Charles Reade - "Peg Woffington"

Jean de La Fontaine - "The Tales and Novels, v20: Neighbor Peter's Mare &c."

Lillian Elizabeth Roy - "Polly of Pebbly Pit"

Sir Walter Scott - "The Lady of the Lake"

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




Amid these pleasant surroundings Peter soon made himself very
happy, and became a great friend of a cat called Jack, who took him
under his charge and showed him the ways of the country. Jack was a
favorite on the farm. He was certainly given to roving, and did not
always "come home to tea." As a mouser he had few equals in the
countryside, and one evening when we were telling stories by the
fireside the farmer told me that Jack had despatched no less than
four hundred mice from one hay-rick.

Jack was a disciple of Isaak Walton. He would crouch on a mossy
knoll by the edge of the river, and sometimes was successful in
capturing a small trout. The farmer was himself a great fisherman.
Jack was a study while the preparations were in progress, and, all
intent, would follow close at his master's heels. He would crouch
among the rushes whilst the tackle was being adjusted, and
anxiously scan the water as the fly drifted along the surface. He
took a keen delight in the sport, and when a fish was negotiating
the bait he always purred loudly in anticipation of the feast in
prospect. The trout landed and the line re-cast, he would seize his
prey, and with stealthy gait slink off with his prize, leaving the
old farmer to discover his loss when he might. Together Jack and
Peter roamed over the meadow lands, and the poultry-run was an
object of great interest to them. Together they fought the rats,
and together they would lie in wait for the thrush and the
blackbird,--I am happy to say in vain. The farmer told me that in
his youth Jack once took up his residence in the hollow of an old
oak, where he lived on the furred and feathered game. At last he
returned home. For hours he wandered about his old home, fearful of
discovery, now crouching amongst the flower-beds, and now flying in
terror at the sound of the hall clock. At last he ventured into the
kitchen, entering by the window and creeping to the kitchen hearth,
where he dozed off to the music of the cricket, to be welcomed like
another Prodigal Son.

Alas! these delights were cut short, for Peter and I were soon
compelled to pack up our traps and proceed to the seaside for
professional purposes. Peter was not fond of the sea. When I took
him out yachting he was compelled to call for the steward; and one
day when exploring the rocks at low water, gazing with rapture at
his own charming face as it was reflected in the glassy surface of
a deep pool, an inquiring young lobster nipped his tail, and the
shore rang with piteous calls for help. Peter has never cared for
the sea since then, and so deeply was the disaster impressed upon
him that I have known him reject a choice bit of meat which
happened to have a few grains of salt on it. It wafted him back to
the ocean, the lobster, and the steward. What powers of imagination
were Peter's!

* * * * *

As these memoirs cover a period of seven or eight years, and as
space is limited, my readers will kindly consent to take a seat on
the convenient carpet of the magician, and be wafted gently to the
next station on the road without further question. This is a
pleasant byway in suburban London, greatly frequented by
organ-grinders, travelling bears, German bands, and peripatetic
white mice. This road is always associated in my mind with the
mysterious disappearance of Peter. We had often laughed at the odd
old lady who lived two doors higher up, for the anxiety which she
displayed when any of her pets were missing. It was our turn now.

