The Wheels of Chanceby H. G. Wells [Herbert George]THE PRINCIPAL CHARACTER IN THE STORYI.If you (presuming you are of the sex that does such things)if you had gone into the Drapery Emporiumwhich is really only magnificent for shopof Messrs. Antrobus & Co.a perfectly fictitious "Co.," by the byeof Putney, on the 14th of August, 1895, had turned to the right-hand side, where the blocks of white linen and piles of blankets rise up to the rail from which the pink and blue prints depend, you might have been served by the central figure of this story that is now beginning. He would have come forward, bowing and swaying, he would have extended two hands with largish knuckles and enormous cuffs ove　

Eben Holden, a Tale of the North Countryby Irving BachellerPREFACEEarly in the last century the hardy wood-choppers began to come west, out of Vermont. They founded their homes in the Adirondack wildernesses and cleared their rough acres with the axe and the charcoal pit. After years of toil in a rigorous climate they left their sons little besides a stumpy farm and a coon-skin overcoat. Far from the centres of life their amusements, their humours, their religion, their folk lore, their views of things had in them the flavour of the timber lands, the simplicity of childhood. Every son was nurtured in the love of honour and of industry, and the hope of sometime being president. It is to be f　

THE GRATEFUL BEASTS[11][11] From the Hungarian. Kletke.There was once upon a time a man and woman who had threefine-looking sons, but they were so poor that they had hardlyenough food for themselves, let alone their children. So thesons determined to set out into the world and to try their luck.Before starting their mother gave them each a loaf of bread andher blessing, and having taken a tender farewell of her and theirfather the three set forth on their travels.The youngest of the three brothers, whose name was Ferko, was abeautiful youth, with a splendid figure, blue eyes, fair hair,and a complexion like milk and roses. His two brothers were as...　

TOM SWIFT IN THE LAND OF WONDERSTOM SWIFT IN THELAND OF WONDERSBY VICTOR APPLETON1- Page 2-TOM SWIFT IN THE LAND OF WONDERSCHAPTER IA WONDERFUL STORYTom Swift, who had been slowly looking through the pages of amagazine, in the contents of which he seemed to be deeply interested,turned the final folio, ruffled the sheets back again to look at a certain mapand drawing, and then, slapping the book down on a table before him, with...　

　　OXFORD　　　　　　ONE　　THE DECANTER OF TOKAY　　　　　　Lyra and her daemon moved through the darkening hall, taking care to keep to one side, out of sight of the kitchen. The three great tables that ran the length of the hall were laid already, the silver and the glass catching what little light there was, and the long benches were pulled out ready for the guests. Portraits of former Masters hung high up in the gloom along the walls. Lyra reached the dais and looked back at the open kitchen door, and, seeing no one, stepped up beside the high table. The places here were laid with gold, not silver, and the fourteen seats were not oak benches but mahogany chairs with velvet cushions....　

　　Walking up the wall had not been easy. But walking across the ceiling was turning out to be pletely impossible. Until I realized that I was going about it the wrong way. It seemed obvious when I thought about it. When I held onto the ceiling with my hands I could not move my feet. So I switched off the molebind gloves and swung down, hanging only from the soles of my boots. The blood rushed to my head-as well it might bringing with it a surge of nausea and a sensation of great unease.　What was I doing here, hanging upside down from the ceiling of the Mint, watching the machine below stamp out five-hundred-thousand-credit coins? They jingled and fell into the waiting baskets-so the answer 　

　　-SHELLY, Prometheus Unbound　　　　　　Part One TERRA INCOGNITA　　　　Hell is the place of those who have denied; They find there what they planted and what dug.　　A Lake of Spaces, and a Wood of Nothing, And wander there and drift, and never cease Wailing for substance.　　-W.B. YEATS, The Hour Glass　　　　　　1　　The air was electric the day the thief crossed the city, certain that tonight, after so many weeks of frustration, he would finally locate the card-player. It was not an easy journey. Eighty-five percent of Warsaw had been leveled, either by the months of mortar bombardment that had preceded the Russian liberation of the city, or by the program of demolition the Nazis had undertaken before their　

　　December 29th:　A lone figure, hunched down against the howling winter wind, moved step by frozen step through the Colorado wilderness. He was ill clad for such a winter trek, wearing soft thin boots and a clinging mauve with-sparkles tunic. His only defenses against the cold were an engineer cap on his platinum-blond thin hair and a scarf made of an old piece of furniture fabric wrapped several times around his thin pale neck.　The wanderer was nearly frozen to death, his cracked and bleeding gloveless hands shoved into small pockets lined with tissue paper. His pale face, buried in the fabric of the scarf, was likewise a mass of cracks. His reddish albino eyes were swollen. Anyone could t　

　　Gentle reader, hear Poliphilo tell of his dreams,　Dreams sent by the highest heaven.　You will not waste your labour, nor will listening irk you,　For this wonderful work abounds in so many things.　If, grave and dour, you despise love-stories,　Know, I pray, that things are well ordered herein.　You refuse? But at least the style, with its novel language,　Grave discourse and wisdom, mands attention.　If you refuse this, too, note the geometry,　The many ancient things expressed in Nilotic signs . . .　Here you will see the perfect palaces of kings,　The worship of nymphs, fountains and rich banquets.　The guards dance, dressed in motley, and the whole　Of human life is expressed in dark labyrinths.　

　　It was the same old rigmarole. Sometimes I found it amusing; sometimes it only bored me; sometimes it gave me a pronounced pain, especially when I had had more of Wolfe than was good for either of us.　　This time it was fairly funny at first, but it developed along regrettable lines. Mr. Jasper Pine, president of Naylor-Kerr, Inc., 914 William Street, down where a thirty-story building is a shanty, wanted Nero Wolfe to e to see him about something. I explained patiently, all about Wolfe being too lazy, too big and fat, and too much of a genius, to let himself be evoked. When Mr. Pine phoned again, in the afternoon, he insisted on speaking to Wolfe himself, and Wolfe made it short, sour, an　

FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSENTHE PORTUGUESE DUCKby Hans Christian AndersenA DUCK once arrived from Portugal, but there were some who saidshe came from Spain, which is almost the same thing. At all events,she was called the "Portuguese," and she laid eggs, was killed, andcooked, and there was an end of her. But the ducklings which creptforth from the eggs were also called "Portuguese," and about thatthere may be some question. But of all the family one only remained inthe duckyard, which may be called a farmyard, as the chickens wereadmitted, and the cock strutted about in a very hostile manner. "He...　

THE UNKNOWN GUESTTHE UNKNOWNGUESTMAURICE MAETERLINCKTranslated by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos1- Page 2-THE UNKNOWN GUESTINTRODUCTION1My Essay on Death[1] led me to make a conscientious enquiry into thepresent position of the great mystery, an enquiry which I haveendeavoured to render as complete as possible. I had hoped that a singlevolume would be able to contain the result of these investigations, which, I...