Rachel Ray offers a masterly and entertaining evocation of a small community living its life in mid-nineteenth-century England. The novel first appeared in 1863, a year in which public reaction against the excesses of the popular sensationalist novel prompted Trollope to state that he was writing about "the commonest details of commonplace life among the most ordinary people."About the Series: For over 100 years Oxford World's Classics has made available the broadest spectrum of literature from around the globe. Each affordable volume reflects Oxford's commitment to scholarship, providing the most accurate text plus a wealth of other valuable features, including expert introductions by leading authorities, voluminous notes to clarify the text, up-to-date bibliographies for further study, and much more.

First published in serial form in the Graphic (1881-2), Marion Fay is half tragedy, half romantic burlesque, and one of Trollope's most detailed scrutinies of the workings of the English class system. Based on the first three-volume edition of 1882, the novel contrasts two love affairs, each involving an aristocrat and a commoner. Trollope vividly evokes the dull working lives, plain homes, blank streets, and limited horizons of the dwellers in Paradise Row, using them as an ironic choric commentary on the unattainable world of rank, wealth, and freedom, symbolized by life in the great country houses.

Clara Amedroz is the only surviving child of the elderly squire of Belton Castle in Somersetshire. Her father's income and savings have been dissipated to pay for the extravagances of her brother, who subsequently committed suicide. Since her father has no living sons, his estate, which is entailed, will pass upon his death to a distant cousin, Will Belton. Despite her poor prospects, she has two eligible suitors. Within four days of making her acquaintance, Will Belton proposes marriage to her. Belton is warm-hearted, kind, and generous, and these qualities make a strong impression on Clara. However, she believes herself in love with Captain Frederic Aylmer, although he has given no clear signs of feeling that way toward her. Aylmer is impeccable in his manners, smooth, urbane, well-read, and a member of Parliament; compared to him, Belton is awkward and unpolished.

It was the rule of a celebrated equestrian, which might be adapted to authors as well as to horsemen, that every one should ride as if he expected to be thrown, and drive as if he expected to be upset. Impunity in publishing, far from rendering an author presumptuous, should tend rather to increase his timidity, the danger being greater always of venturing too much, than of hazarding too little; and the more cause any writer has to feel grateful for the lenient judgment of an enlightened public, the more circumspect should he become, not to trespass by an obtrusive reappearance on that notice which has already perhaps been, as in respect to the author herself, beyond all expectation favorable.An old proverb declares that "a goose-quill is more powerful than a lion's claw," and authors have been called "keepers of the public conscience;" but no influence is perhaps so extensive as that exercised by what is termed "light reading," which has now in a great measure superseded public places and theatrical entertainments, affording a popular resource with which the busiest men relax their hard-working minds, and the idlest occupy their idleness. It becomes a deep responsibility, therefore, of which the author trusts she has ever felt duly sensible, to claim the leisure hours of so many, while it is her first desire that whatever be the defect of these pages, no actual evil may be intermingled, and the cause of sound religion and morality supported, for her feelings are best expressed in the words of the poet,"If I one soul improve, I have not liv'd in vain."Novel-reading, formerly considered the lowest resource of intellectual vacuity, has been lately promoted to a new place in the literary world, since men of the brightest genius as well as of the highest attainments in learning and philosophy, allow their pens occasionally to wander in the attractive regions of fiction; therefore works of imagination, no longer merely a clandestine amusement to frivolous minds, are now avowedly read and enjoyed, to beguile an idle hour, or to cheer a gloomy one, by men of science, of wisdom, and of piety. Such is the general encouragement given now to works of fancy, that, as the literary existence of authors depends on attracting readers, there will scarcely be encouragement enough soon to induce historians and biographers to dip the pen of veracity into the ink of retrospection, while it is perhaps to be lamented that when so large a proportion of the public attention is occupied by novelists, their works being certain of instant circulation, for a very short period and for no more, few authors afford themselves time to aspire at the highest grade of imaginary composition. When such volumes are really true to nature, they convey very important truths in a form more popular than a dry sententious volume of moral precepts, and perhaps history itself can scarcely afford so graphic a portrait of human life as many of those fictitious volumes, written under the inspiration of genius, which portray in vivid coloring, the thoughts and motives by which men are internally influenced.

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Well do I, Hugo Gottfried, remember the night of snow and moonlight when first they brought the Little Playmate home. I had been sleeping—a sturdy, well-grown fellow I, ten years or so as to my age—in a stomacher of blanket and a bed-gown my mother had made me before she died at the beginning of the cold weather. Suddenly something awoke me out of my sleep. So, all in the sharp chill of the night, I got out of my bed, sitting on the edge with my legs dangling, and looked curiously at the bright streams of moonlight which crossed the wooden floor of my garret. I thought if only I could swim straight up one of them, as the motes did in the sunshine, I should be sure to come in time to the place where my mother was—the place where all the pretty white things came from—the sunshine, the moonshine, the starshine, and the snow. And there would be children to play with up there—hundreds of children like myself, and all close at hand. I should not any longer have to sit up aloft in the Red Tower with none to speak to me—all alone on the top of a wall—just because I had a crimson patch sewn on my blue-corded blouse, on my little white shirt, embroidered in red wool on each of my warm winter wristlets, and staring out from the front of both my stockings. It was a pretty enough pattern, too. Yet whenever one of the children I so much longed to play with down on the paved roadway beneath our tower caught sight of it he rose instantly out of the dust and hurled oaths and ill-words at me—aye, and oftentimes other missiles that hurt even worse—at a little lonely boy who was breaking his heart with loving him up there on the tower.

