Constant - "The Private Life of Napoleon Bonaparte, v9"

Jean de La Fontaine - "The Tales and Novels, v14: The Hermit &c."

Louis Antoine Fauvelet de Bourrienne - "Memoirs of Napoleon Bonaparte, V3"

Lucian of Samosata - "Works, V3"

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: On Our Selection

S >> Steele Rudd (Arthur Hoey Davis) >> On Our Selection




"What do you want to be always stuck in the road for?" Dad growled, taking
the rope off little Bill's neck. "Go away from here altogether!" Little
Bill went away; so did Mother and Sal--until Dad had roped the cow, which
was n't before he twice lassoed the heifer--once by the fore-leg and once
round the flanks. The cow thereupon carried a panel of the yard away,
and got out and careered down the lane, bucking and bellowing till all the
cattle of the country gathered about her.

Dad's blood was up. He was hanging on to the rope, his heels ploughing
the dust, and the cow pulling him about as she liked. The sun was
setting; a beautiful sunset, too, and Mother and Sal were admiring it.

"Did y' never see th' blasted sun go--go down be----" Dad did n't finish.
He feet slid under a rail, causing him to relax his grip of the rope and
sprawl in the dust. But when he rose!

"Are y' going t' stand staring there all night?" They were beside the
rails in an instant, took the end of the rope which he passed to them,
put it once round the gallows-post, and pulled-pulled like sailors. Dad
hung on close to the cow's head, while Joe kicked her with his bare foot
and screwed her tail.

"Steady!" said Dad, "that'll about do." Then, turning to the women as he
mounted a rail and held the axe above the cow's head: "Hang on there
now!" They closed their eyes and sat back. The cow was very patient.
Dad extended himself for a great effort, but hesitated. Joe called out:
"L-l-ook out th' axe dud-dud-don't fly and gug-gug-get me, Dad!" Dad
glanced quickly at it, and took aim again. Down it came, whish! But the
cow moved, and he only grazed her cheek. She bellowed and pulled back,
and Mother and Sal groaned and let the rope go. The cow swung round and
charged Joe, who was standing with his mouth open. But only a charge of
shot could catch Joe; he mounted the rails like a cat and shook his hat at
the beast below.

After Dad had nearly brained her with a rail the cow was dragged to the
post again; and this time Dad made no mistake. Down she dropped, and,
before she could give her last kick, all of us entered the yard and
approached her boldly. Dad danced about excitedly, asking for the long
knife. Nobody knew where it was. "DAMN it, where is it?" he cried,
impatiently. Everyone flew round in search of it but Joe. HE was curious
to know if the cow was in milk. Dad noticed him; sprang upon him; seized
him by the shirt collar and swung him round and trailed him through the
yard, saying: "Find me th' knife; d' y' HEAR?" It seemed to sharpen
Joe's memory, for he suddenly remembered having stuck it in one of the
rails.

Dad bled the beast, but it was late before he had it skinned and dressed.
When the carcase was hoisted to the gallows--and it seemed gruesome enough
as it hung there in the pallid light of the moon, with the night birds
dismally wailing like mourners from the lonely trees--we went home and
had supper.

Christmas Eve. Mother and Sal had just finished papering the walls, and
we were busy decorating the place with green boughs, when Sandy and Kate,
in their best clothes--Kate seated behind a well-filled pillow-slip
strapped on the front of her saddle; Sandy with the baby in front of
him--came jogging along the lane. There was commotion! Everything was
thrown aside to receive them. They were surrounded at the slip-rails,
and when they got down--talk about kissing! Dad was the only one who
escaped. When the hugging commenced he poked his head under the flap of
Kate's saddle and commenced unbuckling the girth. Dad had been at such
receptions before. But Sandy took it all meekly. And the baby! (the
dear little thing) they scrimmaged about it, and mugged it, and fought for
possession of it until Sandy became alarmed and asked them to "Mind!"

Inside they sat and drank tea and talked about things that had happened
and things that had n't happened. Then they got back to the baby and
disagreed on the question of family likeness. Kate thought the youngster
was the dead image of Sandy about the mouth and eyes. Sal said it had
Dad's nose; while Mother was reminded of her dear old grandmother every
time the infant smiled. Joe ventured to think it resembled Paddy Maloney
far more than it did Sandy, and was told to run away and put the calves
in. The child was n't yet christened, and the rest of the evening was
spent selecting a name for it. Almost every appellation under the sun was
suggested and promptly rejected. They could n't hit on a suitable one,
and Kate would n't have anything that was n't nice, till at last Dad
thought of one that pleased everybody--"Jim!"

After supper, Kate started playing the concertina, and the Andersons and
Maloneys and several others dropped in. Dad was pleased to see them; he
wished them all a merry Christmas, and they wished him the same and many
of them. Then the table was put outside, and the room cleared for a
dance. The young people took the floor and waltzed, I dare say, for
miles--their heads as they whirled around tossing the green bushes that
dangled from the rafters; while the old people, with beaming faces,
sat admiring them, and swaying their heads about and beating time to the
music by patting the floor with their feet. Someone called out "Faster!"
Kate gave it faster. Then to see them and to hear the rattle of the boots
upon the floor! You'd think they were being carried away in a whirlwind.
All but Sal and Paddy Maloney gave up and leant against the wall, and
puffed and mopped their faces and their necks with their
pocket-handkerchiefs.

Faster still went the music; faster whirled Sal and Paddy Maloney. And
Paddy was on his mettle. He was lifting Sal off her feet. But Kate was
showing signs of distress. She leaned forward, jerked her head about,
and tugged desperately at the concertina till both handles left it. That
ended the tussle; and Paddy spread himself on the floor, his back to the
wall, his legs extending to the centre of the room, his chin on his chest,
and rested.

Then enjoyment at high tide; another dance proposed; Sal trying hard to
persuade Dad to take Mother or Mrs. Maloney up; Dad saying "Tut, tut,
tut!"--when in popped Dave, and stood near the door. He had n't changed
his clothes, and was grease from top to toe. A saddle-strap was in one
hand, his Sunday clothes, tied up in a handkerchief, in the other, and his
presence made the room smell just like a woolshed.

"Hello, Dave!" shouted everyone. He said "Well!" and dropped his hat in a
corner. No fuss, no kissing, no nothing about Dave. Mother asked if he
did n't see Kate and Sandy (both were smiling across the room at him),
and he said "Yairs"; then went out to have a wash.

All night they danced--until the cocks crew--until the darkness gave way to
the dawn--until the fowls left the roost and came round the door--until it
was Christmas Day!