John Lothrop Motley - "History of the United Netherlands, 1585"

Constant - "Private Life of Napoleon Bonaparte, V7"

John Bunyan - "The Works of John Bunyan Volume 2"

John Lothrop Motley - "History of the United Netherlands, 1586"

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




The doe went on; she left the saw-mill on John's Brook to her
right; she turned into a wood-path. As she approached Slide Brook,
she saw a boy standing by a tree with a raised rifle. The dogs were
not in sight, but she could hear them coming down the hill. There
was no time for hesitation. With a tremendous burst of speed she
cleared the stream, and, as she touched the bank, heard the "ping"
of a rifle bullet in the air above her. The cruel sound gave wings
to the poor thing. In a moment more she was in the opening: she
leaped into the travelled road. Which way? Below her in the wood
was a load of hay: a man and a boy, with pitchforks in their hands,
were running toward her. She turned south, and flew along the
street. The town was up. Women and children ran to the doors and
windows; men snatched their rifles; shots were fired; at the big
boarding-houses, the summer boarders, who never have anything to
do, came out and cheered; a camp-stool was thrown from a veranda.
Some young fellows shooting at a mark in the meadow saw the flying
deer, and popped away at her: but they were accustomed to a mark
that stood still. It was all so sudden! There were twenty people
who were just going to shoot her when the doe leaped the road
fence, and went away across a marsh toward the foot-hills. It was a
fearful gantlet to run. But nobody except the deer considered it in
that light. Everybody told what he was just going to do! everybody
who had seen the performance was a kind of hero-everybody except
the deer.

The courage of the panting fugitive was not gone: she was game to
the tip of her high-bred ears. But the fearful pace at which she
had just been going told on her. Her legs trembled, and her heart
beat like a trip-hammer. She slowed her speed perforce, but still
fled industriously up the right bank of the stream. When she had
gone a couple of miles, and the dogs were evidently gaining again,
she crossed the broad, deep brook, climbed the steep, left bank,
and fled on in the direction of the Mount Marcy trail. The fording
of the river threw the hounds off for a time. She knew, by their
uncertain yelping up and down the opposite bank, that she had a
little respite; she used it, however, to push on until the baying
was faint in her ears; and then she dropped, exhausted, upon the
ground.

This rest, brief as it was, saved her life. Roused again by the
baying pack, she leaped forward with better speed, though without
that keen feeling of exhilarating flight that she had in the
morning. It was still a race for life; but the odds were in her
favor, she thought. She did not appreciate the dogged persistence
of the hounds, nor had any inspiration told her that the race is
not to the swift. She was a little confused in her mind where to
go; but an instinct kept her course to the left, and consequently
further away from her fawn. Going now slower, and now faster, as
the pursuit seemed more distant or nearer, she kept to the
southwest, crossed the stream again, left Panther Gorge on her
right, and ran on by Haystack and Skylight in the direction of the
Upper Ausable Pond. I do not know her exact course through this
maze of mountains, swamps, ravines, and frightful wildernesses. I
only know that the poor thing worked her way along painfully, with
sinking heart and unsteady limbs, lying down "dead-beat" at
intervals, and then spurred on by the cry of the remorseless dogs,
until, late in the afternoon, she staggered down the shoulder of a
Bartlett, and stood upon the shore of the lake. If she could put
that piece of water between her and her pursuers, she would be
safe. Had she strength to swim it?

At her first step into the water she saw a sight that sent her back
with a bound. There was a boat midlake; two men were in it. One was
rowing: the other had a gun in his hand. They were looking toward
her: they had seen her. (She did not know that they had heard the
baying of hounds on the mountains, and had been lying in wait for
her an hour.) What should she do? The hounds were drawing near. No
escape that way, even if she could still run. With only a moment's
hesitation she plunged into the lake, and struck obliquely across.
Her tired legs could not propel the tired body rapidly. She saw the
boat headed for her. She turned toward the centre of the lake. The
boat turned. She could hear the rattle of the oar-locks. It was
gaining on her. Then there was a silence. Then there was a splash
of the water just ahead of her, followed by a roar round the lake,
the words "Confound it all!" and a rattle of the oars again. The
doe saw the boat nearing her. She turned irresolutely to the shore
whence she came: the dogs were lapping the water, and howling
there. She turned again to the centre of the lake.

The brave, pretty creature was quite exhausted now. In a moment
more, with a rush of water, the boat was on her, and the man at the
oars had leaned over and caught her by the tail.

"Knock her on the head with that paddle!" he shouted to the
gentleman in the stern.

The gentleman _was_ a gentleman, with a kind, smooth-shaven
face, and might have been a minister of some sort of everlasting
gospel. He took the paddle in his hand. Just then the doe turned
her head, and looked at him with her great, appealing eyes.

"I can't do it! my soul, I can't do it!" and he dropped the paddle.
"Oh, let her go!"

"Oh, no!" was the only response of the guide as he slung the deer
round, whipped out his hunting-knife, and made a pass that severed
her jugular.

The buck returned about the middle of the afternoon. The fawn was
bleating piteously, hungry and lonesome. The buck was surprised. He
looked about in the forest. He took a circuit and came back. His
doe was nowhere to be seen. He looked down at the fawn in a
helpless sort of way. The fawn appealed for his supper. The buck
had nothing whatever to give his child--nothing but his sympathy. If
he said anything, this is what he said: "I'm the head of this
family; but, really, this is a novel case. I've nothing whatever
for you. I don't know what to do. I've the feelings of a father;
but you can't live on _them_. Let us travel."

The buck walked away: the little one toddled after him. They
disappeared in the forest.