George Manville Fenn was an English novelist and journalist who wrote across a variety of genres, both fiction and nonfiction. His works are still widely read today.

This book was digitized and reprinted from the collections of the University of California Libraries. It was produced from digital images created through the libraries’ mass digitization efforts. The digital images were cleaned and prepared for printing through automated processes. Despite the cleaning process, occasional flaws may still be present that were part of the original work itself, or introduced during digitization. This book and hundreds of thousands of others can be found online in the HathiTrust Digital Library at www.hathitrust.org. --This text refers to an alternate Paperback edition. --This text refers to an alternate Paperback edition.

In mid-19th century England, an era full of celebrated novelists, Anthony Trollope was one of the most popular and critically acclaimed of them all. Even today, his Chronicles of Barsetshire series is widely read, as are his other novels, many of which deal with criticisms of English culture at the time, from its politics to its customs and norms. 

This book was converted from its physical edition to the digital format by a community of volunteers. You may find it for free on the web. Purchase of the Kindle edition includes wireless delivery.

Joy Ride is presented here in a high quality paperback edition. This popular classic work by Mark Meadows is in the English language, and may not include graphics or images from the original edition. If you enjoy the works of Mark Meadows then we highly recommend this publication for your book collection.

The Peril Finders by George Manville FennThe Peril Finders by George Manville Fenn

The Coral Island A Tale of the Pacific Ocean by R. M. Ballantyne

Cuore (Heart) - An Italian Schoolboy\'s Journal is presented here in a high quality paperback edition. This popular classic work by Edmondo De Amicis is in the English language, and may not include graphics or images from the original edition. If you enjoy the works of Edmondo De Amicis then we highly recommend this publication for your book collection.

The Coral Island: A Tale of the Pacific Ocean (1858) is a novel written by Scottish author R. M. Ballantyne. One of the first works of juvenile fiction to feature exclusively juvenile heroes, the story relates the adventures of three boys marooned on a South Pacific island, the only survivors of a shipwreck. A typical Robinsonade – a genre of fiction inspired by Daniel Defoe\'s Robinson Crusoe – and one of the most popular of its type, the book first went on sale in late 1857 and has never been out of print. Among the novel\'s major themes are the civilising effect of Christianity, 19th-century British imperialism in the South Pacific, and the importance of hierarchy and leadership. It was the inspiration for William Golding\'s dystopian novel Lord of the Flies (1954), which inverted the morality of The Coral Island; in Ballantyne\'s story the children encounter evil, but in Lord of the Flies evil is within them.

The Scottish juvenile fiction writer R. M. Ballantyne was born into a famous family of publishers. Leaving home at age 16 he went to work for the Hudson\'s Bay Company; after returning home to Scotland R. M. Ballantyne published his first book "Hudson\'s Bay" detailing his experiences in Canada. Later Ballantyne would write about more of his experiences with Native Americans and the Fur trappers he met in the most remote regions of Canada. With his success as a writer he withdrew from the business world to become a full time writer for the rest of his life. With over a hundred different books he has become one of the most cherished juvenile fiction writers today. Along with his other exploits throughout his life he also was tremendously successful with his artwork as his water color paintings were displayed at the Royal Scottish Academy.

Holiday House - A Series of Tales is presented here in a high quality paperback edition. This popular classic work by Catherine Sinclair is in the English language, and may not include graphics or images from the original edition. If you enjoy the works of Catherine Sinclair then we highly recommend this publication for your book collection.

In this exciting sequel to The Coral Island, Ballantyne continues the story of Ralph Rover, Jack Martin, and Peterkin Gay who, after their return to England for rest from their South Seas adventures, are now intent on joining the great hunters in Africa for a journey to the interior of the Dark Continent. In the course of their safari adventures, Ralph, Jack, and Peterkin fight with savages, hunt elephants and gorillas, and visit native tribes. Peterkin gets thrown by a wild African buffalo, and Ralph is hugged by a gorilla. Find out how their excursion concludes and whether they all survive the African journey! Robert Michael Ballantyne was part of a famous family of printers and publishers. At the age of 16 he went to Canada and was six years in the service of the Hudson’s Bay Company. He returned to Scotland in 1847, and published his first book the following year, Hudson’s Bay. For some time he was employed by Messrs Constable, the publishers, but in 1856 he gave up business for the profession of literature, and began the series of adventure stories for the young with which his name is popularly associated.

A Classic Tale... A beautiful island lying like a gem on the breast of the great Pacific—a coral reef surrounding, and a calm lagoon within, on the glass-like surface of which rests a most piratical-looking schooner. Such is the scene to which we invite our reader’s attention for a little while. At the time of which we write it was an eminently peaceful scene. So still was the atmosphere, so unruffled the water, that the island and the piratical-looking schooner seemed to float in the centre of a duplex world, where every cloudlet in the blue above had its exact counterpart in the blue below. No sounds were heard save the dull roar of the breaker that fell, at long regular intervals, on the seaward side of the reef, and no motion was visible except the back-fin of a shark as it cut a line occasionally on the sea, or the stately sweep of an albatross, as it passed above the schooner’s masts and cast a look of solemn inquiry upon her deck. But that schooner was not a pirate. She was an honest trader—at least so it was said—though what she traded in we have no more notion than the albatross which gazed at her with such inquisitive sagacity. Her decks were not particularly clean, her sails by no means snow-white. She had, indeed, four goodly-sized carronades, but these were not an extraordinary part of a peaceful trader’s armament in those regions, where man was, and still is, unusually savage. The familiar Union Jack hung at her peak, and some of her men were sedate-looking Englishmen, though others were Lascars and Malays, of the cut-throat type, of whom any wickedness might be expected when occasion served.

