THE LITTLE GREEN FROG[8][8] Cabinet des Fees.In a part of the world whose name I forget lived once upon a timetwo kings, called Peridor and Diamantino. They were cousins aswell as neighbours, and both were under the protection of thefairies; though it is only fair to say that the fairies did notlove them half so well as their wives did.Now it often happens that as princes can generally manage to gettheir own way it is harder for them to be good than it is forcommon people. So it was with Peridor and Diamantino; but of thetwo, the fairies declared that Diamantino was much the worst;...　

The Enchanted Island of Yewby L. Frank BaumContents1. Once On a Time2. The Enchanted Isle3. The Fairy Bower4. Prince Marvel5. The King of Thieves6. The Troubles of Nerle7. The Gray Men8. The Fool-Killer9. The Royal Dragon of Spor10. Prince Marvel Wins His Fight11. The Cunning of King Terribus12. The Gift of Beauty13. The Hidden Kingdom of Twi14. The Ki and The Ki-Ki15. The High Ki of Twi16. The Rebellion of The High Ki17. The Separation of The High Ki18. The Rescue of The High Ki19. The Reunion of The High Ki20. Kwytoffle, the Tyrant...　

THE BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA[TO MRS. WILLIAM H. GRENFELL OF TAPLOW COURT - LADY DESBOROUGH]It was the birthday of the Infanta. She was just twelve years ofage, and the sun was shining brightly in the gardens of the palace.Although she was a real Princess and the Infanta of Spain, she hadonly one birthday every year, just like the children of quite poorpeople, so it was naturally a matter of great importance to thewhole country that she should have a really fine day for theoccasion. And a really fine day it certainly was. The tallstriped tulips stood straight up upon their stalks, like long 　

The Great Big Treasury of Beatrix Potterby Beatrix PotterCONTENTSTHE TALE OF PETER RABBITTHE TAILOR OF GLOUCESTERTHE TALE OF SQUIRREL NUTKINTHE TALE OF BENJAMIN BUNNYTHE TALE OF TWO BAD MICETHE TALE OF MRS. TIGGY-WINKLETHE PIE AND THE PATTY-PANTHE TALE OF MR. JEREMY FISHERTHE STORY OF A FIERCE BAD RABBITTHE STORY OF MISS MOPPETTHE TALE OF TOM KITTENTHE TALE OF JEMIMA PUDDLE-DUCKTHE ROLY-POLY PUDDINGTHE TALE OF THE FLOPSY BUNNIESTHE TALE OF MRS. TITTLEMOUSETHE TALE OF TIMMY TIPTOESTHE TALE OF MR. TODTHE TALE OF PIGLING BLANDGINGER AND PICKLES...　

　This novel is dedicated to Stan, Christopher, Michele and Howard; to Rosario and Patrice; to Pamela and Elaine; and to Niccolo.　This novel is dedicated by Vittorio to the people of Florence, Italy.　　　1　WHO I AM, WHY I WRITE, WHAT IS TO E　　WHEN I was a small boy I had a terrible dream. I dreamt I held in my arms the severed heads of my younger brother I and sister. They were quick still, and mute, with big fluttering eyes, and reddened cheeks, and so horrified was I that I could make no more of a sound than they could. The dream came true.　But no one will weep for me or for them. They have be　

　Chapter one　　He had been walking the dirty streets since twilight first began to gather. The pain streamed like liquid fire through every cell of his body - but he locked it away in a corner of his mind, ignored it, and walked.　There was little to please the eye in his surroundings, and he paid scant attention to them. He was on a small poor unimportant planet whose very name, Coranex, meant nothing to him. But around the spaceport clustered a drab, seedy town, which was a well-known stopover on the main space lanes. It attracted freightermen, traders, wandering technicians, space drifters o　

CHAPTER IBIRDS OF A FEATHER　　"YOUR mail, Mr. Rowden."　　"Ah, yes. Thank you."　　The switchboard operator passed a stack of envelopes to the man who stood in front of the lobby desk. Rowden smiled as he received the mail. He scanned the envelopes; then thrust them in his pocket and strolled into the elevator.　　The switchboard girl sighed as the door closed. It was not often that the Mallison Apartments received such debonair guests as Roke Rowden. Small and obscure in the midst of Manhattan, the Mallison catered chiefly to bargain-hunting tourists.　　Roke Rowden was a novelty. He had the beari　

