G.A. Henty - "The Lion of the North"

Edmund Goldsmid - "Quaint Gleanings from Ancient Poetry"

Mrs. George Sheldon - "Katherine's Sheaves"

John Lord - "The Old Roman World"

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




Thus adorned he was brought on shore to pay me a visit, and as he
came through my door he appeared to be filled with the pride of
patriotism and a realization of the greatness of the occasion. His
reward for this unusual demonstration was instantaneous, and
consisted of some apples and a toothsome dessert of sugar.
Afterward he made the round of the camps with a special escort of
warrant officers and devoted Jack Tars.

During this triumphant march over the island an incident occurred
which developed the slumbering instinct of the swamp "racer." In a
second, as it were, and seemingly without cause, "Jeff" was seen to
move off at a tremendous pace at right angles with the line of
march. He was seen after he had run a few yards to make a great
jump, and then remain in his tracks. The pursuing party found him
actively engaged in demolishing a moccasin, which he had crushed by
jumping and landing with his feet upon its head and back. Hogs of
this particular kind are famous snake-killers--a big rattler or a
garter snake is all the same to them. They advance to the attack
with the greatest impetuosity, and a feast upon snake is the usual
reward of exceptional bravery.

"Jeff" was a confirmed lover of good eating, and in time paid the
usual penalty for over-indulgence of his very piggish appetite.
While the meal pennant was up, it was his habit to go from one
fore-castle mess to another, and to insist upon having rather more
than his share of the choice morsels from each. In a short time he
came to the repair shop very much the worse for wear, with an
impaired digestion and a cuticle that showed unmistakable evidence
of scurvy. For the first he was put upon short rations; for the
second, sand baths on shore were prescribed. Under this treatment
poor "Jeff" lost all his buoyancy of spirits and his habitual
friskiness, and became sad and dejected, but bore his troubles with
patience. He took to the sand baths at once, and gave forth many
disgruntled grunts when lifted out of them.

The last time I saw "Jeff," in 1862, he was buried up to his ears
in the cool sands of the Roanoke Island shore, with eyes upturned
and looking like a very sad pig, but I fear none the wiser for his
offenses against the rights of a well-regulated digestion.



THE IMPUDENT GUINEA-PIG

By Charles F. Lummis

No other creature is so absolutely graceful as a rattlesnake, and
none more gentle in intention. It is only against imposition that
he protests. Our forefathers had learned a not unworthy lesson from
their contact with nature in the New World when they put upon the
first flag of the colonies a rattlesnake, with the Latin legend,
_Nemo me impune lacessit_--"No one wounds me with impunity."
The flag of independence, however, only half told the real meaning
of its emblem--the warning, and not the self-restraint. There is a
device, to my notion, much more expressive: a rattlesnake rampant,
with the Spanish motto, _Ni huyes ni persigues_--"Thou needst
not flee, but thou must not pursue." Or, in other words, "I impose
upon no one; no one must impose upon me." That is the real meaning
of the rattlesnake, as any one can testify who knows him well.

I chanced one day to enter the market in Los Angeles, and was
surprised to find in one of the stalls a large collection of
rattlesnakes, mostly brought in from the Mojave desert. It was the
first time I had ever seen the crotalus sold in the stalls of a
city market; and as they went at the very reasonable figure of
fifty cents apiece, I promptly purchased a pair. The dealer, with a
noose of cord, lassoed the two I indicated, and after some
maneuvering got them stowed in two large cigar boxes, which he tied
up tightly. Reaching home safely with my new pets, I made them a
roomy cage with wire-screen in front and a sliding door on top, and
transferred them to it without much difficulty. One was a strong,
handsome fellow five feet long and with fifteen rattles; the other
was about three feet in length and had an ordinary "string."

The dealer told me they had eaten nothing in six months; and
fancying it must be about lunch-time with them, I went down-town,
as soon as they were comfortably settled in the new quarters, to
get them food. A rattler, you know, will touch no dead meat, so I
had to seek some living bait. After ransacking the markets I found
at last one young cuye--the funny little South American, generally
miscalled among us the "guinea-pig." It was about half grown--a
very proper-sized morsel for the larger snake.