The Buffalo Runners - A Tale of the Red River Plains is presented here in a high quality paperback edition. This popular classic work by R. M. (Robert Michael) Ballantyne is in the English language, and may not include graphics or images from the original edition. If you enjoy the works of R. M. (Robert Michael) Ballantyne then we highly recommend this publication for your book collection.

George Manville Fenn (1831-1909) was a British writer. He worked as a teacher in Lincolnshire, until he became printer, editor and publisher of various magazines. He had eight children with his wife Susanna Leake, whom he had married in 1855. Most of his works are adventure stories for young readers, featuring Explorers, Smugglers, young Adventurers and Seamen. His adult novels offer critical social commentary on Victorian England, especially reconsidering economic questions. His works include: Hollowdell Grange (1866), Featherland (1866), Christmas Penny Readings (1867), The Blue Dragoons (1875), A Little World (1877), Begumbagh (1879), Bunyip Land (1880), My Patients (1883), The Golden Magnet (1884), The Chaplain\'s Craze (1886), Quicksilver (1888), Lady Maude\'s Mania (1890), The Weathercock (1892), Real Gold (1894), The Queen\'s Scarlet (1895), The Black Tor (1896), A Woman Worth Winning (1898), Draw Swords! (1898), A Crimson Crime (1899), The King\'s Sons (1900), Fitz the Filibuster (1903) and others. --This text refers to an alternate Paperback edition. --This text refers to an alternate Paperback edition.

Classic Book Hall of Frame

At the Foot of the Mountain Range. Towards the close of a bright and warm day, between fifty and sixty years ago, a solitary man might have been seen, mounted on a mule, wending his way slowly up the western slopes of the Andes. Although decidedly inelegant and unhandsome, this specimen of the human family was by no means uninteresting. He was so large, and his legs were so long, that the contrast between him and the little mule which he bestrode was ridiculous. He was what is sometimes styled “loosely put together;” nevertheless, the various parts of him were so massive and muscular that, however loosely he might have been built up, most men would have found it rather difficult to take him down. Although wanting in grace, he was by no means repulsive, for his face, which was ornamented with a soft flaxen beard and moustache of juvenile texture, expressed wonderful depths of the milk of human kindness. He wore boots with the trousers tucked into them, a grey tunic, or hunting coat, belted at the waist, and a broad-brimmed straw hat, or sombrero. Evidently the times in which he travelled were troublous, for, besides having a brace of large pistols in his belt, he wore a cavalry sabre at his side. As if to increase the eccentricity of his appearance, he carried a heavy cudgel, by way of riding-whip; but it might have been observed that, however much he flourished this whip about, he never actually applied it to his steed. On reaching a turn of the road at the brow of an eminence the mule stopped, and, letting its head droop till almost as pendent as its tail, silently expressed a desire for repose. The cavalier stepped off. It would convey a false impression to say that he dismounted. The mule heaved a sigh. “Poor little thing!” murmured the traveller in a soft, low voice, and in a language which even a mule might have recognised as English; “you may well sigh. I really feel ashamed of myself for asking you to carry such a mass of flesh and bone. But it’s your own fault—you know it is—for you won’t be led. I’m quite willing to walk if you will only follow. Come—let us try!” Gently, insinuatingly, persuasively, the traveller touched the reins, and sought to lead the way. He might as well have tried to lead one of the snow-clad peaks of the mighty Cordillera which towered into the sky before him. With ears inclining to the neck, a resolute expression in the eyes, his fore-legs thrown forward and a lean slightly backward, the mule refused to move. “Come now, do be amiable; there’s a good little thing! Come on,” said the strong youth, applying more force. Peruvian mules are not open to flattery. The advance of the fore-legs became more decided, the lean backward more pronounced, the ears went flat down, and incipient passion gleamed in the eyes. “Well, well, have it your own way,” exclaimed the youth, with a laugh, “but don’t blame me for riding you so much.” He once more re-m–; no, we forgot—he once more lifted his right leg over the saddle and sat down....

Sleeping in Snow. Cold comfort is naturally suggested by a bed of snow, yet I have enjoyed great comfort and much warmth in such a bed. My friend Lumley was particularly fond of warmth and of physical ease, yet he often expressed the opinion, with much emphasis, that there was nothing he enjoyed so much as a night in a snow-bed. Jack Lumley was my chum—a fine manly fellow with a vigorous will, a hardy frame, and a kindly heart. We had a natural leaning towards each other—a sort of undefinable sympathy—which inclined us to seek each other’s company in a quiet unobtrusive way. We were neither of us demonstrative; we did not express regard for each other; we made no protestations of undying friendship, but we drew together, somehow, especially in our hunting expeditions which were numerous. On holidays—we had two in the week at the outpost in the American backwoods where we dwelt—when the other young fellows were cleaning gulls or arranging snow-shoes for the day’s work, Lumley was wont to say to me:— “Where d’you intend to shoot to-day, Max?” (Max was an abbreviation; my real name is George Maxby.) “I think I’ll go up by the willows and round by Beaver Creek.” “I’ve half a mind to go that way too.” “Come along then.” And so we would go off together for the day. One morning Lumley said to me, “I’m off to North River; will you come?” “With pleasure, but we’ll have to camp out.” “Well, it won’t be the first time.” “D’you know that the thermometer stood at forty below zero this morning before breakfast?” “I know it; what then? Mercurial fellows like you don’t freeze easily.” I did not condescend to reply, but set about preparing for our expedition, resolving to carry my largest blanket with me, for camping out implied sleeping in the snow. Of course I must guard my readers—especially my juvenile readers—from supposing that it was our purpose that night to undress and calmly lie down in, or on, the pure white winding-sheet in which the frozen world of the Great Nor’-west had been at that time wrapped for more than four months. Our snow-bed, like other beds, required making, but I will postpone the making of it till bed-time. Meanwhile, let us follow the steps of Lumley, who, being taller and stronger than I, always led the way. This leading of the way through the trackless wilderness in snow averaging four feet deep is harder work than one might suppose. It could not be done at all without the aid of snow-shoes, which, varying from three to five feet in length, enable the traveller to walk on the surface of the snow, into which he would otherwise sink, more or less, according to its condition. If it be newly fallen and very soft, he sinks six, eight, or more inches. If it be somewhat compressed by time or wind he sinks only an inch or two. On the hard surface of exposed lakes and rivers, where it is beaten to the appearance of marble, he dispenses with snow-shoes altogether, slings them on his gun, and carries them over his shoulder....

