John McElroy - "The Red Acorn"

Frank V. Webster - "The Young Firemen of Lakeville"

Dewitt H. Parker - "The Principles Of Aesthetics"

Alexander Maclaren - "Expositions of Holy Scripture"

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 colonel turned bright red. His glass fell out of his
eye-socket.

"What the devil is the matter with that dog?" he whispered softly.
And the adjutant, who had also seen and was suffocating, managed to
articulate, "Collars!"

The colonel put his glass back in his eye. His shoulders shook. He
coughed violently as he addressed the adjutant:

"Have that dog removed--no, let him alone--no, adjutant, bring him
here!"

So the adjutant, biting his lip, motioned Muldoon to fall out.

Tough old Muldoon tucked Scrap, struggling, squirming, glittering
like a hardware shop, under his arm, and saluted his commander,
while the review waited.

The colonel was blinking through his glass and trying not to grin.

"Sergeant, how many collars has that dog got on?"

"Thirteen, sor," said Muldoon.

"What for?" said the colonel, severely.

"Wan for each company, sor, an' wan for the band."



A FIRE-FIGHTER'S DOG

By Arthur Quiller-Couch

This is the story of a very distinguished member of the London Fire
Brigade--the dog Chance. It proves that the fascinations of fires
(and who that has witnessed a fire cannot own this fascination?)
extends even to the brute creation. In old Egypt, Herodotus tells
us, the cats used on the occasion of a conflagration to rush forth
from their burning homes, and then madly attempt to return again;
and the Egyptians, who worshipped the animals, had to form a ring
round to prevent their dashing past and sacrificing themselves to
the flames. This may, however, be due to the cat's notorious love
for home. In the case of the dog Chance another hypothesis has to
be searched for.

The animal formed his first acquaintance with the brigade by
following a fireman from a conflagration in Shoreditch to the
central station at Watling Street. Here, after he had been petted
for some time by the men, his master came for him and took him
home. But the dog quickly escaped and returned to the central
station on the very first opportunity. He was carried back,
returned, was carried back again, and again returned.

At this point his master--"like a mother whose son _will_ go
to sea"--abandoned the struggle and allowed him to follow his own
course. Henceforth for years he invariably went with the engine,
sometimes upon the carriage itself, sometimes under the horses'
legs; and always, when going uphill, running in advance, and
announcing by his bark the welcome news that the fire-engine was at
hand.

Arrived at the fire, he would amuse himself with pulling burning
logs of wood out of the flames with his mouth, firmly impressed
that he was rendering the greatest service, and clearly anxious to
show the laymen that he understood all about the business. Although
he had his legs broken half a dozen times, he remained faithful to
the profession he had so obstinately chosen. At last, having taken
a more serious hurt than usual, he was being nursed by the firemen
beside the hearth, when a "call" came. At the well-known sound of
the engine turning out, the poor old dog made a last effort to
climb upon it, and fell back--dead.

He was stuffed, and preserved at the station for some time. But
even in death he was destined to prove the friend of the brigade.
For, one of the engineers having committed suicide, the firemen
determined to raffle him for the benefit of the widow, and such was
his fame that he realized 123 pounds 10 shillings, 9 pence, or over
$615 in American money!



PLATO: THE STORY OF A CAT

By A. S. Downs

One day last summer a large handsome black cat walked gravely up
one side of Main street, crossed, and went half-way down the other.
He stopped at a house called The Den, went up the piazza steps, and
paused by an open window.

A lady sitting inside saw and spoke to him; but without taking any
notice, he put his paws on the sill, looked around the room as if
wondering if it would suit him, and finally gazed into her face.

After thinking a minute he went in, and from that hour took his
place as an important member of the family. Civil to all, he gives
his love only to the lady whom he first saw; and it is odd to see,
as he lies by the fire, how he listens to all conversation, but
raises his head only when she speaks, and drops it again when she
has finished, with a pleased air.

No other person in the house is so wise, for he alone never makes a
mistake. The hours he selects for his exercise are the sunniest;
the carpets he lies upon the softest, and he knows the moment he
enters the room whether his friend will let him lie in her lap, or
whether because of her best gown she will have none of him. No one
at The Den can tell how he came to be called Plato. It is a fact
that he answers to the name, and when asked if so known before he
came there, smiles wisely. "What matters it," the smile says, "how
I was called, or where I came from, since I am Plato, and am here?"

He dislikes noise, and entirely disapproves sweeping. A broom and
dustpan fill him with anxiety, and he seeks the soft cushions of
the big lounge; but when these in their turn are beaten and tossed
about, he retreats to the study-table. However, as soon as he
learned that once a week his favorite room was turned into chaos,
he sought another refuge, and refuses to get up that day until
noon.

