SABAT HAD smelled evil in the air for the past hour; a cloying cold mustiness that was stronger than the scent of the pine trees and belied the balmy late spring atmosphere. The silence, too, was noticeable. The absence of birdsong and the soughing of the mountain breeze seemed to have lapsed into a calm where not even a leaf rustled. As though the world held its breath and waited.　　　　The tall man in the dark, travel-stained and crumpled suit shrugged off the uneasiness he felt with a deliberate effort, paused on the long steep forest path to wipe the sweat from his high brow and aquiline features. A dry tongue flicked the fringes of his jet black moustache and his narrow, deep-sunken eye　

There is a NeedDoes school prepare children for the real world? "Study hard and get good grades and you will find a high-paying job with great benefits," my parents used to say. Their goal in life was to provide a college education for my older sister and me, so that we would have the greatest chance for success in life. When T finally earned my diploma in 1976-graduating with honors, and near the top of my class, in accounting from Florida State University-my parents had realized their goal. It was the crowning achievement of their lives. In accordance with the "Master Plan," I was hired by a "Big 8" accounting firm, and I looked forward to a long career and retirement at an early age....　

The Friendly Road; New Adventures in Contentmentby David Grayson"Surely it is good to be alive at a time like this."A WORD TO HIM WHO OPENS THIS BOOKI did not plan when I began writing these chapters to make an entire book, but only to put down the more or less unusual impressions, the events and adventures, of certain quiet pilgrimages in country roads. But when I had written down all of these things, I found I had material in plenty."What shall I call it now that I have written it?" I asked myself.At first I thought I should call it "Adventures on the Road," or "The Country Road," or something equally simple, for I would not have the title arouse any appetite which the book itself could n　

Memories and Portraitsby Robert Louis StevensonNOTETHIS volume of papers, unconnected as they are, it will be betterto read through from the beginning, rather than dip into at random.A certain thread of meaning binds them. Memories of childhood andyouth, portraits of those who have gone before us in the battle -taken together, they build up a face that "I have loved long sinceand lost awhile," the face of what was once myself. This has comeby accident; I had no design at first to be autobiographical; I wasbut led away by the charm of beloved memories and by regret for theirrevocable dead; and when my own young face (which is a face of...　

　　I ignored the questions in the eyes of the groom as I lowered the grisly parcel and turned the horse in for care and maintenance. My cloak could not really conceal the nature of its contents as I slung the guts over my shoulder and stamped off toward the rear entrance to the palace. Hell would soon be demanding its paycheck.　I skirted the exercise area and made my way to the trail that led toward the southern end of the palace gardens. Fewer eyes along that route. I would still be spotted, but it would be a lot less awkward than going in the front way, where things are always busy. Damn.　And again, damn. Of troubles I considered myself amply possessed. But those who have do seem to get. S　

Ragged Lady, v2by William Dean HowellsPart 2XV.Mrs. Lander went to a hotel in New York where she had been in the habitof staying with her husband, on their way South or North. The clerk knewher, and shook hands with her across the register, and said she couldhave her old rooms if she wanted them; the bell-boy who took up theirhand-baggage recalled himself to her; the elevator-boy welcomed her witha smile of remembrance.Since she was already up, from coming off the sleeping-car, she had noexcuse for not going to breakfast like other people; and she went withClementina to the dining-room, where the head-waiter, who found themplaces, spoke with an outlandish accent, and the waiter who served　

IThe man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed.The desert was the apotheosis of all deserts, huge, standing to the sky for what might have been parsecs in all directions. White; blinding; waterless; without feature save for the faint, cloudy haze of the mountains which sketched themselves on the horizon and the devil-grass which brought sweet dreams, nightmares, death. An occasional tombstone sign pointed the way, for once the drifted track that cut its way through the thick crust of alkali had been a highway and coaches had followed it. The world had moved on since then. The world had emptied.The gunslinger walked stolidly, not hurrying, not loafing. A hide waterbag 　

　　　　SUDDENLY THE child began to scream, piercing shrieks of terror that died down to shaking sobs, clutching at his mother so that his tiny ringers pinched her skin agonisingly through her flimsy summer dress.　　　　Veronica Jones grimaced in the deep green gloom of the reptile house, had to check herself from giving her five-year-old son one of her habitual cuffs across his head. She held him to her, closed her eyes momentarily, a human ostrich trying to hide her embarrassment from the ghostly white faces that turned in her direction. Trust the little sod to start playing up. You squandered a sizeable chunk of the weekly family allowance to give him a treat and this was how he repaid you. Out　

Black RockA TALE OF THE SELKIRKSby Ralph ConnorINTRODUCTIONI think I have met "Ralph Conner." Indeed, I am sure I haveoncein a canoe on the Red River, once on the Assinaboine, and twice orthrice on the prairies to the West. That was not the name he gaveme, but, if I am right, it covers one of the most honest and genialof the strong characters that are fighting the devil and doing goodwork for men all over the world. He has seen with his own eyes thelife which he describes in this book, and has himself, for someyears of hard and lonely toil, assisted in the good influences whichhe traces among its wild and often hopeless conditions. He writes...　

The History of the Telephoneby Herbert N. CassonPREFACEThirty-five short years, and presto! the newborn art of telephony is fullgrown. Three million telephones are now scattered abroad in foreign countries, and seven millions are massed here, in the land of its birth.So entirely has the telephone outgrown the ridicule with which, as many people can well remember, it was first received, that it is now in most places taken for granted, as though it were a part of the natural phenomena of this planet. It has so marvellously extended the facilities of conversationthat "art in which a man has all mankind for competitors"that it is now an indispensable help to whoever would live the convenient li　

A Summer in a Canyon: A California Storyby Kate Douglas WigginSCENE: A Camping Ground in the Canyon Las Flores.PEOPLE IN THE TENTS.DR. PAUL WINSHIP Mine HostMRS. TRUTH WINSHIP The Guardian AngelDICKY WINSHIP A Small Scamp of Six YearsBELL WINSHIP The Camp PoetessPOLLY OLIVER A Sweet but Saucy LassMARGERY NOBLE A Nut-Brown MaydePHILIP NOBLE The Useful MemberGEOFFREY STRONG A Harvard BoyJACK HOWARD Prince of MischiefHOP YET A Heathen Chinee.PANCHO GUTIERREZ A Mexican man-of-all-work.CHAPTER I: PREPARATION AND DEPARTURE...　

　　Through the curtained windows of the furnished apartment which Mrs. Horace Hignett had rented for her stay in New York rays of golden sunlight peeped in like the foremost spies of some advancing army. It was a fine summer morning. The hands of the Dutch clock in the hall pointed to thirteen minutes past nine; those of the ormolu clock in the sitting-room to eleven minutes past ten; those of the carriage clock on the bookshelf to fourteen minutes to six. In other words, it was exactly eight; and Mrs. Hignett acknowledged the fact by moving her head on the pillow, opening her eyes, and sitting up in bed. She always woke at eight precisely.　Was this Mrs. Hignett the Mrs. Hignett, the world