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The Aspern Papers is a novella by American writer Henry James, originally published in The Atlantic Monthly in 1888, with its first book publication later in the same year. One of James's best-known and most acclaimed longer tales, The Aspern Papers is based on the letters Percy Bysshe Shelley wrote to Mary Shelley's stepsister, Claire Clairmont, who saved them until she died. Set in Venice, The Aspern Papers demonstrates James's ability to generate suspense while never neglecting the development of his characters. (Wikipedia)

Fortieth anniversary edition with a new preface by the author. A best-selling book and award-winning film and television series, THE PAPER CHASE is at its heart the story of a young midwesterner, James Hart, who finds himself in the great classrooms of Langdell Hall at Harvard Law School, locked in a zero-sum game with a dominating, omniscient deity: Professor Kingsfield. Kingsfield is the sort of teacher who asks not just for the student's mind, but for his soul. You quail at his exams, exult when you know the answers, and love-hate him. THE PAPER CHASE is also a love story, as contemporary today as it was when the book was written, of a boy from the midwest and a mysterious and demanding professor's daughter who refuses to accept accepted wisdom or role models and demands from Hart a love that transcends law school and conventional norms.

After the immense success of'Reginald', Hector Hugh Munro wrote a sequel to it i.e.'Reginald in Russia'. In this book, Saki further narrates some more interesting and fun tales about the young man Reginald. (Goodreads)

This book contains William Thackeray's 1838 novel,'The Yellowplush Papers'. Written in what was supposed to be a footman's version of English, this book tells the story of Charles J. Yellowplush's different masters: one of whom sweeps a street crossing - and the other is an astute nobleman who gets ensnared in a very clever matrimonial trap set by his own father. A fantastic novel characteristic of Thackeray's masterful writing ability,'The Yellowplush Papers'is highly recommended for fans and collectors of his work, and would make for a worthy addition to any bookshelf. William Makepeace Thackeray (1811 - 1863), was an esteemed English novelist during the nineteenth century. He became famous for his satirical novels, the most important and influential of which was'Vanity Fair'. Many vintage texts such as this are increasingly hard to come by and expensive, and it is with this in mind that we are republishing this volume now in an affordable, modern, high-quality edition. It comes complete with a specially commissioned new biography of the author.

The Aspern Papers is a novel by American writer Henry James. One of James's best-known and most acclaimed longer tales, The Aspern Papers is based on the letters Percy Bysshe Shelley wrote to Mary Shelley's stepsister, Claire Clairmont, who saved them until she died. Set in Venice, The Aspern Papers demonstrates James's ability to generate suspense while never neglecting the development of his characters.

The Yellow Wallpaper is regarded as an important early work of American feminist literature, illustrating attitudes in the 19th century toward women's health, both physical and mental. Presented in the first person, the story is a collection of journal entries written by a woman whose physician husband (John) has rented an old mansion for the summer. Foregoing other rooms in the house, the couple moves into the upstairs nursery. As a form of treatment she is forbidden from working, and is encouraged to eat well and get plenty of exercise and air, so she can recuperate from what he calls a'temporary nervous depression – a slight hysterical tendency', a diagnosis common to women in that period. She hides her journal from her husband and his sister the housekeeper, fearful of being reproached for overworking herself. The room's windows are barred to prevent children from climbing through them, and there is a gate across the top of the stairs, though she and her husband have access to the rest of the house and its adjoining estate. The story depicts the effect of understimulation on the narrator's mental health and her descent into psychosis. With nothing to stimulate her, she becomes obsessed by the pattern and color of the wallpaper.'It is the strangest yellow, that wall-paper! It makes me think of all the yellow things I ever saw – not beautiful ones like buttercups, but old foul, bad yellow things. But there is something else about that paper – the smell!... The only thing I can think of that it is like is the color of the paper! A yellow smell.'In the end, she imagines there are women creeping around behind the patterns of the wallpaper and comes to believe she is one of them. She locks herself in the room, now the only place she feels safe, refusing to leave when the summer rental is up.'For outside you have to creep on the ground, and everything is green instead of yellow. But here I can creep smoothly on the floor, and my shoulder just fits in that long smooch around the wall, so I cannot lose my way.'

