Rezanovby Gertrude AthertonWith an Introduction byWILLIAM MARION REEDYINTRODUCTIONA long list of works Gertrude Atherton has to her credit as a writer. She is indisputably a woman of genius. Not that her genius is distinctively feminine, though she is in matters historical a pas- sionate partisan. Most of the critics who approve her work agree that in the main she views life with somewhat of the masculine spirit of liberality. She is as much the realist as one can be who is saturated with the romance that is California, her birthplace and her home, if such a true cosmopolite as she can be said to have a home. In all she has written there is abounding life; her grasp of character is fir　

The Mirror of the Seaby Joseph ConradContents:I. Landfalls and DeparturesIV. Emblems of HopeVII. The Fine ArtX. Cobwebs and GossamerXIII. The Weight of the BurdenXVI. Overdue and MissingXX. The Grip of the LandXXII. The Character of the FoeXXV. Rules of East and WestXXX. The Faithful RiverXXXIII. In CaptivityXXXV. InitiationXXXVII. The Nursery of the CraftXL. The TremolinoXLVI. The Heroic AgeCHAPTER I."And shippes by the brinke comen and gon,...　

Their Silver Wedding Journey V3by William Dean HowellsPART III.XLVIII.At the first station where the train stopped, a young German bowedhimself into the compartment with the Marches, and so visibly resisted animpulse to smoke that March begged him to light his cigarette. In thetalk which this friendly overture led to between them he explained thathe was a railway architect, employed by the government on that line ofroad, and was travelling officially. March spoke of Nuremberg; he ownedthe sort of surfeit he had suffered from its excessive mediaevalism, andthe young man said it was part of the new imperial patriotism to cherishthe Gothic throughout Germany; no other sort of architecture wa　

HOW TO TELL STORIES TO CHILDREN AND SOME STORIES TO TELLHOW TO TELLSTORIES TO CHILDRENAND SOME STORIES TOTELLBY SARA CONE BRYANT1- Page 2-HOW TO TELL STORIES TO CHILDREN AND SOME STORIES TO TELLTo My Mother THE FIRST, BEST STORY-TELLER THIS LITTLEBOOK IS DEDICATED2- Page 3-HOW TO TELL STORIES TO CHILDREN AND SOME STORIES TO TELLPREFACEThe stories which are given in the following pages are for the most...　

　Another Disc day dawned, but very gradually, and this is why.　When light encounters a strong magical field it loses ail sense of urgency. It slows right down. And on the Discworld the magic was embarrassingly strong, which meant that the soft yellow light of dawn flowed over the sleeping landscape like the caress of a gentle lover or, as some would have it, like golden syrup. It paused to fill up valleys. It piled up against mountain ranges. When it reached Cori Celesti, the ten mile spire of grey stone and green ice that marked the hub of the Disc and was the home of its gods, it built up in heaps until it finally crashed in great lazy tsunami as silent as velvet, across the dark landscap　

　Norman gave his ivory-handled screwdriver a final twist and secured the last screw into the side panel of the slim brass cylinder. Unclamping it from his vice, he lifted it lovingly by its shining axle, and held it towards the dust-smeared glass of the kitchenette window. It was a work of wonder and that was for certain. A mere ten inches in diameter and another one in thickness, the dim light painted a rainbow corona about its varnished circumference.　Norman carried it carefully across to his cluttered kitchen table and, elbowing aside a confusion of soiled crockery, placed it upon the twin bracket mountings which had been bolted through both tablecloth and table. The axle dropped into it　

　　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 　

　　By P. G. Wodehouse　　1　In a day in June, at the hour when London moves abroad in quest of lunch, a young man stood at the entrance of the Bandolero Restaurant looking earnestly up Shaftesbury Avenuea large young man in excellent condition, with a pleasant, good-humoured, brown, clean-cut face. He paid no attention to the stream of humanity that flowed past him. His mouth was set and his eyes wore a serious, almost a wistful expression. He was frowning slightly. One would have said that here was a man with a secret sorrow.　William FitzWilliam Delamere Chalmers, Lord Dawlish, had no secret sorrow. All that he was thinking of at that moment was the best method of laying a golf ball dead in fr　

A RECORD OF BUDDHISTIC KINGDOMSA RECORD OFBUDDHISTICKINGDOMSTranslated and annotated with a Corean recension of the ChinesetextBY JAMES LEGGE1- Page 2-A RECORD OF BUDDHISTIC KINGDOMSPREFACESeveral times during my long residence in Hong Kong I endeavouredto read through the "Narrative of Fa-hien;" but though interested with thegraphic details of much of the work, its columns bristled so constantly...　

　　　　I HAD BEEN making the rounds of the Sacrifice Poles the day we heard my brother had escaped. I already knew something was going to happen; the Factory told me.　　　　At the north end of the island, near the tumbled remains of the slip where the handle of the rusty winch still creaks in an easterly wind, I had two Poles on the far face of the last dune. One of the Poles held a rat head with two dragonflies, the other a seagull and two mice. I was just sticking one of the mouse heads back on when the birds went up into the evening air, kaw-calling and screaming, wheeling over the path through the dunes where it went near their nests. I made sure the head was secure, then clambered to the top　

1788THE CRITIQUE OF PRACTICAL REASONby Immanuel Kanttranslated by Thomas Kingsmill AbbottPREFACEThis work is called the Critique of Practical Reason, not of the pure practical reason, although its parallelism with the speculative critique would seem to require the latter term. The reason of this appears sufficiently from the treatise itself. Its business is to show that there is pure practical reason, and for this purpose it criticizes the entire practical faculty of reason. If it succeeds in this, it has no need to criticize the pure faculty itself in order to see whether reason in making such a claim does not presumptuously overstep itself (as is the case with the speculative reason). For　

The Water-Babiesby Charles KingsleyCHAPTER I"I heard a thousand blended notes, While in a grove I sate reclined; In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind."To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think, What man has made of man."WORDSWORTH.Once upon a time there was a little chimney-sweep, and his name was Tom. That is a short name, and you have heard it before, so you will not have much trouble in remembering it. He lived in a great town in the North country, where there were plenty of chimneys to sweep, and plenty of money for Tom to earn and his master to spend. He could not read nor write, and