My friends rattled a little as I opened the slide on the top of
their cage, promptly closing it as I dropped the cuye in. But, to
my surprise, they paid no further attention to the newcomer, except
to appear very much bored by him; and, stranger yet, the guinea-pig
showed no sign whatever of fear. I have so often watched birds,
rabbits, dogs, horses, cattle, and other animals--up to the
strongest and boldest--in presence of the rattlesnake, and have
always noted in them such unmistakable tokens of terror, that it
astonished me to find this pretty little white-and-tan creature so
utterly unconcerned. In dropping from the door he alighted squarely
upon the backs of the snakes, whereupon they drew away uneasily;
and he proceeded to look and sniff about, very much as you may have
seen a rabbit do. I stood by the cage a long time, expecting the
snakes to lose patience at last and enact a tragedy; but nothing
happened. The cuye scurried freely about the cage, generally
treading upon the irregular loops which covered most of the floor;
and the snakes neither rattled nor raised their heads at him.

For fully a week the three lodged together harmoniously. Sometimes,
on entering the room, I found the guinea-pig quietly reposing
inside the careless coil of one of his strange bedfellows. Several
times he was squatting upon them, and more than once sitting
squarely upon the head of one! I began to wonder if there were
anything constitutionally wrong with the snakes. Whether they
deemed him too big or too foolish to be eaten, I have never known;
but, whatever the reason, they made no motion toward eating him.
Unfortunately, he did not know how to return a favor.

One afternoon I was writing at my desk, when a tremendous rattling
behind me caused me to jump up and go to the cage. The smaller
snake was up in arms, skirring his rattle violently, while the
larger one was twisting uneasily about, but not showing fight. And
what do you imagine ailed him? Why, that miserable cuye was perched
upon him, coolly nibbling that beautiful rattle, of which only
three or four beads were left! In my righteous indignation I tore
open the slide and "snaked out" the vandal as quickly as possible.
Afterward it occurred to me to wonder that I had not been struck;
for nothing so alarms and angers a crotalus as a swift motion like
that with which I had removed the cuye. The rattles never grew
again, and my best snake was spoiled. Why the cuye should have
cared to eat that mysterious husk which is so absolutely dry and
flavorless, I can explain only by adding that rats and mice have
the same perverted taste, and that it seems fairly a passion with
them. I have had many skins and rattles eaten up by them.

Shortly after this episode one of our helpers in the office found a
nest of mice, and, mindful of my hungry snakes, I contrived to
catch one mouse alive. When the rattlers saw him through their
screen, they manifested such a lively interest as nothing had
aroused in them before. I cautiously opened the slide in the top of
the cage, held the mouse up by the tail, and let him drop.

There was a fair illustration of the matchless agility of the
crotalus when he cares to be quick. The cage was just twelve inches
high in the clear; but before the falling mouse was halfway to the
bottom, there was an indescribable gray blur, and I knew that the
larger snake had hit him. I have improved numerous chances to study
the stroke of rattlesnake, which is the swiftest motion made by any
living creature; but that particular case, better than any other,
gave me a conception of its actual rapidity. From years of
experience with the pneumatic shutter in photographing objects in
rapid motion, I should say the snake's head traversed that twelve
or fifteen inches in something like the three-hundredth part of a
second.

The mouse fell upon the floor of the cage, and it never moved
again. The snake knew perfectly that it had done its work, for in
place of "recovering" for another stroke, as they invariably do
after a failure, he swallowed the mouse in the usual slow and
painful fashion, with as much apparent effort as a morsel four
times as large should have given him.



HARD TO HIT

By Ernest Ingersoll

The spring weather we sometimes have in March reminds me,
especially in the evening, of some days passed so high up in the
Rocky Mountains that the summer was left down in the valley. One
such spring-like evening we camped close to the timber-limit, and I
made my first trip into the region above, in which no trees grow.
Having left the spruce-woods quickly behind, there came some stiff
climbing up ledges of broken rocks, standing, cliff-like, to bar
the way to the summit. These surmounted, the way was clear, for
from the northeast--the side I was on--this mountain presents a
smooth grassy slope to the very top; but the western side of the
range is a series of rocky precipices, seamed and shattered. This
is true of many mountains in Colorado.

Just above the cliffs grew a number of dwarfed spruces, some of
them with trunks six inches in diameter, yet lying flat along the
ground, so that the gnarled and wind-pressed boughs were scarcely
knee-high. They stood so closely together, and were so stiff, that
I could not pass between them; but, on the other hand, they were
strong enough to bear my weight, so that I could walk over their
tops when it was inconvenient to go around.

Some small brown sparrows, of two or three species, lived there,
and they were very talkative. Sharp, metallic chirps were heard,
also, as the blue snow-bird flitted about, showing the white
feathers on either side of its tail, in scudding from one
sheltering bush to another. Doubtless, careful search would have
discovered its home, snugly built of circularly laid grasses, and
tucked deeply into some cozy hollow beside the root of a spruce.