This same old lady was very fond of her cats, and had nine of them
at the time I am writing of. Every morning when the weather was
warm, she and her cats would come out and unconsciously form a
succession of tableaux for our amusement. A rug was spread out
under the pear tree in the middle of the tiny lawn, a great
basket-chair was placed in the middle of this rug, and, these
preparations having been made, the old lady, who was very stout,
and always wore a monster poke bonnet and a shapeless black silk
dress, came out, followed by her nine cats, and took possession of
the basket-chair. A little maid then appeared with a tray, on which
were nine little blue china saucers and a jug of milk. The nine
little saucers were ranged in a semicircle, and filled with milk,
whereupon the old lady cried out, "Who says breakfast, dearies? Who
says breakfast--breakfast?" This invitation was immediately
responded to by the nine cats. When they had done the old lady
cried, "Who says washee, dearies? Washee, washee, washee?"
Whereupon the nine cats sat on their haunches and proceeded to make
their toilettes. The requirements of cleanliness having been
satisfied, and the nine basins having been taken away by the little
maid, the old lady shouted out, "Who says play, dearies? Playee,
playee, playee?" holding out her arms, and calling out, "Dido Dums,
Dido Dums, come here, deary," when a fine Persian cat jumped on to
her right shoulder. "Now Diddles Doddles, Diddles Doddles," and
another Persian cat jumped on to her left shoulder. "Tootsy
Wootsy," she called once more, and a black cat scrambled up to the
crown of the poke bonnet. And one by one they were summoned by some
endearing diminutive, until the nine cats had taken possession of
every possible coign of vantage which was offered by the old lady's
capacious person. There they sat, waving their tails to and fro,
evidently very pleased by their mistress's little attentions. Mrs.
Mee was not very popular in the neighborhood, except with the
milkman and the butcher. The cats'-meat-man, indeed, who supplied
various families in our road, positively hated her--so I gathered
from our servant,--and had been heard to say _sotto voce_ in
unguarded moments, "Ha! ha! I'll be revenged." It was not
unnatural, as the cats were fed on mutton cutlets and fresh milk,
and cats' meat was at a discount. About three weeks before Peter
disappeared, Mrs. Mee, in the short space of three or four days,
had lost no less than five cats by a violent death, and five little
graves had been dug, marked by five little tombstones, and the five
dead cats had been laid in their last resting-places by the hands
of the old lady herself. A funeral is not generally amusing, but I
could not restrain a smile when I saw my eccentric old neighbor
follow the remains of her dead pets, which were reverently carried
on the tea-tray by the little serving-maid, the old lady herself
leading the way, ringing a muffled peal with the dinner-bell, the
remaining cats bringing up the rear, pondering over the fate of
their dead comrades.

It happened that three of these unfortunate victims had been found
on my doorstep. I felt very angry with the old lady, who blamed me
for the destruction of her pets, adducing the fact that they were
found dying on my doorsteps as proof conclusive. One morning I
received an anonymous postcard. Although it bore the Charing Cross
postmark, I felt sure it came from the old lady. It read as
follows:

"The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold."

This was the last straw, for I felt that as regards the old lady's
cats I had behaved in a sympathetic and neighborly spirit. I
remember this post-card because the same afternoon that it came
Peter disappeared, and I began to fear that he had yielded to the
temptation of a poisoned pig's foot which had been found in my
garden stripped of its flesh. This was a delicacy which Peter had
never been able to resist, though why he should have preferred it
to the choice foods that were daily piled upon his plate I cannot
for the life of me say. We searched the neighborhood in vain, and
at last I determined to advertise. Accordingly I addressed an
advertisement to my favorite paper. It ran as follows:

"COME BACK, PETER. Lost, stolen, strayed, or poisoned, a white
and black cat called Peter, who left his friends at--on Monday
afternoon last. Round his neck he wore a blue ribbon with the word
PETER embroidered upon it in red silk. Before retiring to rest he
always says his prayers. Dead or alive, a reward of Two Pounds is
offered to any one who will restore him to his mourning friends."

I little knew what I was bringing on my devoted head. I had been
troubled enough before with dying cats, but now they were all
alive. Cats were brought to me in baskets, in boxes, in arms; Manx
cats and cats whose tails were missing for other than hereditary
reasons; lame cats, blind cats, cats with one eye, and cats who
squinted. Never before had I seen such an extraordinary collection.
My whole time was now taken up in interviewing callers with cats.

If the boys were bad before, they were a thousand times worse now.
Here is one example out of a score. He was a boy known as Pop, who
carried the laundry baskets.

"'Ave yer found yer cat yet?"

"No, we haven't."

"Did yer say it was a yaller 'un?"

"No, I didn't."

"What did I say, Hop?" continued Pop, triumphantly turning to a
one-legged friend who swept a crossing close by.

"Yer said, Pop, as it was a tortus," murmured the bashful Hop, who
had sheltered himself behind Pop.

"A tortus, that's it. A tortus, and Hop and _I's_ found it,
sir. We've got it here."

"You're wrong. My cat's _not_ a tortoise," I replied.

"Bless you, we know that, guv'nor. Just as if we didn't know Peter!
Ah! Peter was a cat as wants a lot of replacin', Peter does. But me
and Hop's got a tortus as is a wunner, guv'nor. A heap better nor
Peter. Poor old Peter! he's dead and gone. Be sure of that. This
'ere's a reg'lar bad road. A prize-winner, warn't 'e, Hoppy?" They
held up the prize-winner, who was _not_ a tortoise, and was
mangy.

"Look here, my boys, you can take her away. Now, be off. Quick
march!"

"Yer don't want it, guv'nor. Jest think agin. Why, 'ow will you get
along without a cat? The mice is 'orrible in this 'ere road. Come,
guv'nor, I'll tell you what I'll do. You shall 'ave a bargain,"
said Pop.

