the window
and an invitation to walk in to a breakfast of corn and meal that
had been hastily prepared for him. He gazed and thought, and
thought and gazed, upon the joys within and still he doubted; but,
finally, appetite and curiosity got the better of his discretion,
and, as he walked cautiously in, the window was closed behind him.
So the wounded bird entered upon a new life.

At first he was a little shy and cautious and it took considerable
time for him to convince himself that his protector was his friend.
After a few weeks, however, he realized the value of his new
position, and consented to the establishment of intimate relations.
In fact, Toby became so attached to his master, that he was not
happy out of his presence.

During the first month of his captivity, his wounded wing was bound
close to his body for the purpose of giving the fractured bone an
opportunity to unite, and during most of that time he would walk by
his master's side, cawing and looking up into his face as if asking
for recognition. When the wing got well, and his ability to fly was
re-established, he would anticipate the direction of the promenades
by flying in advance from shrub to bush, alighting and awaiting the
arrival of his master.

The most singular part of Toby's domestication was his exclusive
loyalty to a single person. He had but one intimate friend, and to
him his loyalty was intense. He would tolerate the presence of
other members of the household, but when strangers appeared he was
decidedly offish, and scolded until they disappeared.

Three times a day Toby is decidedly funny, and goes through a
comical performance. In his master's study there is a contrivance
which, on a small scale, resembles the old New England well-pole.
At one end, which rests upon the floor, Toby commences his ascent
with a great flapping of wings and uproarious cawing. When he
arrives at the upper end of the pole, some eight or nine feet from
the floor, it falls and lands him upon a platform, beside a plate
containing his food. This climbing up the pole precedes each meal,
and takes place punctually at the same hour and minute of each day.
In the spring of 1890 Toby was tempted from his loyalty, and flew
off with a marauding flock of his kind. He remained away all
summer. He was missed but not mourned, for his master felt certain
he would return; and, sure enough, one bleak cold morning in
November, Toby was found looking longingly into the room where he
had first seen his good master. The window was opened, he walked in
and mounted his pole, and after him came a meek, modest and timid
young rook, more confiding than Toby, and differing from him in
many other respects. He, too, was duly adopted, and was christened
Jocko. He was easily domesticated and soon became a part of the
household of one of the finest old Bedfordshire manorial homes.

With age Toby has taken on quite an amount of dignity. He is
neither so noisy nor so companionable as formerly, but is more
staid and useful. One of his favorite resting places, where he
enjoys his after-breakfast contemplations and his afternoon
siestas, is among the branches of a fine old English oak, whose
protecting shades, in the far-off past, were the scene of the
stolen love meetings of Amy Wentworth and the Duke of Monmouth.

Neither of these knowing birds has been able to understand the
mystery of a looking-glass. They spend many hours of patient
investigation before a mirror in their master's room, but all to no
purpose, for the puzzle seems to remain as great as ever. They
usually walk directly up to it, and betray great surprise when they
find two other rooks advancing to meet them. For a while they
remain silent and motionless, looking at the strangers, and
waiting, apparently, for some sign of recognition. Then they go
through a considerable flapping of wings and indulge in numerous
caws, but after long waiting for an audible response they give up
the useless effort, only to return next day as eager as ever to
solve the mystery. The older bird and his admiring junior are
perfectly contented with their home, and never leave it. They often
look out from their perches upon wandering flocks of vagrant rooks,
but are never tempted to new adventures. The old fellow is very
wise. Like a fat old office-holder, he knows enough to appreciate a
sinecure in which the rewards are liberal and the service nominal.
His devoted follower never falters in his dutiful imitation of his
benefactor.

Toby proves by his actions that he appreciates the advantages of
the situation, and in his simple way makes some return for the
pleasures he enjoys.

During a considerable portion of the pleasant days of the year he
is really the watchman upon the tower, ever on the lookout to give
notice of the approach of visitors to his castle, and no one can
intrude upon the premises under his self-appointed watchmanship
without exciting vigorous caws, which are enthusiastically
reinforced by those of his faithful subordinate. Aside from his
affectionate devotion to his master, this duty of "chief watchman
of the castle" is Toby's most substantial return for favors
received.

In a letter of last May, the master wrote: "My two crows are
sitting on chairs close to me, and cawing to me that it is time for
me to let them out of the window, so I must obey." This quotation
gives but a faint intimation of the exceptionally friendly
relations existing between these devoted friends. Blessed are the
birds that can inspire such affection in the heart of a noble old
man, and doubly blessed is he who is the object of such loving
appreciation. Long may they all live to enjoy the fulness of their
mutual attachments!

This brief sketch is not intended for an amusing story. It is only
a narrative of facts in support of an often repeated theory, viz.:
that the humblest creatures are worthy of our tender consideration,
and, when properly treated, will make pleasing returns for the
affection we may bestow upon them.