Many were the speculations as to Plato's Christmas present. All
were satisfied with a rattan basket just large enough for him to
lie in, with a light open canopy, cushions of cardinal chintz, and
a cardinal satin bow to which was fastened a lovely card.

It was set down before Plato, and although it is probable it was
the first he had ever seen, he showed neither surprise nor
curiosity, but looked at it loftily as if such a retreat should
have been given him long ago, for could not any discerning person
see he was accustomed to luxury? He stepped in carefully and curled
himself gracefully upon the soft cushions, the glowing tints of
which were very becoming to his sable beauty.

It was soon seen that Plato was very fond of his basket, and was
unwilling to share it in the smallest degree. When little Bessie
put her doll in, "just to see if cardinal was becoming to her," he
looked so stern and walked so fiercely toward them that dolly's
heart sank within her, and Bessie said, "Please excuse us, Plato."
If balls and toys were carelessly dropped there he would push them
out without delay, and if visitors took up the basket to examine
it, he would fix his eyes upon them, thinking, "O yes, you would
pick pockets or steal the spoons if I did not watch you."

As his conduct can never be predicted, great was the curiosity when
one cold afternoon he was noticed walking up the avenue while a
miserable yellow kitten dragged herself after him. She was so thin
you could count her bones, and she had been so pulled and kicked
that there seemed to be nothing of her but length and--dirt.

When Lord Plato chooses, he enters the front doors, but as he waits
no man's pleasure, unless it pleases him first, he has a way of
getting in on his own account. Upon one of the shed doors is an
old-fashioned latch, which by jumping he can reach and lift with
his paw. Having opened the door, he pushed his poor yellow
straggler in and followed himself. She laid down at once on the
floor, and Plato began washing her with his rough tongue, while the
lookers-on assisted his hospitality by bringing a saucer of milk.
While she ate Plato rested, looking as pleased as if he were her
mother at her enjoyment. The luncheon finished, the washing was
resumed, and as the waif was now able to help, she soon looked more
respectable. But Plato had not finished his work of mercy. He
looked at the door leading to the parlor, then at her; and finally
bent down tenderly to her little torn ears, as if whispering, but
she would not move. Perhaps in all her wretched life she had never
been so comfortable, and believed in letting well enough alone.
Reason and persuasion alike useless, Plato concluded to try force
and, taking her by the back of the neck, carried her through the
house and dropped her close to his dainty cherished basket.

Then he appeared a little uncertain what to do. The basket was nice
and warm; he was tired and cold; it had been a present to him; the
street wanderer was dirty still; and the rug would be a softer bed
than she had ever known. Were these his thoughts, and was it
selfishness he conquered when at last he lifted the shivering
homeless creature into his own beautiful nest?



PETER: A CAT O' ONE TAIL

By Charles Morley

Peter, the admirable cat whose brief history I am about to relate,
appeared in the world on a terrible winter's night. A fierce
snowstorm was raging, the sleet was driving at a terrific rate
through the air, and the streets were banked up with snow-drifts.
All traffic had been stopped, the roar of London was hushed, and
every one who had the merest pretence of a fireside sought it on
this memorable occasion. It was a wild night in the city, a wild
night in the country, a wild night at sea, and certainly a most
unpropitious night for the birth of a cat, an animal which is
always associated with home and hearth. The fact remains that Peter
was born on the night of one of the most terrible storms on record.

Our chairs were drawn up to the fire, the tea-things were on
the table, and my mother was just about to try the strength
of the brew, when Ann Tibbits, our faithful and well-tried
maid-of-all-work, bounced into the room without knocking at the
door. Her cap was all awry, her hair was dishevelled, and she
gasped for breath as she addressed herself to my mother thus,
in spasms:

"Please--ma'am--the cat has put her kittens--in--your--bonnet!"

Such a breach of discipline had never been known before in our prim
household, where there was a place for everything, and everything
had a place.

My mother pushed her spectacles on to her forehead, and, looking
severely at Ann, said: "_Which_ one, Ann? My summer bonnet,
or--my winter bonnet?"

"The one with the fur lining, ma'am."

"And a most comfortable bonnet to live in, I'm sure!" replied my
mother sarcastically, as much as to say that she wished all cats
had such a choice under the circumstances. "Another cat would have
chosen the one with the lace and the violets, out of sheer
perverseness. But there--I _knew_ I could depend on a cat
which had been trained in _my_ house."