I insisted that the tortoise prize-winner should be taken away, and
the next day I stopped the advertisement and resigned myself to
despair. A week after Peter had disappeared I heard the voice of my
friend Pop at the door. "I say, mister, I've some noose. Come along
o' me. I think I've found 'im. Real. A blue ribbon round 'is neck
and says 'is prayers. Put on yer 'at and foller, foller, foller
me." Mr. Pop led the way along the road, and turned off to the
right, and we walked up another road until we reached a large house
which had been unoccupied for many months. The drains were up, and
two or three workmen were busy. Pop at once introduced me as "the
gent as was lookin' for his cat." "Have you seen a cat with a blue
ribbon round his neck?" I asked them, very dubious as to the
honesty of Pop's intention. "Well, sich a cat _'as_ bin 'ere
for some days," replied the workman to whom I had spoken. "He used
to come when we were gettin' our bit of dinner. But we never know'd
but wot it came from next door. You go upstairs to the first-floor
front, and you'll see a sight." On the top of the stairs was Peter,
who knew me at once, and began to purr and rub himself against my
legs in a most affectionate manner, as if to appease any outburst
of wrath on my part. I felt too pleased to be angry, and followed
Peter into the empty room, which was littered with paper and
rubbish, and the remains of forty or fifty mice lay strewn about
the floor. Peter looked up to me as if to say: "Not a bad bag--eh,
master?" In the corner of the room was a bit of sacking which Peter
had used as a bed. Pop explained to me that he had heard the men
talking about the funny cat that came and dined with them every
day. This conversation induced him to search the house, with the
happy result that Peter was restored to the bosom of his sorrowing
family, and Pop gave up the laundry basket, and invested the reward
in a small private business of his own.

* * * * *

Peter and I have had many homes in London and in the country.
Together we have lived in flats, in hotels, in farm-houses, and in
lodgings for single gentlemen. In lodgings for single gentlemen we
had many strange experiences which would occupy too much time to
relate, and I will therefore touch but lightly upon this period of
Peter's career. Peter, being a gentlemanly cat, never quarrelled
with ladies, however hard they might be to please, and let them
gird at him as they would. For did not that gracious animal, when
Mrs. Nagsby was accusing him of stealing fowls, say--did he not
arch his bonny back and purr against Mrs. Nagsby's ankles and
endeavor to appease her? In her softer moods she did sometimes
relax, and even allowed Peter to sit by her side as she read the
paper. Peter was held responsible for every article that was lost
in Mrs. Nagsby's apartments, and the amount of money I paid to that
good lady for breakage in the course of six months would have
furnished a small cottage. Mrs. Nagsby was a widow, and the late
lamented Nagsby had supported her by his performances on the
euphonium. This instrument was kept in a case in Mrs. Nagsby's
little room, which was on the ground-floor back, and looked on to a
series of dingy walls. Mrs. Nagsby used to polish up the euphonium
every Saturday morning with a regularity which nothing prevented.
Did it not speak volumes for her affection for the late lamented?
On one of these Saturdays it happened that a German band stopped at
the front door. Mrs. Nagsby could never resist the seductive power
of brass music. She rushed upstairs to the first-floor front to
listen to the performance. Fate ordained it that Mrs. Nagsby should
leave the precious euphonium on the floor in her haste to hear the
band. Fate ordained it also that Peter should come down stairs at
this particular moment and wend his way to Mrs. Nagsby's parlor.
Fate also had ordained it that a mouse which lived in a hole behind
Mrs. Nagsby's easy-chair should issue at this particular moment for
a little bread-crumb expedition. Mrs. Nagsby was a careful
housekeeper, and finding no crumbs about, the mouse roamed into the
silent highway presented by the orifice of the euphonium. It was
natural enough that Peter should follow the mouse. Unfortunately,
Peter's progress was stopped, the girth of his body being too great
to admit him; and my door being open, I at once rushed to the
rescue, and found Peter with his head in the depths of the
euphonium, and making fierce struggles to vacate the position. Mrs.
Nagsby came downstairs and entered her parlor just as I succeeded
in extracting Peter from the musical instrument. Fiercely was I
reproached for Peter's escapade, and humbly did I make his
apologies, little knowing the secret of the plight from which I had
rescued him. Having soothed my landlady, she at length took up the
euphonium and proceeded to apply her eye to the main orifice to see
if Peter had damaged it, handling the euphonium in the manner of a
telescope. I was thinking of the reproaches in prospect, when I was
startled by a loud shriek, to which the euphonium imparted a
metallic vibration, and Mrs. Nagsby dropped the instrument on to
the floor, the good lady herself following it with a thud. A wee
mouse scuttled across her face, disappeared behind the easy chair,
and doubtless rejoined his anxious family. Mrs. Nagsby recovered
after her maid-of-all-work and I had burnt a few sheets of brown
paper under her nostrils; but I had great difficulty in making the
peace.