In The Flopsy Bunnies, Benjamin Bunny and his cousin Flopsy are the parents of six young rabbits called simply The Flopsy Bunnies. The story concerns how the Flopsy Bunnies, while raiding a rubbish heap of rotting vegetables, fall asleep and are captured by Mr. McGregor who places them in a sack. While McGregor is distracted, the six are freed by Thomasina Tittlemouse, a woodmouse, and the sack filled with rotten vegetables by Benjamin and Flopsy. At home, Mr. McGregor proudly presents the sack to his wife, but receives a sharp scolding when she discovers its actual content.

Excerpt:'“Message for Mr. Carter!” The wireless operator of the steamship Marathon, in the linen clothes and pith helmet ordinarily worn by white people in the tropics, came along the steamer deck with a slip of paper in his hand and stopped in front of a row of steamer chairs under an awning. “Where's it from?” asked the occupant of one of the chairs, springing to his feet. “From shore, sir—Calcutta.” Nick Carter, who was holding out his hand even as he got up from his chair, took the paper quickly and glanced at the few words it contained: “Get up to Nepal quickly.” That was all. There was no signature, and the operator could not say who had sent it. “It came from the main office of the telegraph company in Calcutta,” he explained. “The operator told me a native man brought it in and paid for it. He said there would be no answer, and his own name did not matter.” “It is many years since I was in Calcutta last,” observed Nick Carter, to his companions, as the operator went back to the wireless room. “Then it was only for a few days, and I did not make many acquaintances.” A tall, middle-aged man, whose square face and straight-seeing dark eyes, as well as his decided manner of speech, were all suggestive of the successful American business man, got up from one of the chairs and looked over Nick Carter's shoulder at the telegram he still held open in one hand.'

Excerpt:'“Nicholas Carter, and his first assistant, Chickering Carter, had risen early that morning, but not for the usual reason. It was a very unusual occasion in the great detective's household, for he and Chick were actually going away for two weeks'vacation in the Adirondacks. The train that was to carry the two to the Great North Woods was scheduled to leave shortly after eight o'clock, and many preparations had been deferred until that morning. Now, however, everything was practically ready, their trunk was packed, locked, and strapped, their suit cases were nearly filled, and they had time for a bite of breakfast and a glance at the morning papers, which had thus far been neglected. Nick seemed to be the only one who was interested in the news. In fact, his assistant made a wry face when he saw his chief reaching for one of the papers. “Can't you forget that sort of thing?” he asked, in an injured tone. “I was hoping you would until we got well started, at least.” “What's the trouble?” Nick asked, in a bewildered tone. “Oh, I see what you are driving at! You are afraid I'll see something interesting in the line of crimes and mysteries, and decide at the last minute to stay at home? Is that the idea?” His assistant nodded gloomily. “Correct,” he answered. “I never know which way you are going to jump, or at what moment. When I'm trying to get you off for a holiday, especially, I feel the greatest responsibility. You have such a way of changing your mind, and, if you don't, somebody usually bobs up with a case that you find irresistible. You've been working your head off for months, and you are run down; you know you are.” Chick grinned. “You are not exactly at the breaking point yet,” he went on, “but you are just a little stale, and that won't do, you know. Any day something may break that will require your keenest brain work, and your last ounce of strength and agility. Of course, things will turn up; of course, you'll have all sorts of calls every day, and if you allow yourself to read the papers, you'll run across plenty of things that will prove fascinating to you. Can't you cut yourself loose, though—absolutely?” “I've done harder things than that, grandmother,” Nick answered, “but I really don't see the necessity for that sort of total abstinence. If you think I'm going to cut out all newspapers for two weeks, you're very much mistaken. I've promised to go, though, and I'm going—unless, of course, something turns up that is altogether too big to neglect.”'

The Man in the Brown Suit is a work of detective fiction by British writer Agatha Christie, first published in the UK by The Bodley Head on 22 August 1924 and in the US by Dodd, Mead and Company later in the same year. The character Colonel Race is introduced in this novel. Anne Beddingfeld is on her own and ready for adventures when one comes her way. She sees a man die in a tube station and picks up a piece of paper dropped nearby. The message on the paper leads her to South Africa as she fits more pieces of the puzzle together about the death she witnessed. There is a murder in England the next day, and the murderer attempts to kill her on the ship en route to Cape Town.