This work has been selected by scholars as being culturally important and is part of the knowledge base of civilization as we know it.This work is in the public domain in the United States of America, and possibly other nations. Within the United States, you may freely copy and distribute this work, as no entity (individual or corporate) has a copyright on the body of the work.Scholars believe, and we concur, that this work is important enough to be preserved, reproduced, and made generally available to the public. To ensure a quality reading experience, this work has been proofread and republished using a format that seamlessly blends the original graphical elements with text in an easy-to-read typeface.We appreciate your support of the preservation process, and thank you for being an important part of keeping this knowledge alive and relevant. --This text refers to an alternate Paperback edition. --This text refers to an alternate Paperback edition.

Illustrated with 10 unique illustrations.Away in the WildernessThe Battery and the BoilerThe Battle and the BreezeBattles with the SeaThe Big OtterBlack IvoryBlown to BitsBlue LightsThe Buffalo RunnersThe Cannibal IslandsCharlie to the RescueChasing the SunThe Coral IslandThe Coxswain\'s BrideThe Crew of the Water WagtailDeep Down, a Tale of the Cornish MinesDigging for GoldThe Dog Crusoe and his MasterDusty Diamonds Cut and PolishedThe Eagle CliffErling the BoldFast in the IceFighting the FlamesFighting the WhalesThe Floating Light of the Goodwin SandsFort DesolationFreaks on the FellsThe FugitivesThe Garret and the GardenGascoyne, the Sandal-Wood TraderThe Giant of the NorthThe Golden DreamThe Gorilla HuntersHandbook to the new Gold-fieldsThe Hot SwampHudson BayHunted and HarriedHunting the LionsThe Island QueenThe LifeboatLife in the Red BrigadeThe LighthouseThe Lonely IslandThe Madman and the PirateMartin RattlerThe Norsemen in the WestOver the Rocky MountainsPhilosopher JackThe PioneersThe Pirate CityThe Red Man\'s RevengeRivers of IceSunk at SeaThe Young Fur Traders

R.M. Ballantyne, in full Robert Michael Ballantyne (born April 24, 1825, Edinburgh, Scot.—died Feb. 8, 1894, Rome, Italy), Scottish author chiefly famous for his adventure story The Coral Island (1858). This and all of Ballantyne’s stories were written from personal experience. The heroes of his books are models of self-reliance and moral uprightness. Snowflakes and Sunbeams; or, The Young Fur Traders (1856) is a boys’ adventure story based on Ballantyne’s experiences with the Hudson’s Bay Company. Annoyed by a geography-related mistake he had made in The Coral Island, he afterward traveled widely to research the backgrounds of his stories.

R.M. Ballantyne was a Scottish author who wrote over 100 books and was best known for children’s fiction.  Ballantyne was also a famous artist.

The story of the violent nature of the volcanic eruption in Krakatoa in 1883. One of a series of excellent stories of adventure for the young with which this prolific Scottish author\'s name is popularly associated. Beautifully illustrated. --This text refers to an alternate Paperback edition. --This text refers to an alternate Paperback edition.