In vain I pointed out that the responsibility did not remain with
me, or even with Peter. We agreed after some debate that it was the
German band, which was never afterwards patronized by Mrs. Nagsby.

I got into further trouble with Mrs. Nagsby owing to a greyhound
which I had bought at a sale. I had no character with him, for he
had no character. If Mrs. Nagsby had killed him with the meat
hatchet I would have held my peace, for never a day passed but King
Arthur took his name in vain. The first night I brought him home
Mrs. Nagsby gave me permission as a great favor to chain him to the
kitchen table. In the morning two of the table legs had been
mangled, and that is our reason why I called him King Arthur, of
the Round Table. The next night King Arthur was taken upstairs and
attached to the leg of my wash-stand. I was awakened out of my
beauty sleep by a horrible clamor which caused me to think that the
house had fallen in. I presently realized that King Arthur had
mistaken the water-jug for a dragon. In any case it was smashed to
bits, and the noise brought Mrs. Nagsby to my door in anger. I
should be sorry to say what King Arthur cost me in hard cash for
breakages and legs of mutton. Poor Peter! thou wast a saint when
compared with that fiend on four legs.

The _denouement_ came at last, and it arose from King Arthur's
fondness for the ladies. There was nothing remarkable in the
appearance of the old lady who was Mrs. Nagsby's favorite lodger,
who had held the rooms above mine for three years. Rut the lady had
a most beautiful sealskin jacket, trimmed with tails of sable. King
Arthur had unluckily a feminine affection for furs, and I never
dared to take him into any of the fashionable thoroughfares, as he
had a way of following the ladies, not for their own dear sakes,
but for the fur which they might happen to be wearing. Whether they
were only tippets or dyed rabbit-skins, it did not matter to King
Arthur.

Well, one unfortunate afternoon, I was leading my greyhound home. A
few yards in front of us was Mrs. Nagsby's first-floor lady, taking
the sun in all the glories of her sealskin jacket and sable tails.
To my horror I dropped the chain in taking a match-box out of my
pocket, and before I could take any steps to prevent him--_King
Arthur was coursing Mrs. Nagsby's first-floor lodger at his highest
rate of speed!!!_ King Arthur held on his course and literally
took the old lady aback, and began to tear those choice sable
tippets asunder. Nor was the base creature content to rest at the
sable tippets. Before I reached his victim his mouth was full of
sealskin. Let me pass on, merely saying that King Arthur was shot
that night in the mews at the back of Mrs. Nagsby's, a victim to
his own indiscretions.

And now I come to the fatal catastrophe which finally drove me and
Peter from the shelter of Mrs. Nagsby's roof. That lady had a set
of false teeth which she was in the habit of depositing on her
dressing-table when she went to bed. I had learned this from Sarah
when that damsel was in a confidential mood. Peter, I think I have
told you, slept in my room. One very warm night Mrs. Nagsby left
her door open, and her night light was burning as usual. I also
slept with my door open, and Peter, being hot like the rest of us,
left the room for a stroll, and visited Mrs. Nagsby's apartment.
Presently he came back with Mrs. Nagsby's teeth between his own--at
least I suppose so, for I found them on the hearth-rug when I
awoke. I was greatly amused, though a little puzzled to know how I
could replace them. After some reflection I went down to breakfast,
placed the trophy in a saucer, and showed it to Sarah, who screamed
and traitorously ran up and informed her mistress. Mrs. Nagsby came
down rampant, but of course speechless. I was thankful for this;
but the violent woman, after sputtering spasmodically, caught sight
of the missing article in the saucer, and, lost to all sense of
shame, replaced it in position and poured forth a torrent of the
most violent abuse.

Peter and I left.



JEFF THE INQUISITIVE

By General Rush C. Hawkins

Among the gunboats doing duty on the inland waters of North
Carolina in the early spring of 1862, which composed what Commodore
Goldsborough designated his "Pasteboard Fleet," was the
_Louisiana_, commanded by Commander Alexander Murray, who was
noted for his efficiency and good nature.