Meet the people of Cairo's Gamaliya quarter. There is Nabqa, son of Adam the waterseller who can only speak truths; the beautiful and talented Tawhida who does not age with time; Ali Zaidan, the gambler, late to love; and Boss Saqr who stashes his money above the bath. A neighbourhood of demons, dancing and sweet halva, the quarter keeps quiet vigil over the secrets of all who live there. This collection by pre-eminent Egyptian writer Naguib Mahfouz was recently discovered among his old papers. Found with a slip of paper titled'for publishing 1994', they are published here for the first time. Resplendent with Mahfouz's delicate and poignant observations of everyday happenings, these lively stories take the reader deep into the beating heart of Cairo.

Richard Horatio Edgar Wallace was born on the 1st April 1875 in Greenwich, London. Leaving school at 12 because of truancy, by the age of fifteen he had experience; selling newspapers, as a worker in a rubber factory, as a shoe shop assistant, as a milk delivery boy and as a ship's cook. By 1894 he was engaged but broke it off to join the Infantry being posted to South Africa. He also changed his name to Edgar Wallace which he took from Lew Wallace, the author of Ben-Hur. In Cape Town in 1898 he met Rudyard Kipling and was inspired to begin writing. His first collection of ballads, The Mission that Failed! was enough of a success that in 1899 he paid his way out of the armed forces in order to turn to writing full time. By 1904 he had completed his first thriller, The Four Just Men. Since nobody would publish it he resorted to setting up his own publishing company which he called Tallis Press. In 1911 his Congolese stories were published in a collection called Sanders of the River, which became a bestseller. He also started his own racing papers, Bibury's and R. E. Walton's Weekly, eventually buying his own racehorses and losing thousands gambling. A life of exceptionally high income was also mirrored with exceptionally large spending and debts. Wallace now began to take his career as a fiction writer more seriously, signing with Hodder and Stoughton in 1921. He was marketed as the ‘King of Thrillers'and they gave him the trademark image of a trilby, a cigarette holder and a yellow Rolls Royce. He was truly prolific, capable not only of producing a 70,000 word novel in three days but of doing three novels in a row in such a manner. It was estimated that by 1928 one in four books being read was written by Wallace, for alongside his famous thrillers he wrote variously in other genres, including science fiction, non-fiction accounts of WWI which amounted to ten volumes and screen plays. Eventually he would reach the remarkable total of 170 novels, 18 stage plays and 957 short stories. Wallace became chairman of the Press Club which to this day holds an annual Edgar Wallace Award, rewarding ‘excellence in writing'. Diagnosed with diabetes his health deteriorated and he soon entered a coma and died of his condition and double pneumonia on the 7th of February 1932 in North Maple Drive, Beverly Hills. He was buried near his home in England at Chalklands, Bourne End, in Buckinghamshire.

'They offer you three jokes,'said the stranger,'which shall make all who hear them simply die of laughter.'I think my friend was reluctant then to have anything more to do with it, he wanted to go home; he said he didn't want jokes.

Excerpt:'The three essays composing this small book were written several years ago for publication in the'Times Literary Supplement,'to the editor of which I owe the encouragement to write them, and now the permission to reprint them. Inadequate as periodical criticism, they need still more justification in a book. Some apology, therefore, is required. My intention had been to write a series of papers on the poetry of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries: beginning with Chapman and Donne, and ending with Johnson. This forbidden fruit of impossible leisure might have filled two volumes. At best, it would not have pretended to completeness; the subjects would have been restricted by my own ignorance and caprice, but the series would have included Aurelian Townshend and Bishop King, and the authors of'Cooper's Hill'and'The Vanity of Human Wishes,'as well as Swift and Pope. That which dissipation interrupts, the infirmities of age come to terminate. One learns to conduct one's life with greater economy: I have abandoned this design in the pursuit of other policies. I have long felt that the poetry of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, even much of that of inferior inspiration, possesses an elegance and a dignity absent from the popular and pretentious verse of the Romantic Poets and their successors. To have urged this claim persuasively would have led me indirectly into considerations of politics, education, and theology which I no longer care to approach in this way. I hope that these three papers may in spite of and partly because of their defects preserve in cryptogram certain notions which, if expressed directly, would be destined to immediate obloquy, followed by perpetual oblivion.'