My mother poured out a cup of tea, betraying no agitation
as she dropped two lumps of sugar into the cup--her customary
allowance--and helped herself to cream. In a minute or two,
however, she took up her knitting, and I noticed that two stitches
in succession were dropped, a sure sign that she was perturbed in
spirit. Suddenly my mother turned her eyes to the fire.

"_How many_, Ann?" she continued, addressing our faithful
servant, who still remained standing at the table awaiting her
orders.

"Seven, ma'am."

"_Seven!_" cried my mother. "Seven--it's outrageous. Why, my
bonnet wouldn't hold 'em!"

"Three in the bonnet, ma'am, and two in your new m-u-f-f!"

"My new muff!" cried my mother. "I _knew_ you were keeping
something back." And the stitches dropped fast and furious. "That's
only _five_, Ann," she continued, looking up from her work.
"Where are the other two? I insist upon knowing."

"In the Alaska tail boa, ma'am," responded Ann, timidly.

Slowly my mother's wrath evaporated, and her features settled down
to their ordinary aspect of composure.

"Well," she said, "it might have been worse. She might have put
them in my silk dress. But there--it is evident that something must
be done. I'm a kind woman, I hope, but I'm not going to be
responsible for seven young and tender kittens. Ann Tibbits,
England expects every woman to do her duty!"

"_All?_ asked Ann.

"_Four_," replied my mother.

"Now?" asked Ann.

"The sooner the better," said my mother.

At this moment a sudden blast shook every window in the house,
which seemed to be in momentary danger of a total collapse.

"Not fit to turn a dog out," murmured my mother. "Not fit to turn a
dog out. Ugh! how cold it is, and here am I condemning to death
four poor little kittens on a night like this--to snatch them away
from their warm mother, my muff, and Alaska tail, and dip them in a
bucket of ice-cold water. And yet they must go; but, Ann, I've an
idea--WARM the water. They shall leave the world comfortably.
They'll never know it."

The faithful, unemotional Ann carried out her instructions. Peter
was one of the three kittens which were born in my mother's
fur-lined bonnet, and the white marks on his body always remind me
of the terrible snowstorm in the midst of which he sounded his
first mew.

After several weeks the liberty which our cat Cordelia had taken
with my mother's finery was forgotten, and the household had
settled down into its usual humdrum routine. Tibbits had made the
new arrivals a bed in the little box-room, and the doctor declared
that Mrs. Cordelia was doing as well as could be expected. Every
morning we had asked the usual question: "How is Cordelia?" "Quite
well, thank you." "And the kittens?" "Also quite well." In due
course Ann brought the welcome news that the three kittens had
opened their eyes, and the kid glove was at once detached from the
knocker of the front door. It was on the morning after they had
obtained their blessed sight that I was invited by Tibbits to go
downstairs and take my choice. I went down, but I could see nothing
of the kittens; there was only Cordelia, with tail twisting, eyes
aflame, and whiskers bristling, wheeling round and round a number
of straw cases in which champagne had once been packed. Lo! one of
the cases began to walk. The movement caught Cordelia's eye, and
she knocked it over with her paw. A fluffy, chubby kitten,
consisting of a black body with a patch of white on it, was
revealed. The little one so captivated my fancy that I put him in
my pocket, and without more ado took him upstairs, and publicly
announced my determination to claim him as my property.

"What shall we name it?" asked my mother.

"Fiz," said one, alluding to the empty champagne cases,--a
suggestion which was at once overruled, as we were a temperate
family and little given to sparkling liquids. "Pop" was also voted
against, not only as being vulgar, but as going to the other
extreme, and leading people to suppose that we were extensively
addicted to ginger-ale.

"I think, my dears, as Peter was born on a--" My mother's speech
was interrupted by an exultant "Cock-a-doodle-do."

"That horrid fowl again!" exclaimed my mother.

The cock in question was the property of a neighbor, and was a most
annoying bird. Even my kitten was disturbed by the defiant note.
"_M-e-w?_" said he, in a meek interrogative, as much as to
say, "What _is_ that dreadful noise?"

"Cock-a-doodle-do," cried the bird again.

"Mew," replied the kitten, this time with a note of anger in his
voice. "COCK-A-DOODLE," screamed the bird, evidently in a violent
temper. "Mew," said the kitten again, in a tone of remonstrance.
The remaining syllable of his war-cry and the kitten's reply were
cut short by my mother, who put her fingers to her ears, and said:

"And the cock crowed thrice. My dears, I have it!"

"What, mother?"

"We'll call him PETER." cried the family.