CHAPTER I THE ROCK Early on a summer morning, about the beginning of the nineteenth century, two fishermen of Forfarshire wended their way to the shore, launched their boat, and put off to sea. One of the men was tall and ill-favoured, the other, short and well-favoured. Both were square-built, powerful fellows, like most men of the class to which they belonged. It was about that calm hour of the morning which precedes sunrise, when most living creatures are still asleep, and inanimate nature wears, more than at other times, the semblance of repose. The sea was like a sheet of undulating glass. A breeze had been expected, but, in defiance of expectation, it had not come, so the boatmen were obliged to use their oars. They used them well, however, insomuch that the land ere long appeared like a blue line on the horizon, then became tremulous and indistinct, and finally vanished in the mists of morning. The men pulled "with a will,"—as seamen pithily express in silence. Only once during the first hour did the ill-favoured man venture a remark. Referring to the absence of wind, he said, that "it would be a\' the better for landin\' on the rock." This was said in the broadest vernacular dialect, as, indeed, was everything that dropped from the fishermen\'s lips. We take the liberty of modifying it a little, believing that strict fidelity here would entail inevitable loss of sense to many of our readers. The remark, such as it was, called forth a rejoinder from the short comrade, who stated his belief that "they would be likely to find somethin\' there that day." They then relapsed into silence. Under the regular stroke of the oars the boat advanced steadily, straight out to sea. At first the mirror over which they skimmed was grey, and the foam at the cutwater leaden-coloured. By degrees they rowed, as it were, into a brighter region. The sea ahead lightened up, became pale yellow, then warmed into saffron, and, when the sun rose, blazed into liquid gold. The words spoken by the boatmen, though few, were significant. The "rock" alluded to was the celebrated and much dreaded Inch Cape—more familiarly known as the Bell Rock—which being at that time unmarked by lighthouse or beacon of any kind, was the terror of mariners who were making for the firths of Forth and Tay. The "something" that was expected to be found there may be guessed at, when we say that one of the fiercest storms that ever swept our eastern shores had just exhausted itself after strewing the coast with wrecks. The breast of ocean, though calm on the surface, as has been said, was still heaving with a mighty swell, from the effects of the recent elemental conflict. "D\'ye see the breakers noo, Davy?" enquired the ill-favoured man, who pulled the aft oar. "Ay, and hear them, too," said Davy Spink, ceasing to row, and looking over his shoulder towards the seaward horizon. "Yer een and lugs are better than mine, then," returned the ill-favoured comrade, who answered, when among his friends, to the name of Big Swankie, otherwise, and more correctly, Jock Swankie....

Begins the Tale—Naturally. From the earliest records of history we learn that man has ever been envious of the birds, and of all other winged creatures. He has longed and striven to fly. He has also signally failed to do so. We say “failed” advisedly, because his various attempts in that direction have usually resulted in disappointment and broken bones. As to balloons, we do not admit that they fly any more than do ships; balloons merely float and glide, when not otherwise engaged in tumbling, collapsing, and bursting. This being so, we draw attention to the fact that the nearest approach we have yet made to the sensation of flying is that achieved by rushing down a long, smooth, steep hill-road on a well-oiled and perfect ball-bearings bicycle! Skating cannot compare with this, for that requires exertion; bicycling down hill requires none. Hunting cannot, no matter how splendid the mount, for that implies a certain element of bumping, which, however pleasant in itself, is not suggestive of the smooth swift act of flying. We introduce this subject merely because thoughts somewhat similar to those which we have so inadequately expressed were burning in the brain of a handsome and joyful young man one summer morning not long ago, as, with legs over the handles, he flashed—if he did not actually fly—down one of our Middlesex hills on his way to London. Urgent haste was in every look and motion of that young man’s fine eyes and lithe body. He would have bought wings at any price had that been possible; but, none being yet in the market, he made the most of his wheel—a fifty-eight inch one, by the way, for the young man’s legs were long, as well as strong. Arrived at the bottom of the hill the hilarious youth put his feet to the treadles, and drove the machine vigorously up the opposite slope. It was steep, but he was powerful. He breathed hard, no doubt, but he never flagged until he gained the next summit. A shout burst from his lips as he rolled along the level top, for there, about ten miles off, lay the great city, glittering in the sunshine, and with only an amber-tinted canopy of its usual smoke above it. Among the tall elms and in the flowering hedgerows between which he swept, innumerable birds warbled or twittered their astonishment that he could fly with such heedless rapidity through that beautiful country, and make for the dismal town in such magnificent weather. One aspiring lark overhead seemed to repeat, with persistent intensity, its trill of self gratulation that it had not been born a man. Even the cattle appeared to regard the youth as a sort of ornithological curiosity, for the sentiment, “Well, you are a goose!” was clearly written on their mild faces as he flew past them. Over the hill-top he went—twelve miles an hour at the least—until he reached the slope on the other side; then down he rushed again, driving at the first part of the descent like an insane steam-engine, till the pace must have increased to twenty miles, at which point, the whirl of the wheel becoming too rapid, he was obliged once more to rest his legs on the handles, and take to repose, contemplation, and wiping his heated brow—equivalent this, we might say, to the floating descent of the sea-mew....

The Fugitives - The Tyrant Queen of Madagascar is presented here in a high quality paperback edition. This popular classic work by R. M. (Robert Michael) Ballantyne is in the English language, and may not include graphics or images from the original edition. If you enjoy the works of R. M. (Robert Michael) Ballantyne then we highly recommend this publication for your book collection.