The Financierby Theodore DreiserChapter IThe Philadelphia into which Frank Algernon Cowperwood was born was a city of two hundred and fifty thousand and more. It was set with handsome parks, notable buildings, and crowded with historic memories. Many of the things that we and he knew later were not then in existencethe telegraph, telephone, express company, ocean steamer, city delivery of mails. There were no postage-stamps or registered letters. The street car had not arrived. In its place were hosts of omnibuses, and for longer travel the slowly developing railroad system still largely　

The Experiences of a BandmasterBy John Philip SousaDuring eighteen years spent in playing music for the masses, twelveyears in the service of the United States and six in that of thegeneral public, many curious and interesting incidents have comeunder my observation.While conductor of the Marine Band, which plays at all the statefunctions given by the President at the Executive Mansion, I sawmuch of the social life of the White House and was brought intomore or less direct contact with all the executives under whom Ihad the honor of successively servingPresidents Hayes, Garfield,...　

Philosophy of Natureby HegelTable of ContentsPreliminary§ 192 Nature has presented itself as the idea in the form of otherness.§ 193 Hence nature exhibits no freedom in its existence, but only necessity and contingency.§ 194 Nature is to be viewed as a system of stages, in which one stage necessarily arises fromthe other.§ 195 Nature is, in itself a living whole.§ 196 The idea as nature can be named mathematics, physics, and physiology.PART I: Mathematics§ 197 The immediate determination of nature is the abstract generality of its...　

Those Extraordinary Twinsby Mark TwainA man who is born with the novel-writing gift has a troublesome time ofit when he tries to build a novel. I know this from experience. He hasno clear idea of his story; in fact he has no story. He merely has somepeople in his mind, and an incident or two, also a locality. He knowsthese people, he knows the selected locality, and he trusts that he canplunge those people into those incidents with interesting results. So hegoes to work. To write a novel? Nothat is a thought which comeslater; in the beginning he is only proposing to tell a little tale;　

　dedicates this book to　Barry and Jody Turkus.　　Lincoln Child　dedicates this book to　his daughter, Veronica.　　Acknowledgments　　Lincoln Child would like to thank Bruce Swanson, Mark Mendel, Pat Allocco, Chris and Susan Yango, Jerry and Terry Hyland, Anthony Cifelli, M.D., Norman San Agustin, M.D., and Lee Suckno, M.D., for their friendship and assistance. Ongoing thanks to Special Agent Douglas Margini for his advice on New York, New Jersey, and federal law enforcement matters. Thanks to Jill Nowak for an insightful reading of the text. Bob Przybylski was very useful in nailing down some of th　

　Clinch padded to the kitchen and fixed himself a pot of coffee, four eggs scrambled (with ketchup), a quarter-pound of Jimmy Dean sausage, and two slices of whole-wheat toast with grape jam. As he ate, he listened to the radio for a weather report. The temperature outside was forty-one degrees, humidity thirty-five percent, wind blowing from the northeast at seven miles per hour. According to the weatherman, thick fog lay on the highway between Harney and Lake Jesup. Robert Clinch loved to drive in the fog because it gave him a chance to use the amber fog lights on his new Blazer truck. The 　

　A sea of mist drifted through the cloud forest: soft, grey, luminescent. On the high ridges the fog showed brighter as the morning sun began to warm and lift the moisture, although in the ravine a cool, soundless dimness still counterfeited a pre-dawn twilight.　mander Cordelia Naismith glanced at her team botanist and adjusted the straps of her biological collecting equipment a bit more fortably before continuing her breathless climb. She pushed a long tendril of fog-dampened copper hair out of her eyes, clawing it impatiently toward the clasp at the nape of her neck. Their next survey area 　

　　　　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 s　

　　The scent and smoke and sweat of a casino are nauseating at three in the morning. Then the soul-erosion produced by high gambling - a post of greed and fear and nervous tension - bees unbearable and the senses awake and revolt from it.　James Bond suddenly knew that he was tired. He always knew when his body or his mind had had enough and he always acted on the knowledge. This helped him to avoid staleness and the sensual bluntness that breeds mistakes.　He shifted himself unobtrusively away from the roulette he had been playing and went to stand for a moment at the brass rail which surrounde