"Peter Gray?"

"Peter Simple?"

"Peter the Great?"

"No," replied my mother, with a humorous twinkle, "Peter the
Apostle," pointing to the Family Bible, which was always kept on a
little occasional table in a corner of the sitting-room. "And let
Peter be a living warning against fibbing, my dears, whether on a
small scale or a large one."

A bowl of water was then placed on the table and, having sprinkled
a shower upon his devoted back, I as his proprietor, looking at him
closely, cried:

"Arise, Peter; obey thy master."

In the middle of my exhortations, however, Cordelia jumped on the
table, took little Peter by the scruff of his neck, and carried him
back to the nursery.

The day came when I put Peter into the pocket of my overcoat, and
took him away to his new home. I had the greatest confidence in
him, being a firm believer in the doctrine of heredity. His father
I never knew, but his grandfather bore a great reputation for
courage, as was indicated on his tombstone, the inscription on
which ran as follows:

Here lies LEAR. Aged about 8 years. A Tom Cat killed in
single combat with Tom the Templar whilst defending his
hearth and home. England expects every cat to do his
duty.

His mother Cordelia was of an affectionate nature, caring little
for the chase, indifferent to birds (except sparrows), temperate in
the matter of fish, timid of dogs, a kind mother, and had never
been known to scratch a child. I believed then that there was every
possibility of Peter's inheriting the admirable qualities of his
relatives. The world into which he was introduced contained a large
assortment of curios which I had bought in many a salesroom, such
as bits of old oak, bits of armor, bits of china, bits of tapestry,
and innumerable odds and ends which had taken my fancy. Picture,
then, Peter drinking his milk from a Crown Derby dish which I had
placed in a corner between the toes of a gentleman skeleton whom
Time had stained a tobacco brown. The Crown Derby dish and the
skeleton were, like the rest of my furniture, "bargains." At this
period of his life Peter resembled a series of irregular circles,
such as a geometrician might have made in an absent moment: two
round eyes, one round head, and one round body. I regarded him much
as a young mother would her first baby, for he was my first pet. I
watched him lest he should get into danger; I conversed with him in
a strange jargon, which I called cats' language; I played with him
constantly, and introduced him to a black hole behind the
skeleton's left heel, which was supposed to be the home of mice. He
kept a close watch on the black hole, and one day, which is never
to be forgotten, he caught his first mouse. It was a very little
one, but it clung to Peter's nose and made it bleed. Regardless of
the pain, Peter marched up to me, tail in air, and laid the
half-dead mouse at my feet, with a look in his eyes which said
plainly enough, "Shades of Caesar! I claim a Triumph, master."

He returned to the black hole again, and mewed piteously for more.
Peter was very green, as you will understand, but he soon
discovered that mewing kept the mice away, and having taken the
lesson to heart, preserved silence for the future. The mouse-hunts
occupied but a small portion of Peter's time. He was full of queer
pranks, which youth and high spirits suggested to him. He took a
delight in tumbling down the stairs; he hid himself in the mouth of
a lion whose head was one of my chief treasures; he tilted against
a dragon candlestick like a young St. George; he burnt his budding
whiskers in an attempt to discover the source of the flame in the
wick of the candle. He became, too, a great connoisseur of vases,
ornaments, and pictures, sitting before them and examining them for
an hour at a time. He was also very much given to voyages of
discovery, dark continents having a peculiar fascination for him.
Even the lion's mouth had no terror for him. I once produced him
from the interior of a brand-new top hat like a conjurer an
omelette. Again, we were very much surprised at breakfast one
morning to see Peter walk out of a rabbit-pie in which he had
secreted himself.

I used to let my canary fly about the room, and Peter chased him.
The canary flew to an old helmet on a shelf, and thus baffled
Peter. The canary seemed to know this, for when Peter was in the
room he always flew to the helmet and sang in peace. If he perched
elsewhere there was a chase. The linnet's cage I placed on the
window-sill in sunny weather, and Peter took great interest in him.
He could not see the musician, but he heard the music, and tried
every means he knew to discover its source.

At last he peeped through a little hole at the back of the cage,
and when he saw the bird he was quite satisfied, and made no
attempt to disturb it.