Excerpt:'Primarily, there were the conditions under which she was brought to fifteen years of age: the crowded, scummy tenements; the narrow green-painted halls with their dim gas-jets, making the entrance look more like that of a morgue than a dwelling-place; the dirty halls and rooms with their green or blue or brown walls painted to save the cost of paper; the bare wooden floors, long since saturated with every type of grease and filth from oleomargarine and suet leaked from cheap fats or meats, to beer and whiskey and tobacco-juice. A little occasional scrubbing by some would-be hygienic tenant was presumed to keep or make clean some of the chambers and halls. And then the streets outside—any of the streets by which she had ever been surrounded—block upon block of other red, bare, commonplace tenements crowded to the doors with human life, the space before them sped over by noisy, gassy trucks and vehicles of all kinds. And stifling in summer, dusty and icy in winter; decorated on occasion by stray cats and dogs, pawing in ashcans, watched over by lordly policemen, and always running with people, people, people—who made their living heaven only knows how, existing in such a manner as their surroundings suggested.'

Excerpt:'Mr. H. G. WELLS brought out some time ago an Outline of History, the object of which was to deny the Christian religion. I examined this production for the benefit of my co-religionists in the columns of certain Catholic papers. I did full justice to Mr. Wells's talents as a writer, but I exposed his ill acquaintance with modern work on Biology, with early Christian writing and tradition, with Christian doctrine itself: and, in general, his incompetence. Stung by this exposure, Mr. Wells has just brought out against me a small pamphlet, under the title of Mr. Belloc Objects to the “Outline of History.” It is an excited, popular, crude attack, full of personal insult and brawling, and ample proof that he is hit. But it is singularly weak in argument, confused in reply, and, as I shall show in a moment, shirks nine-tenths of the very damaging criticism which I directed against his book. That book denies a creative God. There is no God, the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth. The Incarnation is a myth; the Resurrection a falsehood; the Eucharist a mummery.'

This is a compendium of eight short stories written by Freeman before 1909 and compiled into his first collection of short stories. He must have been very popular by then because it was actually the second'Thorndyke'book published.

In'The Red Thumbmark'by R Austin Freeman, published in 1907, a single fingerprint is found at the scene of a crime. When the police are able to identify that fingerprint, the case seems closed.

Excerpt:'The Owl shows its blue and gilt cover on the bookstalls every Saturday morning. Thursday nights are therefore nights of turmoil in the offices in Fleet Street. They are always wearing nights; more so, of course, in hot weather than in cold. They are nights of discomfort for the office-boy and of something worse for the editor. Spencer Hastings edited The Owl, and owned a third of it; and the little paper's success showed him to possess both brains and capacity for hard work. For a man of thirty-three he had achieved much; but that capacity for work was hard tested—especially on Thursday nights. As to the brains, there was really no doubt of their quality. Take, for instance, The Owl “specials.” After he had thought of them and given birth to the first, The Owl, really a weekly review, was enabled to reap harvests in the way of “scoops” without in any way degenerating into a mere purveyor of news.'

Excerpt:'My name is Martin—James Briggs Martin—but almost everybody calls me Tallow, because once when I was younger I saw old Uncle Ike Bond rubbing tallow on his boots to shine them, and then hurried home and fixed mine up with the stub of a candle and went to school. I guess it couldn't have smelled very good, for everybody seemed to notice it, even teacher, and she asked me what in the world I'd been getting into. After that all the boys called me Tallow, and always will, I guess. I tell you about me first only because I'm writing this account of what happened. Mark Tidd is really the fellow I'm writing about, and Mark's father and mother, and the engine Mr. Tidd was inventing out in his barn, and some other folks who will be told about in their places. I helped some; so did Plunk Smalley and Binney Jenks, but Mark Tidd did most of it. Mark Tidd sounds like a short name, doesn't it? But it isn't short at all, for it's merely what's left of Marcus Aurelius Fortunatus Tidd, which was what he was christened, mostly out of Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, a big book that Mr. Tidd was so fond of reading that he never read much of anything else except the papers.'