My pace now became slow, for in the thin air of a place twelve
thousand feet above the sea-level, climbing is exhausting work. But
before long I came to the top, and stood on the verge of a crag
that showed the crumbling action of water and frost. Gaping cracks
seamed its face, and an enormous mass of fallen rock covered the
broad slope at its foot. The very moment I arrived there, I heard a
most lively squeaking going on, apparently just under the edge of
the cliff or in some of the cracks. It was an odd noise, something
between a bark and scream, and I could think of nothing but young
hawks as the authors of it. So I set at work to find the nest, but
my search was in vain, while the sharp squeaking seemed to multiply
and to come from a dozen different quarters. By this time I had
crawled down the rough face of the cliff, and had reached the heaps
of fallen rock. There I caught a glimpse of a little head with two
black eyes, like a prairie-dog's, peering out of a crevice, and I
was just in time to see him open his small jaws and say _"shink"
_--about as a rusty hinge would pronounce it. I whipped my
revolver out of my belt and fired, but the little fellow dodged the
bullet and was gone. Echoes rattled about among the rocks, wandered
up and down the canon, and hammered away at half a dozen stone
walls before ceasing entirely. But when they had died away, not
another sound was to be heard. Every little rascal had hid.

So I sat down and waited. In about five minutes a tiny, timid
squeak broke the stillness, then a second a trifle louder, then one
away under my feet in some subterranean passage. Hardly daring to
breathe, I waited and watched. Finally the chorus became as loud as
before, and I caught sight of one of the singers only about ten
yards away, head and shoulders out of his hole, doubtless
commenting to his neighbor in no complimentary way upon the strange
intruder. Slowly lifting my pistol, I pulled the trigger. I was
sure he had not seen me, yet a chip of rock flying from where he
had stood was my only satisfaction; he had dodged again.

I had seen enough, however, to know that the noisy colony was a
community of Little Chief hares (_Lagomys princeps,_ as they
are named in the textbooks), or "conies," as the silver miners call
them. They are related to the woodchucks as well as to the hare,
and they live wholly at or above timber-line, burrowing among the
fallen and decomposing rocks which crown the summits of all the
mountains. Not every peak, by any means, harbors conies; on the
contrary, they are rather uncommon, and are so difficult to shoot
that their skins are rare in museums, and their ways are little
known to naturalists. During the middle of the day they are asleep
and quiet; but in the evening and all night when the moon shines
they leave their rocky retreats and forage in the neighboring
meadows, meeting the yellow-footed marmot and other neighbors.
About the only enemies they have, I fancy, are the rattlesnake and
weasel, excepting when a wild-cat may pounce upon one, or an owl
swoop down and snatch up some rambler. In the cold season, of
course, their burrows are deep in snow; but then the little fellows
are taking their long winter sleep, and neither know nor care what
the weather may be.

An Indian will eat a cony,--if he can catch it. He likes to use its
fur, also, for braiding his locks into those long plaits which
delight his soul; but the lively little rodents are pretty safe
from all human foes, even one with a Colt's revolver!



THAT SLY OLD WOODCHUCK

By William O. Stoddard

"Deah me! Dey's jes' one moah row ob taters. I's hoein' de bes' I
know."

Julius leaned on his hoe for a moment. His bright black face was
turned a little anxiously toward the front fence. Over in the road
beyond that there stood a white boy, of about his own size, and he
was calling:

"Quib! Quib! Come here!"

"Dar he goes!" said Julius. "Dey'e got him agin. He's de bes' dog
for woodchucks, he is! An' I can't go 'long. Tell you wot, dough,
if I'd ha' t'ought he'd run away 'fore I'd hoed dese taters, I'd
nebber hab gibben him dat big bone. De rascal! He's jes' hid it
away, somewhar, down 'mong de cabbages."

That was what Quib had done with his precious bone; but now his
little, lean, yellow legs were carrying him rapidly down the road,
with half a dozen very noisy boys behind him.

"Pete! Pete Corry! Where was it you saw that woodchuck?"

"Finest woodchuck you ever saw in all your life!" was Pete's reply.

"He'll get away from us!"

"No, he won't. Abe Selover is watching for him. That woodchuck is
in the stone-heap at the corner of old Hamburger's pasture-lot."

Quib must have understood what Mart Penniman said, for he did not
halt for one second till he reached the bars that led into that
very field. It was more than a quarter of a mile from the
potato-patch, but Quib had barked all the way--probably out of
respect for the size and importance of the coming woodchuck.