The Island Queen By R.M. BallantyneThe Island Queen By R.M. Ballantyne

Introduces our Hero and his Kindred. The Giant was an Eskimo of the Arctic regions. At the beginning of his career he was known among his kindred by the name of Skreekinbroot, or the howler, because he howled oftener and more furiously than any infant that had ever been born in Arctic land. His proper name, however, was Chingatok, though his familiars still ventured occasionally to style him Skreekinbroot. Now it must not be supposed that our giant was one of those ridiculous myths of the nursery, with monstrous heads and savage hearts, who live on human flesh, and finally receive their deserts at the hands of famous giant-killing Jacks. No! Chingatok was a real man of moderate size—not more than seven feet two in his sealskin boots—with a lithe, handsome figure, immense chest and shoulders, a gentle disposition, and a fine, though flattish countenance, which was sometimes grave with thought, at other times rippling with fun. We mention the howling characteristic of his babyhood because it was, in early life, the only indication of the grand spirit that dwelt within him—the solitary evidence of the tremendous energy with which he was endowed. At first he was no bigger than an ordinary infant. He was, perhaps, a little fatter, but not larger, and there was not an oily man or woman of the tribe to which he belonged who would have noticed anything peculiar about him if he had only kept moderately quiet; but this he would not or could not do. His mouth was his safety-valve. His spirit seemed to have been born big at once. It was far too large for his infant body, and could only find relief from the little plump dwelling in which it was at first enshrined by rushing out at the mouth. The shrieks of pigs were trifles to the yelling of that Eskimo child’s impatience. The caterwauling of cats was as nothing to the growls of his disgust. The angry voice of the Polar bear was a mere chirp compared with the furious howling of his disappointment, and the barking of a mad walrus was music to the roaring of his wrath. Every one, except his mother, wished him dead and buried in the centre of an iceberg or at the bottom of the Polar Sea. His mother—squat, solid, pleasant-faced, and mild—alone put up with his ways with that long-suffering endurance which is characteristic of mothers. Nothing could disturb the serenity of Toolooha. When the young giant, (that was to be), roared, she fondled him; if that was ineffectual, she gave him a walrus tusk or a seal’s flipper to play with; if that did not suffice, she handed him a lump of blubber to suck; if that failed, as was sometimes the case, she gambolled with him on the floor of her snow-hut, and rubbed his oily visage lovingly over her not less oleaginous countenance. Need we enlarge on this point? Have not all mothers acted thus, or similarly, in all times and climes? From pole to pole a mother’s soulIs tender, strong, and true;Whether the loved be good or bad—White, yellow, black, or blue. But Toolooha’s love was wise as well as strong....

The Backwoods Settlement—Crusoe’s Parentage and Early History—The agonising pains and sorrows of his puppyhood, and other interesting matters. The dog Crusoe was once a pup. Now do not, courteous reader, toss your head contemptuously, and exclaim, “Of course he was; I could have told you that.” You know very well that you have often seen a man above six feet high, broad and powerful as a lion, with a bronzed shaggy visage and the stern glance of an eagle, of whom you have said, or thought, or heard others say, “It is scarcely possible to believe that such a man was once a squalling baby.” If you had seen our hero in all the strength and majesty of full-grown doghood, you would have experienced a vague sort of surprise had we told you—as we now repeat—that the dog Crusoe was once a pup—a soft, round, sprawling, squeaking pup, as fat as a tallow candle, and as blind as a bat. But we draw particular attention to the fact of Crusoe’s having once been a pup, because in connection with the days of his puppyhood there hangs a tale. This peculiar dog may thus be said to have had two tails—one in connection with his body, the other with his career. This tale, though short, is very harrowing, and, as it is intimately connected with Crusoe’s subsequent history, we will relate it here. But before doing so we must beg our reader to accompany us beyond the civilised portions of the United States of America—beyond the frontier settlements of the “far west,” into those wild prairies which are watered by the great Missouri river—the Father of Waters—and his numerous tributaries. Here dwell the Pawnees, the Sioux, the Delawares, the Crows, the Blackfeet, and many other tribes of Red Indians, who are gradually retreating step by step towards the Rocky Mountains as the advancing white man cuts down their trees and ploughs up their prairies. Here, too, dwell the wild horse and the wild ass, the deer, the buffalo, and the badger; all, men and brutes alike, wild as the power of untamed and ungovernable passion can make them, and free as the wind that sweeps over their mighty plains. There is a romantic and exquisitely beautiful spot on the banks of one of the tributaries above referred to—a long stretch of mingled woodland and meadow, with a magnificent lake lying like a gem in its green bosom—which goes by the name of the Mustang Valley. This remote vale, even at the present day, is but thinly peopled by white men, and is still a frontier settlement round which the wolf and the bear prowl curiously, and from which the startled deer bounds terrified away. At the period of which we write the valley had just been taken possession of by several families of squatters, who, tired of the turmoil and the squabbles of the then frontier settlements, had pushed boldly into the far west to seek a new home for themselves, where they could have “elbow room,” regardless alike of the dangers they might encounter in unknown lands and of the Red-skins who dwelt there. The squatters were well armed with axes, rifles, and ammunition. Most of the women were used to dangers and alarms, and placed implicit reliance in the power of their fathers, husbands, and brothers to protect them—and well they might, for a bolder set of stalwart men than these backwoodsmen never trod the wilderness....

Chasing The SunChasing The Sun

Dusty Diamonds Cut and Polished - A Tale of City Arab Life and Adventure is presented here in a high quality paperback edition. This popular classic work by R. M. (Robert Michael) Ballantyne is in the English language, and may not include graphics or images from the original edition. If you enjoy the works of R. M. (Robert Michael) Ballantyne then we highly recommend this publication for your book collection.

Quicksilver - The Boy With No Skid To His Wheel is presented here in a high quality paperback edition. This popular classic work by George Manville Fenn is in the English language, and may not include graphics or images from the original edition. If you enjoy the works of George Manville Fenn then we highly recommend this publication for your book collection.