His treatment of his crew made him one of the most popular officers
in the whole fleet. He entered into all of their sports and
sympathized with the discomforts of forecastle life. He was fond of
animal pets, and always welcomed the arrival of a new one. At the
time of which I am writing, his ship carried quite a collection of
tame birds and four-footed favorites. Among them was a singular
little character, known as "Jeff." He was a perfectly black pig of
the "Racer Razor Back" order, which, at that time, were plentiful
in the coast sections of the more southern of the slave-holding
States. They were called "racers" because of their long legs,
slender bodies, and great capacity for running; and "Razor Backs"
on account of the prominence of the spinal column. The origin of
this particular species of the porcine tribe is unknown, but there
is a tradition to the effect that their progenitors were a part of
the drove that came to the coast of Florida with De Soto when he
started on the march which ended with the discovery of the
Mississippi River. History records the fact that a large number of
animals were brought from Spain for food, and that a considerable
number of them succeeded in getting away from the expedition soon
after the landing was effected.

Our particular specimen of this wandering tribe of natural
marauders was captured by a boat's crew of the _Louisiana_ in
one of the swamps adjacent to Currituck Sound when he was a wee bit
of an orphaned waif, not much larger than an ostrich egg.

He was an ill-conditioned little mite that had probably been
abandoned by a heartless mother, possibly while escaping from the
prospective mess-kettle of a Confederate picket.

In those days Confederate pickets were not very particular as to
the quality or kind of food, and I have a suspicion that even a
"Razor Back" would have been a welcome addition to their meal.

When "Jeff" was brought on board, his pitiful condition excited the
active sympathy of all, from the commander down to the smallest
powder monkey, and numerous were the suggestions made as to the
course of treatment for the new patient. The doctor was consulted,
and after a careful diagnosis, decided there was no organic
disease: want of parental care, want of nourishment and exposure,
were held responsible for "Jeff's" unfavorable condition. It was
decided to put him on a light diet of milk, which proved an
immediate success, for, within forty-eight hours after his first
meal, the patient became as lively as possible. As days and weeks
went on, there appeared an improvement of appetite that was quite
phenomenal, but no accumulation of flesh. His legs and body grew
longer; and, with this lengthening of parts, there came a
development of intellectual acuteness that was particularly
surprising. He attached himself to each individual of the ship. He
had no favorites, but was hail-fellow-well-met with all. He
developed all the playful qualities of a puppy and reasoned out a
number of problems in his own way. His particular admirers declared
that he learned the meaning of the different whistles of the
boatswain: that he knew when the meal pennant was hoisted to the
peak; could tell when the crew was beat to quarters for drill, and
often proved the correctness of this knowledge by scampering off to
take his place by one particular gun division, which seemed to have
taken his fancy.

I can testify personally to only one item in the schedule of his
intellectual achievements. It is a custom in the navy for the
commander of a ship to receive any officer of rank of either branch
of the service at the gangway of the ship. In this act of courtesy
he is always accompanied by the officer of the deck, and often by
others that may happen to be at hand. After the advent of "Jeff,"
whenever I went on board the _Louisiana,_ he was always at the
gangway, and seemingly was deeply interested in the event. It may
be said of him, generally, that he was overflowing with spirits,
and took an active interest in all the daily routine work of his
ship.

He had a most pertinacious way of poking his nose into all sorts of
affairs, not at all after the manner of the usual pig, but more
like a village gossip who wants to know about everything that is
going on in the neighborhood.

In the gradual development of "Jeff's" character, it was discovered
that he had none of the usual well-known traits of the pig. He was
more like a petted and pampered dog, was playful, good-natured, and
expressed pleasure, pain, anger, and desire, with various squeals
and grunts, delivered with a variety of intonations that were very
easily interpreted. He was never so happy as when in the lap of one
of the sailors, having his back stroked. His pleasure upon those
occasions was evinced by the emission of frequent good-natured
grunts and looking up into the face of the friendly stroker.

When on shore he followed his favorites like a dog and was never
known to root. Except in speech and appearance he was the
counterpart of a happy, good-natured, and well-cared-for household
dog--possibly, however, rather more intelligent than the average
canine pet.

The Fourth of July, 1862, was a gala day at Roanoke Island. The
camps of the island and the vessels in the harbor were in holiday
attire. Colors were flying, bands playing, drums beating, patriotic
steam was up to high pressure. The good old day, so dear to the
hearts of Americans, was made more glorious by the exchange of camp
hospitalities and an indulgence in such simple hilarity as the
occasion seemed to require; but "Jeff" was not forgotten. Early in
the morning he was bathed and scrubbed, more than to his heart's
content, and then patriotically decorated. In his right ear was a
red ribbon, in his left a white one; around his neck another of
blue.