Excerpt:'Tubal gave the key another quarter turn in the quoins and tested the security of the type in the form with the heel of his grimy hand. After which he shut his eyes very tight and ran his tongue carefully over his upper teeth and clucked. Then, in the voice of one who pronounces a new and wonderful thought he spoke: “Simmy,” he said, “I dunno. Mebby so—mebby not. There's p'ints in favor and p'ints against.” “I,” said Simmy with the cocksureness of his seventeen years, “am goin'to git through. Don't ketch me workin'for no woman.” “She's one of them college wimmin we've been readin'about.” “Makes it wuss. Wimmin,” said Simmy, who had given deep thought to such matters and reached profound conclusions, “hain't got no business gittin'all eddicated up. What they ought to study is cook books. That's what I say.” “Calc'late she'll be gifted with big words.” “She'll wear them kind of glasses,” said Simmy, “that'll make you think you're lookin'into the show[2] winders of the Busy Big Store if you come onto her face to face.” “Simmy, I'll tell you suthin'.... I'll be fifty year old, come September, and I hain't never married one of'em yit.” “I hain't never goin'to marry, neither.” “Shake,” said Tubal.'

First English translation of an amazing debut novella by a major and incredibly prolific Japanese author Tsugami, the editor-in-chief of a newspaper in war-scarred Osaka, agrees to sponsor a bullfight. For months this great gamble consumes him, makes him as wary and combative as if he was in a ring himself. And, as he becomes ever more distant, his lover Sakiko is unsure if she would like to see him succeed or be destroyed. Yasushi Inoue's novella won him the prestigious Akutagawa Prize and established him as one of Japan's most acclaimed authors. From the planning of a bullfight-through Tsugami's struggle, his focus and his aloneness-he crafts something intensely memorable, a compelling existential tale. Born in 1907, Yasushi Inoue worked as a journalist and literary editor for many years, only beginning his prolific career as an author in 1949 with Bullfight. He went on to publish 50 novels and 150 short stories, both historical and contemporary, his work making him one of Japan's major literary figures. In 1976 Inoue was presented with the Order of Culture, the highest honour granted for artistic merit in Japan. He died in 1991.

Charlotte Perkins Gilman (July 3, 1860 – August 17, 1935) was a prominent American sociologist, novelist, writer of short stories, poetry, and nonfiction, and a lecturer for social reform. She was a utopian feminist during a time when her accomplishments were exceptional for women, and she served as a role model for future generations of feminists because of her unorthodox concepts and lifestyle. Her best remembered work today is her semi-autobiographical short story,'The Yellow Wallpaper', which she wrote after a severe bout of postpartum psychosis. Here we publish some of her other short stories. There is no doubt that she is a very talented writer who can build and capture a world that most other writers cannot.

Elizabeth MacKintosh was born on the 25th July 1896 in Inverness, Scotland.After attending Inverness Royal Academy and then the Anstey Physical Training College in Erdington, Birmingham she taught physical training at schools throughout England and Scotland.In 1923, she returned to Inverness to care for her invalid mother. She stayed after her mother's death later that year to keep house for her father. It was now that she began her literary career and first published in The Westminster Gazette in 1925, under the pseudonym Gordon Daviot. She continued to write and publish in periodicals until, in 1929, her first novel ‘Kif: An Unvarnished History'was published to good reviews followed, three months later, by her first mystery novel, ‘The Man in the Queue'. Despite her good fortune and talents her mind was set on writing a play that would receive a West End run. ‘Richard of Bordeaux', under the Daviot pseudonym, made its debut in 1932 at the Arts Theatre.In all she completed about a dozen one-act plays and a dozen full-length plays, many with biblical or historical themes, and all with the Daviot pseudonym. Only four of these plays were produced.Perhaps her best-known books all involve the Scotland Yard Inspector, Alan Grant, and required yet another pseudonym. This time Josephine Tey.She was intensely private, and during the last months of her life, when she knew she was terminally ill, she avoided all of her friends. Elizabeth Mackintosh died from liver cancer on 13th February 1952 in London. She was 55.