The Norsemen in the West; Or America before Columbus. The Curtain Rises and the Play Begins. One fine autumn evening, between eight and nine hundred years ago, two large hairy creatures, bearing some resemblance to polar bears, might have been seen creeping slowly, and with much caution, toward the summit of a ridge that formed a spur to one of the ice-clad mountains of Greenland. The creatures went on all-fours. They had long bodies, short legs, shorter tails, and large round heads. Having gained the top of the ridge they peeped over and beheld a hamlet nestled at the foot of a frowning cliff; and at the head of a smiling inlet. We use these terms advisedly, because the cliff, being in deep shadow, looked unusually black and forbidding, while the inlet, besides being under the influence of a profound calm, was lit up on all its dimples by the rays of the setting sun. The hamlet consisted of one large cottage and half a dozen small cots, besides several sheds and enclosures wherein were a few sleepy-looking sheep, some lean cattle, and several half-starved horses. There was active life there also. Smoke issued from the chimneys; fresh-looking women busied themselves about household work; rosy children tumbled in and out at the doors, while men in rough garments and with ruddy countenances mended nets or repaired boats on the shore. On a bench in front of the principal cottage sat a sturdy man, scarcely middle-aged, with shaggy fair and flowing locks. His right foot served as a horse to a rapturous little boy, whose locks and looks were so like to those of the man that their kinship was obvious—only the man was rugged and rough in exterior; the boy was round and smooth. Tow typified the hair of the man; floss silk that of the boy. Everything in and around the hamlet bore evidence of peace and thrift. It was a settlement of Norsemen—the first Greenland settlement, established by Eric the Red of Iceland about the year 986—nearly twenty years before the date of the opening of our tale—and the hairy creatures above referred to had gone there to look at it. Having gazed very intently over the ridge for a considerable time, they crept backwards with extreme caution, and, on getting sufficiently far down the hill-side to be safe from observation, rose on their hind-legs and began to talk; from which circumstance it may be concluded that they were human beings. After talking, grinning, and glaring at each other for a few minutes, with gestures to correspond, as though on the point of engaging in mortal combat, they suddenly wheeled about and walked off at a rapid pace in the direction of a gorge in the mountains, the head of which was shut in by and filled up with cliffs and masses and fields of ice that overtopped the everlasting hills, and rested like a white crest on the blue sky. Vast though it seemed, this was merely a tongue of those great glaciers of the mysterious North which have done, and are still doing, so much to modify the earth’s economy and puzzle antiquarian philosophy; which form the fountain-head of influences that promote the circulation of the great deep, and constitute the cradle of those ponderous icebergs that cover the arctic seas....

Robert Michael Ballantyne (24 April 1825 – 8 February 1894) was a Scottish author of juvenile fiction who wrote more than 100 books. He was also an accomplished artist, and exhibited some of his water-colours at the Royal Scottish Academy Ballantyne was born in Edinburgh on 24 April 1825, the ninth of ten children and the youngest son, to Alexander Thomson Ballantyne (1776–1847) and his wife Anne (1786–1855). Alexander was a newspaper editor and printer in the family firm of "Ballantyne & Co" based at Paul\'s Works on the Canongate,[2] and Robert\'s uncle James Ballantyne (1772–1833) was the printer for Scottish author Sir Walter Scott.[3] In 1832-33 the family is known to have been living at 20 Fettes Row, in the northern New Town of Edinburgh.[2] A UK-wide banking crisis in 1825 resulted in the collapse of the Ballantyne printing business the following year with debts of £130,000, which led to a decline in the family\'s fortunes. Ballantyne went to Canada aged 16, and spent five years working for the Hudson\'s Bay Company. He traded with the local Native Americans for furs, which required him to travel by canoe and sleigh to the areas occupied by the modern-day provinces of Manitoba, Ontario, and Quebec, experiences that formed the basis of his novel Snowflakes and Sunbeams (1856).[3] His longing for family and home during that period impressed him to start writing letters to his mother. Ballantyne recalled in his autobiographical Personal Reminiscences in Book Making (1893) that "To this long-letter writing I attribute whatever small amount of facility in composition I may have acquired

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This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1885 edition. Excerpt: ...away. In support of this last fanciful idea there were plenty of loose rocks and splinters of stones that had fallen from above, mingled with others whose rounded shapes showed that they must have been ground together by the action of water. I did not think of that at the time, though I had good reason to understand it later on. The position was admirable, the ledge widening out considerably; we were safe from dropping arrows, and we had only to construct a strong breastwork, some five A COMING STORM. 211 feet long, to protect us from attack by the enemy. In fact in five minutes or so we were comparatively safe; in ten minutes or a quarter of an hour our breastwork was so strengthened that we began to breathe freely. By this time it was morning, but instead of its continuing to grow light down in the ravine, whose walls towered up on either side, the gathering light seemed suddenly to begin to fade away. It grew more obscure. The soft cool refreshing morning breeze died away, to give place to a curious sultry heat. The silence, save the rushing of the river, was profound, and it seemed at last as if it was to be totally dark. "What does this mean, doctor?" I said, as I glanced round and noted that the sombre reflection from the walls of the chasm gave the faces of my companions a ghastly and peculiar look. "A storm, my lad," he said quietly. "Look how discoloured the water seems. There has been a storm somewhere up in the mountains, I suppose, and now it is coming here." "Well, we are in shelter," I said, "and better off than our enemies." "What difference does that make?" grumbled Jack Penny in ill-used tones. "They can\'t get wet through, for they don\'t wear hardly any clothes. But, I say, ain\'t it time we had our breakfast? I\'ve given up my...

The Scottish juvenile fiction writer R. M. Ballantyne was born into a famous family of publishers. Leaving home at age 16 he went to work for the Hudson\'s Bay Company; after returning home to Scotland R. M. Ballantyne published his first book "Hudson\'s Bay" detailing his experiences in Canada. Later Ballantyne would write about more of his experiences with Native Americans and the Fur trappers he met in the most remote regions of Canada. With his success as a writer he withdrew from the business world to become a full time writer for the rest of his life. With over a hundred different books he has become one of the most cherished juvenile fiction writers today. Along with his other exploits throughout his life he also was tremendously successful with his artwork as his water color paintings were displayed at the Royal Scottish Academy.