Mart Penniman and Abe Selover had started their great "game" on the
way home from driving their cows. They had raced him across the
pasture and along the fence, into the stone-heap, and then Abe had
staid to keep watch while Mart went after Julius Davis's dog. That
meant also, of course, as large a crowd of boys as he could pick up
in going and coming.

It was a sad thing for Julius that his mother had set him at the
potato-patch, and that Quib had broken his contract with the bone.

Quib was not usually so treacherous, but he happened to be on
friendly terms with every boy of that hunting-party.

They had all helped him chase woodchucks at one time or another,
and he had great confidence in them, but that was nothing at all to
their confidence in him.

The pasture bars did not stop a single one of the
woodchuck-hunters. All the boys went over while Quib was wriggling
under, through a hole he knew, and there, almost right before them
was the stone-heap. It was quite a large one, and it was thickly
overgrown with wild raspberry vines.

"Abe--is he there?"

"He didn't get away, did he?"

"Are you sure he is in there?"

"Quib! Quib!" shouted Abe. "Woodchucks! Quib, woodchucks! Right in
here. Find 'em!"

Quib was dancing around in a quiver of noisy excitement, for he had
caught a sniff of something under the first bush he sprang into.

How he did bark and yelp and scratch, for about a minute!

"Poys! Poys! Vat is all dis? Vat you want vis mein stone-heap, eh?"

It was old Hamburger himself climbing the fence, and he looked
longer and leaner just then, and had more pipe in his mouth, than
the boys thought they had ever seen before.

"The finest woodchuck you ever saw, Mr. Hamburger," began Cole
Thomas, by way of an apology.

"Vootchuck! Dat's it! Ant so you puts a tog into mein stone-heap,
and you steps onto mein grass, ant you knock ober all mein
beautiful mullein-stalks and mein thistles and mein scoke-veeds!"

Puff! puff! came the great clouds of smoke from the grim lips of
the old German, but it struck Cole Thomas that Mr. Hamburger
himself was on the watch for that woodchuck.

Bow-wow-yow-yelp! and Mart shouted:

"There he goes!"

"Hi! We'll get him!" screamed Abe.

"Take him, Quib! Take him!"

Quib had started a woodchuck.

There was never a stone-heap piled up that had room in it for both
a dog and a woodchuck.

Mr. Hamburger took the pipe out of his mouth, which was a thing
nobody could remember ever having seen him do.

"Dose poys! Dat vootchuck! De tog is a goot von. Dey vill preak
dare little necks. Joost see how dey run! But de tog is de pest
runner of dem poys, egsept de vootchuck."

Mr. Hamburger did not run. Nobody had ever seen him do any such
thing as that.

But he walked on across the pasture-lot, toward the deep ravine
that cut through the side of the hill to the valley.

All that time poor Julius had been hoeing away desperately upon the
last row of his mother's potatoes, and she had been smiling at him
from the window. She was anxious he should get through, for she
meant to send him to the village for a quarter of a pound of tea.

It was just as Julius reached the last hill that the baby cried,
and when Mrs. Davis returned to the window to say something about
the store and the kind of tea she wanted, all she could see of
Julius was the hoe lying beside that last hill.

"Ef he hasn't finished dem taters and run away!"

She would have been proud of him if she could have seen how
wonderfully fast he did run away, down the road he had seen Quib
and the other hunters.

"Dey's into de lot!" he exclaimed, when he came to the bars. "Dar's
Pete Corry's ole straw hat lyin' by de stone-heap. Mus' hab been
somefin' won'erful, or he'd nebber forgot his hat."

That was an old woodchuck, of course, or he would not have been so
large, and it may be he knew those boys as well as Quib did. If
not, it was his own fault, for every one of them had chased him
before, and so had Quib.

He knew every inch of that pasture-lot, and he knew the shortest
way to the head of the deep ravine.

"Boys!" shouted Abe Selover, with all the breath he had. "Boys!
He's going for the glen! Now we've got him!"

The ravine was a rocky and wonderful place, and all the boys were
perfectly familiar with it, and considered it the grandest
play-house in the world, or, at least, in the vicinity of the
village. If Quib once got the woodchuck penned up among those
rocks, they could play hide-and-seek for him till they should find
him.

Some city people that had a picnic there once had called it a
"glen," and the name had stuck to it, mainly because it was
shorter than any other the boys could think of; and, besides
that, the schoolmaster of the district two years before (who
didn't suit the trustees) had been named Glenn, and so the word
must have been all right.