Excerpt:'“Whoso findeth a wife findeth a good thing, and obtaineth favour of the Lord.”—Proverbs xviii, 22. “Have those urgent dispatches come in from Berlin, Deedes?” “Captain Hammerton has not yet arrived,” I answered. “Eleven o'clock! Tut, tut! Every moment's delay means greater risk,” and the Earl of Warnham, Her Majesty's Principal Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, strode up and down his private room, with his hat still on, impatiently snapping his bony fingers in agitation quite unusual to him. “Hammerton wired from Berlin yesterday, when on the point of leaving,” I observed, taking a telegram from the table before me. “In cipher?” “Yes.” “No accident is reported in the papers, I suppose?” “Nothing in the Times,” I replied. “Strange, very strange, that he should be so long overdue,” the Earl said, at last casting himself into his padded chair, and lounging back, his hands thrust deep into his pockets as he stared thoughtfully into space.'

Excerpt:'A heavy fog pressed down upon the city of Washington. To the boy watching it from the vantage point of the window in the top floor of the apartment in which he stood, it spread as mysterious and as sodden as a flood, enveloping streets, parks, houses, indeed all but the tops of the highest structures, the domes and roofs of public buildings and spires of churches, and here and there a dark, drowned mass of foliage. The apartment stood on a height and as the boy looked he saw a glow in the east, followed quickly by thin banners of red and orange. Then the Sun rose and turned the domes and spires swimming on the sea of mist into fairy flotillas wrought of pearl and gold.'

Arrowsmith tells the story of bright and scientifically minded Martin Arrowsmith of Elk Mills, Winnemac (the same fictional state in which several of Lewis's other novels are set), as he makes his way from a small town in the Midwest to the upper echelons of the scientific community at a prestigious foundation in New York City. Along the way he begins medical school. He becomes engaged to one woman, cheats on her with another woman, becomes engaged to the second woman and then finally invites both women to a lunch to settle the issue. He eventually insults his mentor, Max Gottlieb, and is suspended from school. He takes up life as an ordinary worker, then marries Leora with her family supporting him based on the promise that he will take up private practice as the only doctor in tiny Wheatsylvania, North Dakota. Frustrated with the work, he moves on to a job at the state Department of Public Health branch in Nautilus, Iowa, then becomes romantically involved with the young daughter of its local director. After a series of political disputes, he resigns and joins the staff of an exclusive private hospital in Chicago. Finally, Arrowsmith is recognized by his former mentor, Gottlieb, for a scientific paper he has written, and is invited to take a post with a wealthy and elite research institute in New York City. The book's climax deals with Arrowsmith's discovery of a phage that destroys bacteria and his experiences as he faces an outbreak of bubonic plague on a fictional Caribbean island.

Excerpt:'Wilford Heaton is not my real name, for why should I publish it to the world? The reason I do not give it is, first, because I have no desire to be made the object of idle curiosity or speculation, and secondly, although the explanation herein given will clear the honour of one of the most powerful of the Imperial Houses in Europe, I have no wish that my true name should be associated with it. I have, however, a reason for writing this narrative—a very strong reason. The story is an enthralling one; the adventures stranger, perhaps, than ever happened to any other living person. I have resolved to relate the plain unvarnished facts in their sequence, just as they occurred, without seeking to suppress or embellish, but to recount the strange adventures just as they are registered in the small leather portfolio, or secret dossier, which still, at this moment, reposes in the archives of a certain Ministry in one of the European capitals. There have recently been stories afloat—strange stories. At first I laughed at all the absurd rumours, but very quickly I saw how seriously distorted the real facts had become, for ingenious paragraphs of certain so-called Society papers, grasping the story eagerly, worked it up into a narrative which reflected very seriously upon the honour of one who is dearest in all the world to me. Well, my tale—or exposure—is written here. In order that those who read may clearly follow the curious chain of circumstances, it is necessary for me to go back some eight years or so—not a long period as far as time goes, but to me a veritable century. I was young, just turned twenty five. I was decently well-off, having come into an income of nearly a couple of thousand a year left me by my father, a sum which put me beyond the necessity of entering business, pursuing the daily grind, or troubling about the morrow. My career at Oxford had, I fear, been marked by a good many shortcomings and many youthful escapades, but I ended it by taking my degree of Bachelor of Medicine, shortly afterwards pursuing the fashionable habit of “going abroad.” Within two years, however, I returned to London world-weary—like so many other young men who, being left comfortably off, commence to taste the enjoyment of life too early—and settled down in a suite of smoke-begrimed rooms in Essex Street, Strand.'