The Scottish juvenile fiction writer R. M. Ballantyne was born into a famous family of publishers. Leaving home at age 16 he went to work for the Hudson\'s Bay Company; after returning home to Scotland R. M. Ballantyne published his first book "Hudson\'s Bay" detailing his experiences in Canada. Later Ballantyne would write about more of his experiences with Native Americans and the Fur trappers he met in the most remote regions of Canada. With his success as a writer he withdrew from the business world to become a full time writer for the rest of his life. With over a hundred different books he has become one of the most cherished juvenile fiction writers today. Along with his other exploits throughout his life he also was tremendously successful with his artwork as his water color paintings were displayed at the Royal Scottish Academy.

                                                                               A CLASH OF AXES, A SLASH OF SWORDSIt was a memorable duel. For hours, King Haldor of Horlingdal and King Ulf of Romsdal battled. But the axe of Haldor the Fierce split Ulf's shield, and slammed into his head, putting him into his bed for a full week. Thus did King Haldor win the contest prize of this Viking contest. Herfrida the Soft Eyed became his bride. Herfrida bore King Haldor a son named Erling. Ulf sired a daughter named Hilda. The Viking kings became friends and their progeny grew. Erling became a handsome young man and Hilda a beautiful young woman. But Erling the Bold's Viking destiny was not peace. For Erling the Bold and Hilda the Sunbeam met a hermit with a strange new faith. His name was Christian. He changed their fate forever.

The Lonely Island

Wreck of Winstanley’s Lighthouse. “At mischief again, of course: always at it.” Mrs Potter said this angrily, and with much emphasis, as she seized her son by the arm and dragged him out of a pool of dirty water, into which he had tumbled. “Always at mischief of one sort or another, he is,” continued Mrs Potter, with increasing wrath, “morning, noon, and night—he is; tumblin’ about an’ smashin’ things for ever he does; he’ll break my heart at last—he will. There: take that!” “That,” which poor little Tommy was desired to take, was a sounding box on the ear, accompanied by a violent shake of the arm which would have drawn that limb out of its socket if the child’s bones and muscles had not been very tightly strung together. Mrs Potter was a woman of large body and small brain. In respect of reasoning power, she was little better than the wooden cuckoo which came out periodically from the interior of the clock that stood over her own fireplace and announced the hours. She entertained settled convictions on a few subjects, in regard to which she resembled a musical box. If you set her going on any of these, she would harp away until she had played the tune out, and then begin over again; but she never varied. Reasons, however good, or facts, however weighty, were utterly powerless to penetrate her skull: her “settled convictions” were not to be unsettled by any such means. Men might change their minds; philosophers might see fit to alter their opinions; weaklings of both sexes and all ages might trim their sails in accordance with the gales of advancing knowledge, but Mrs Potter—no: never! her colours were nailed to the mast. Like most people who unite a strong will with an empty head, she was “wiser in her own conceit than eleven men that can render a reason:” in brief, she was obstinate. One of her settled convictions was that her little son Tommy was “as full of mischief as a hegg is full of meat.” Another of these convictions was that children of all ages are tough; that it does them good to pull them about in a violent manner, at the risk even of dislocating their joints. It mattered nothing to Mrs Potter that many of her female friends and acquaintances held a different opinion. Some of these friends suggested to her that the hearts of the poor little things were tender, as well as their muscles and bones and sinews; that children were delicate flowers, or rather buds, which required careful tending and gentle nursing. Mrs Potter’s reply was invariably, “Fiddlesticks!” she knew better. They were obstinate and self-willed little brats that required constant banging. She knew how to train ’em up, she did; and it was of no manner of use, it wasn’t, to talk to her upon that point. She was right. It was of no use. As well might one have talked to the wooden cuckoo, already referred to, in Mrs Potter’s timepiece. “Come, Martha,” said a tall, broad-shouldered, deep-voiced man at her elbow, “don’t wop the poor cheeld like that....

Illustrated with 10 unique illustrations.Away in the WildernessThe Battery and the BoilerThe Battle and the BreezeBattles with the SeaThe Big OtterBlack IvoryBlown to BitsBlue LightsThe Buffalo RunnersThe Cannibal IslandsCharlie to the RescueChasing the SunThe Coral IslandThe Coxswain\'s BrideThe Crew of the Water WagtailDeep Down, a Tale of the Cornish MinesDigging for GoldThe Dog Crusoe and his MasterDusty Diamonds Cut and PolishedThe Eagle CliffErling the BoldFast in the IceFighting the FlamesFighting the WhalesThe Floating Light of the Goodwin SandsFort DesolationFreaks on the FellsThe FugitivesThe Garret and the GardenGascoyne, the Sandal-Wood TraderThe Giant of the NorthThe Golden DreamThe Gorilla HuntersHandbook to the new Gold-fieldsThe Hot SwampHudson BayHunted and HarriedHunting the LionsThe Island QueenThe LifeboatLife in the Red BrigadeThe LighthouseThe Lonely IslandThe Madman and the PirateMartin RattlerThe Norsemen in the WestOver the Rocky MountainsPhilosopher JackThe PioneersThe Pirate CityThe Red Man\'s RevengeRivers of IceSunk at SeaThe Young Fur Traders

Digging for Gold - Adventures in California is presented here in a high quality paperback edition. This popular classic work by R. M. (Robert Michael) Ballantyne is in the English language, and may not include graphics or images from the original edition. If you enjoy the works of R. M. (Robert Michael) Ballantyne then we highly recommend this publication for your book collection.