BLACKAMOOR

By Ruth Landseer

Many will wonder how I managed to keep order in the schoolroom and
give proper attention to the lessons with three baby woodchucks, a
turtle, two squirrels and a young crow about the place. My fellow
teachers will be inclined to say that the children would have eyes
and ears for nothing else.

In point of fact it made little difference after my pupils became
accustomed to the sight and sound of these "pets." Moreover, they
were a source of endless pleasure and, I think, profit, for I gave
little talks upon the habits and history of all these creatures,
and sought to inculcate sentiments of compassion and love toward
all living things.

This was my first school, however, and people wondered. The
supervisor also wondered, and was skeptical. Several of the
parents, who did not understand very well, complained to him that I
kept a menagerie instead of a school. There were some, even, who
did not wish to have their children taught natural history, because
they came home and asked questions. They did not like it and deemed
it quite unnecessary. They desired to have their children attend
strictly to their "school studies."

It came about, therefore, that at the end of the second term the
position was given to another teacher, and for one whole term my
occupation was gone.

Yet my former pupils lamented so openly and said so much at home,
that their small voices wrought a change of opinion, and at the
beginning of the second year the school was given to me again. The
teacher who had taken my place said a little spitefully, on
leaving, that I had spoiled the school for any one else. She was a
very worthy young lady, but one of those who scream at the sight of
a spider, a mouse or a harmless snake.

Blackamoor came to school one morning in July, head downward, in
the hands of one of my larger boys, named Wiggan Brown, who was a
little inclined to thoughtless cruelty. On the part of children,
indeed, cruelty is usually thoughtless. They are rarely cruel after
they have been taught to think on the subject.

Wiggan and his older brother had taken Blackamoor from a nest in
the top of a hemlock-tree. By this time the reader will have
guessed that Blackamoor was the young crow which became one of our
schoolhouse pets.

At first we built a pen for him at the farther corner of the
schoolyard, where we kept him until he could fly. After that he was
released, to stay with us or depart. He chose to stay, and during
school hours usually sat on the ridge of the schoolhouse roof. At
night he often accompanied me home, and lingered about the
farmhouse or barns till school-time the next day. At the recesses
he swaggered and hopped about with the children at play, often
cawing uproariously.

If a dog or cat approached during school hours, Blackamoor would
cry, _"Har-r-r!"_ from the roof, and drive the intruder away.
If it was a person, he cried _"Haw!"_ quite sharply, on a
different key. If another crow or large bird flew past, he turned
up an eye and said _"Hawh!"_ rather low. In fact, he kept us
posted on all that was going on out-of-doors, for we soon came to
know most of his signal-cries. The boys would glance up from their
books and smile when they heard him.

Blackamoor had certain highly reprehensible traits. He was
thievish, and we were obliged to keep an eye on him, or he would
steal all our lead-pencils, pocket-handkerchiefs and other small
objects. What he took he secreted, and was marvelously cunning in
doing it.

He fell finally into a difficulty with a gang of Italian laborers
who were excavating for a new railroad line that passed within a
quarter of a mile of the schoolhouse. There were fifty-five of
these Italians, and they had their camp in a grove of pines within
plain sight of us. My pupils were afraid of these swarthy men, for
they jabbered fiercely in an unknown tongue, and each one was armed
with a sheath-knife.

On the whole, I thought it better that my boys should not go to
their camp. But Blackamoor went there, and indeed became a constant
visitor. There were probably titbits to be secured about their
cooking-fires. For a time he nearly deserted the schoolhouse for
the Italian camp in the pines, or at least was flying back and
forth a great deal, "hawing" and "harring."

All appeared to go well for a while. Then one forenoon I heard loud
shouts outside, and on going to the door, saw a hatless Italian
pursuing Blackamoor across the pasture below the house. He was a
very active young man, and was filling the air with stones and
cries.

Blackamoor, however, was taking it all easily, flying low, but
keeping out of reach. He had something in his beak.

Catching sight of me in the doorway, the Italian stopped, but
gesticulated eagerly, pointing to the crow; and he said much that I
failed utterly to comprehend.

I conjectured that Blackamoor had purloined something, and felt
that I must keep him from going to the camp; but that was not
easily accomplished. We tied him by the leg, but he tugged at the
string till it was frayed off or came untied, and flew away.

But a crisis was at hand. The second morning afterward an alarming
commotion began, as I was hearing a class in mental arithmetic. The
house was surrounded by excited Italians. Stones rattled on the
roof. Angry shouts filled the air. It was a mob. The children were
terrified, and I was sufficiently alarmed myself, for a pane of
glass crashed and clubs banged against the sides of the house.

Hastily locking the door, I peered out of the window. Certainly
wild Indians could hardly have looked more savage than did those
Italians, hurling stones and clubs at the house.