Some of the boys were near enough to see the woodchuck make for the
two maples at the head of the ravine, and Bob Hicks tumbled over
Andy Thompson while he was shouting:

"Catch him, Quib!"

After they got past those two maple trees there was no more fast
running to be done.

Down, down, deeper and rockier and rougher every rod of it, the
rugged chasm opened ahead of them, and it was necessary for the
boys to mind their steps. It was a place where a woodchuck or a
small dog could get around a good deal faster than any boy, but
they all followed Quib in a way that would have scared their
mothers if they had been there.

"It's grand fun!" said Mart Penniman. "Finest woodchuck you ever
saw!"

"Come on, boys!" shouted Abe Selover, away ahead. "We'll get him,
this time."

Abe had a way of being just the next boy behind the dog in any kind
of chase, and they all clambered after him in hot haste.

On went Quib, and even Abe Selover could not see him more than half
the time, for he had an immense deal of dodging to do, in and out
among the rocks and trees, and it was dreadfully shady at the
bottom of that ravine.

The walls of rock, where Abe was, rose more than sixty feet high on
either side, and the glen was only a few rods wide at the widest
place.

"He's holed him! He's holed him! Come on! we've got him, now!"

Quib was scratching and yelping like an insane dog at the bottom of
what looked like a great crack between two rocks, in the left-hand
side of the glen as you went down. The crack was only an inch or so
wide at the bottom, and twisted a good deal as it went up, for the
rock was of the kind known as "pudding-stone." There was a hole,
just there, large enough for a woodchuck, but too small for a dog.

"Dig, boys! Dig!"

"Dig yourself," said Pete Corry. "Who's going to dig a rock, I'd
like to know?"

"Let Quib in, anyhow. He'll drive him out."

Abe was prying at that hole with a dead branch of a tree, and,
almost while he was speaking, a great piece of the loose
pudding-stone fell off and came thumping down at his feet.

"A cave, boys, a cave! Just look in!"

Quib did not wait for anybody to look in, but bounded through the
opening with a shrill yelp, and Abe Selover squeezed after him.

Pete Corry felt a little nervous when he saw how dark it was, but
he followed Abe; and the other boys came on as fast as the width of
the hole would let them.

That is, they crept through, one boy at a time.

What surprised them was, that the moment they had crawled through
that hole they could stand up straight.

"Where's the woodchuck?" asked Bob Hicks.

"Woodchuck? Why, boys, this is a regular cave," replied Abe.

"Quib's in there, somewhere," said Mart Penniman. "Just hear him
yelp!"

"Hold on," said Cole Thomas--"there's more light coming in. We
shall be able to see, in a minute."

The fact was that it took a little time for their eyes to get
accustomed to the small amount of light there was in that cave.

The cave itself was not very large.

It grew wider for about twenty feet from the hole they came in by,
and the floor, which was covered with bits of rock, sloped upward
like the roof of a house, only not quite so abruptly.

In the middle it was more than a rod wide. Then it grew narrower,
and steeper, and darker with every step. But they knew about where
the upper end must be, for they could hear Quib barking there.

"It's dark enough," said Andy.

"Come on, boys!" shouted Abe Selover. "We'll have that woodchuck
this time. He's in this cave, somewhere."

They were not very much afraid to keep a little way behind Abe
Selover, and in a few minutes they heard him say:

"Quib! Is he there? Have you got him?"

Quib barked and whined, and the sound seemed to come from away
above them.

"Come on, boys! I can see a streak of light. It's like climbing up
an old chimney. Quib's almost on him."

All that time, while they were groping through that cave, Julius
Davis was looking around the pasture-lot after them.

He would have been glad of a small glimpse of Quib, but all he had
found as yet was Mr. Hamburger, who was standing under an old
butternut-tree and looking down at a round, hollow place in the
ground.

He was smoking very hard.

"Hab you seen my dog?" asked Julius.

"Hold shtill, poy! Joost you vait. Hi! Dere goes dose vootshuck!"

"Dat's so. He's coming right up out ob de hole, and dar ain't no
dog to foller him!"

Away went the woodchuck, and Julius gave him up for lost; but Mr.
Hamburger smoked harder than ever and looked down at the hole.

"Hark! Hear dem? It is de tog. Pless mein eyes, if dey didn't chase
dose vootshuck right oonder mein pasture-lot!"

Julius could hear Quib bark now, away down there in the ground, and
he could not stand still on any one side of that hollow. So he
danced up and down on every side of it.

One minute,--two, three minutes,--it was a dreadfully long time,
--and then it was the voice of Abe Selover mixed with a long yelp
from Quib.