Excerpt: “The steamship Nemesis, of two thousand five hundred and fifty tons register, and belonging to the port of London, had nearly finished her loading one foggy afternoon in a foggy November. She was at Tilbury, taking in a general cargo for Capetown and Australian ports, and as the last few cases were coming on board the skipper came on board too by way of the big gangway, close by which the second mate was standing.'Is that the last of it?'asked the'old man'gloomily.'Yes, sir,'said Mr. Cade with equal gloominess. When a man is second mate at the age of fifty it is not surprising that he should be sulky.'And it is time it was, for we're well down to our mark, and no mistake about it, sir.'Captain Jordan said nothing, but walked for'ard to his cabin and sat down wearily. He threw a bundle of papers on his table, and filling his pipe smoked for a few minutes. He was a fine handsome white-headed man of some fifty-two years, and had once been ambitious. Now he worked for Messrs. Gruddle, Shody, & Co., and, as all seamen knew, to work for them was to have lost all chances that following the sea affords even in these days.'

Excerpt:'“Move on, old man, and go home!” It was the stern voice of one of New York's finest policemen that uttered these words. “Home! I wonder where it is?” muttered the old man to whom the policeman had spoken, and a shudder ran through his frame, as he slowly moved down the street. As he reached the corner near old St. John's Church, on Varick Street, he paused, rubbed his eyes and gazed dreamily around him. For some time before the policeman had addressed him he had been standing inside the church, looking through the railings into the churchyard. His form was bent by decrepitude and sorrow, and his hair was as white as the flaky snow that clung to the steeple of the old church, the bells of which had just sounded the knell of the dying year. The old man only halted on the corner for a minute, and then, crossing Beach Street, he shuffled along until he reached the center of the block, where he came to a standstill in front of an old-fashioned house, which was unoccupied. Then, as if a faintness had come over him, he grasped the rusty iron railing to prevent himself falling to the ground, and he closed his eyes, as though[6] the sight of the snow-covered houses was too much for him.'

Excerpt:'“You say this burglar has got into your bedroom three times?” “Yes, Carter. Three times that I know of. He may have got in oftener for aught I know.” “Hardly likely, Mr. Bentham. If you woke up three times and saw him, it indicates that there is something in his presence which affects you even in your sleep. It is a psychological influence, evidently.” Professor Matthew Bentham, one of the most learned scientists in Brooklyn, shook his head. He knew too much about psychology to believe it was an agent in his case. “That explanation won't do, Carter,” he declared. “On each occasion I have been awakened by a distinct noise in the room.” “But you never got up to interfere with the man,” Nick Carter reminded him. “That isn't your way. No one ever has insinuated that you lack in physical courage. You are an athlete, too. I have had the gloves on with you, remember, and I know how you handle yourself. There must have been something to make you lie still in bed while a stranger was ransacking your bedchamber.” The famous detective was sitting comfortably in Professor Bentham's well-appointed library on the ground floor of the latter's home near Prospect Park, and both were smoking. Carter had dropped in casually to see his friend, and the subject of the mysterious burglar had come up without any previous knowledge of it by the detective. They had been talking about other things, particularly about some important records of a Chinese secret organization which were in Matthew Bentham's care, and which were soon to be sent to Washington.'

Excerpt:'On Hallowe'en when elves and witches are abroad, we find it the custom over all the world to build bonfires, to keep off evil spirits; and this is the night of all nights to entertain friends with stunts similar to those performed two hundred years ago. On this night fortunes are told, games are played, and if it so happens that your birthday falls on this night, you may even be able to hold converse with fairies—so goes the ancient superstition!'