Yet through it all I had a suspicion that the demonstration was
directed at Blackamoor rather than against us; for I fancied that I
had heard our bird say _"Haw!"_ a moment before the hubbub
burst forth. Still it was decidedly alarming while it lasted, and
continued for a much longer time than was pleasant. I judged it
more prudent to keep the door locked than to go forth to
remonstrate.

Finally, after a great bombardment, the outcries and racket
subsided, and with a vast sense of relief, I saw the Italians
retiring across the pasture to their camp. As a matter of course
the children carried home terrible accounts of what had occurred,
and our small community waxed indignant over what was deemed an
outrage by lawless foreigners.

The suspicion, however, remained with me that Blackamoor was at the
bottom of all the trouble. I had the boys catch him and make him
fast again, this time with a small dog-chain, which he could not
bite off. He cawed vigorously, but we kept him at anchor for a week
or more. And meanwhile the Italian camp was moved to a point six
miles farther along the line of the new railway.

At a schoolhouse in the country it is often difficult to get small
repairs made. Early that season the boys had broken a pane of glass
in the low attic window at the front end of the house. I had been
trying to get it replaced for two months; and now we had two panes
broken. At last I bought new glass and a bit of putty and with the
aid of Wiggan and another boy, set the panes myself one night after
school.

But while setting the attic pane we made a singular discovery. In
the low, dark loft, just inside the hole of the broken pane, lay a
heap of queer things which caused us first to stare, then to laugh.
The like, I am sure, was never found in the loft of a New England
sehoolhouse before. I made a list. There were:

The much soiled photograph of an Italian baby.
Three photographs of pretty Italian girls.
Four very villainous old pipes.
Many straws of macaroni.
An old felt hat.
A dirty stick of candy.
Five small silver coins.
An harmonica.
An odd sort of flute.
The bonnet of an Italian baby.
Four soiled red bandannas.
A black wallet containing about a dollar in silver.
Two tin cups.
Two pictures of peasants.
Two plugs of tobacco.

These are but samples. All told, there were at; least ninety
articles. It was Blackamoor's hoard; and all the while we were
overhauling it he cawed and hawed in great glee!

That night we talked it over, and decided that restoration was our
only proper course. The long-suffering Italians were now six miles
away; but on Saturday we procured a pair of farm horses and a wagon
with three seats for our journey of reparation. The purloined
articles were put in a large basket, and we set up a perch in the
wagon, to which Blackamoor was chained in token of punishment.
After this manner six of us drove to the new camp.

When we arrived the gang was hard at work in a cutting; but when,
one after another, they caught sight of our wagon, with Blackamoor
atop, exclamations, not of a complimentary nature, burst forth all
along the line.

But I beckoned to their Irish "boss," and after showing him our
basket and explaining the circumstances, asked him to allow each
of the men to take what belonged to him.

"Ah, sure!" replied the foreman, with a broad grin. "Here, all of
you," he shouted down the cutting, "come get your trinkets what the
crow stole!"

Wonderingly, the gang gathered round the wagon. But when they saw
the basket and what was in it, the liveliest expressions of
satisfaction arose. Each seized his own.

I had the foreman say to them how very sorry we were that our bad
bird had given them so much trouble. Then followed, in response, as
pretty a bit of politeness as I have ever witnessed.

The Italians took off their hats and bowed all round. One of them
then made a little speech, which the Irish boss translated after
his own fashion, somewhat like this:

"It's all right, they say. You are most good. They thank you with
all their hearts. They are sorry you have had to come so far. You
are a very, very kind signorina."

The foreman grinned apologetically. "They want to sing you a song,"
he said.

I said that we should be delighted. Immediately four of them
stepped forth together and sang. It was an Italian song, and had a
refrain so plaintive that I often catch myself trying to hum it.

"Now, then, get back to your work, men!" shouted the boss, and so
this odd little episode ended.

Yet it was not wholly ended, either, for in October, as the gang
tramped back along the road-bed of the railway, going home with all
their packs and bundles, one of those who had sung came up to the
schoolhouse and laid a little bouquet of frost flowers and red
autumn leaves on the doorstep.

Catching sight of me through the window, he nodded brightly,
pointed to the bouquet, nodded again, then hurried on after his
fellows. I went to the door, and when they saw me there, half a
hundred old hats were raised and hands were waved in token of
farewell.

I thought of our previous fears and of the hard things that had
been said, and was ashamed. Again the truth of that humane old
proverb came home to me:

"Almost everybody is a good fellow if you treat him right."

And Blackamoor?

A few days later Blackamoor deserted us. A large flock of his wild
kindred was mustering in the vicinity for the autumn migration. We
concluded that he had joined his tribe--and were not inconsolable.