In the matter of eating and drinking Peter was inclined to
vegetarianism, being fond of beet-root and cabbage, but he soon
took to carnal habits, always liking his food to be divided into
three portions, consisting of greens, potatoes, and meat. In
addition to such food as we gave him he by no means despised any
delicacies he could discover on his own account. For instance he
cleaned out a pot of glycerine. Having tilted the lid up, he pulled
out the pins from a pincushion, but was saved in time; he was
curious about a powder-box, and came mewing downstairs a Peter in
white; he did not despise the birds out of a hat; he lost his
temper when he saw his rival in the looking-glass, and was beside
himself with rage when the glass swung round and he saw only a
plain board. His most curious experience was his first glimpse of
the moon, which he saw from our bit of back garden. He was rooted
to the ground with wonder at the amazing sight, and we called him
in vain. The only reply was a melancholy, love-stricken mew which
went to my heart.

* * * * *

So Peter rejoiced in the days of his youth, and there was no end to
his frolics. But do not think for a moment that his education was
neglected, especially in the invaluable matters of manners and
deportment, both of which are so essential to advancement in life.
I taught him to sit at table; to enter a room with grace, and to
leave it with dignity. Indeed, I spared no trouble, and Peter
became as rigorous as a Chesterfield in the proper observance of
all such matters. I can give you no better example of Peter's
extensive knowledge of what was right and wrong in the ceremonial
side of life than by telling you that when he felt an irrepressible
sneeze forming he trotted out of the room and sneezed outside. When
Peter played, too, he played gently, and did not disturb his elders
by obtrusive attentions. He never required to be told twice to do a
thing. Once was enough for Peter. Then again in the matter of
breakages he was as virtuous a kitten as ever lived. I had thirty
precious blue china vases on my sideboard, and through this fragile
maze Peter always wound in and out without moving a vase. His
virtues in this respect were well known to my servants, who never
accused Peter of breaking the milk-jug, or the cups and saucers, I
can assure you. Like the best of human beings, he had his faults,
but upon these it would be impertinent to touch more than lightly.

Peter was partial to Fridays, because Fridays were devoted to
cleaning up. If you have ever watched a woman washing the kitchen
floor, you will have noticed that she completes one patch before
she proceeds with the next, as if she took pride in each patch,
regarding it as a picture. It was Peter's delight to sit and watch
this domestic operation; and no sooner was the woman's back turned
towards a fresh portion of her territory than Peter ran all over
the freshly washed patch and impressed it with the seal of his
paws, just as an explorer would indicate a great annexation by a
series of flags. That was a mere frolic. It was about this time
that I discovered Peter's power as a performing cat. I tied a
hare's foot to a piece of string and dangled it before Peter's
eyes. I hid the hare's foot in strange places. I flung it
downstairs. I threw it upstairs. The hare's foot never failed to
attract him. We used to roll on the floor together; we played
hide-and-seek together. I noticed that he had a habit of lying on
his back with his tail out, his head back, and his paws crossed. By
degrees I taught him to assume this attitude at the word of
command, so that when I said, "Die, Peter!" Peter turned on his
back and became rigid until he received permission to live again.

I also taught him to talk in mews at the word of command. I hear
some genial critic exclaim that this cannot be true. I decline to
argue with any critic that ever lived, and repeat, fearlessly, and
in measured terms, that Peter talked to _me._ Of course he
would not drop into conversation with the first person who bade him
"good-morning," but I assert again that Peter and I held many
conversations together by means of the "mew," used with a score of
inflections, often delicately shaded, each of which conveyed its
meaning to me.

Peter took to reading, too, quite easily, and sat up with
eye-glasses on his nose and a paper between his paws. It was, as
you may well imagine, a red-letter day with me when Peter said his
prayers for the first time; and I was better pleased when he put
his little paws up and lifted his eyes up to the ceiling than with
any other of his accomplishments, though they were more appreciated
by unthinking friends. It was all very well to place a mouse at my
feet and thus play to the gallery, but I felt that Peter's thirst
for applause might be his ruin.

* * * * *

When the summer came, and the London pavements began to quake with
heat, I determined to fly to the country. As delights are doubled
when shared with those we care for, I determined to take Peter with
me, so I packed him up in a specially constructed travelling saloon
of his own, to wit, a flannel-lined basket containing all the
necessary comforts for the journey, such as air-holes and
feeding-bottles, and off we started in the highest of spirits.
Peter found a new world opened to him, and the thousand and one
beauties of the country fascinated us both. We were the guests of a
burly farmer, who lived in a queer old house, half timber and half
brick, with low-ceilinged rooms. The general living-room was the
capacious kitchen, which looked mighty picturesque. Oak panels ran
half-way up to the ceiling; the pots and pans were ranged neatly in
an open cupboard, pleasantly suggestive of good fare and plenty of
it. There were flowers in red pots in the windows, and my bedroom
was a picture of coolness and cleanliness.