Western novelette by W C Tuttle, published in Adventure magazine. Excerpt:'It was the year of the big drouth in the valley of Moon River; a season when every blade of grass was worth its weight in gold to the cattlemen, who watched with jealous care over their unstaked portions of the range and guarded closely their almost dry water-holes. Day after day through the long summer the merciless sun had baked the grass-roots; browning the land; burning below the surface, until a puff of wind would drift the soil, as a wind drifts dry snow. Even the sage and greasewood turned from purple to brownish-gray. Along the river, which wound its way through this crescent-shaped valley, the leaves of willow and cottonwood hummed paper-dry in the hot winds, while the river, itself, was shrunken to half its normal Summer stage. The range cattle were red-eyed, hollow of flank and dust-colored and when they stopped to graze their panting nostrils would send up tiny puffs of smoke-like dust. In all that valley of rolling hills, which sloped upward on both sides to the hazy heights of the Shoshone Mountains, there was no sign of green vegetation. Riding down the slope of one of these hills, heading toward the river, came a tall, thin cowboy, unshaven and unshorn. The expression of his thin face was serious as he squinted into the hazy distance and spoke softly to his rangy bay horse— “Bronc,'f this ain't the best place I ever seen t'commit murder in, then my name ain't ‘Skeeter Bill'Sarg.” The horse sniffed suspiciously at the dry grass, but did not crop at it.'

When Hollings Harland, a hot shot corporate lawyer from New York, plummets eighteen stories from a hall window of the Black Eagle Building onto Broadway below, suicide is the verdict. Part of an illegal cartel about to be exposed for trying to corner the copper market, Harland had just left an angry meeting with plutocrat Johnston Barker, also rumoured to be involved in the Copper Pool. Starting her own informal investigation by virtue of a friend who works on the seventeenth floor of the same building, sparky ex-switchboard girl turned part-time sleuth Molly Morgenthau Babbitts suspects murder, aided by her friend criminal lawyer Jack Reddy, his boss Mr. Whitney and her own husband, who is a reporter. (Goodreads)

When Kitty's aunt and guardian is mysteriously murdered, the hunt is on for the killer. Through the tangles of a love triangle, jealousy, a terrible family secret and a hidden fortune, we follow Kitty...

Excerpt:'The time when the intellectual affairs of America could be conducted on a monolingual basis is over. It has been irksome for long. The intellectual life of London is dependent on people who understand the French language about as well as their own. America's part in contemporary culture is based chiefly upon two men familiar with Paris: Whistler and Henry James. It is something in the nature of a national disgrace that a New Zealand paper,'The Triad,'should be more alert to, and have better regular criticism of, contemporary French publications than any American periodical has yet had.'

Aboard the Plymouth Express train there is a strange smell of chloroform. It is soon found to come from a body under the seat - that of Mrs Rupert Carrington, pampered child of an American millionaire.

Excerpt:'In Paris, where men of thought and study bear a certain likeness to one another, living as they do in a common centre, you must have met with several resembling Monsieur Rabourdin, whose acquaintance we are about to make at a moment when he is head of a bureau in one of our most important ministries. At this period he was forty years old, with gray hair of so pleasing a shade that women might at a pinch fall in love with it for it softened a somewhat melancholy countenance, blue eyes full of fire, a skin that was still fair, though rather ruddy and touched here and there with strong red marks; a forehead and nose a la Louis XV., a serious mouth, a tall figure, thin, or perhaps wasted, like that of a man just recovering from illness, and finally, a bearing that was midway between the indolence of a mere idler and the thoughtfulness of a busy man. If this portrait serves to depict his character, a sketch of this man's dress will bring it still further into relief. Rabourdin wore habitually a blue surcoat, a white cravat, a waistcoat crossed a la Robespierre, black trousers without straps, gray silk stockings and low shoes. Well-shaved, and with his stomach warmed by a cup of coffee, he left home at eight in the morning with the regularity of clock-work, always passing along the same streets on his way to the ministry: so neat was he, so formal, so starched that he might have been taken for an Englishman on the road to his embassy.'

Excerpt:''Mighty beach to-day!'grumbled Captain Image, and handed binoculars across to the purser. Mr. Balgarnie tossed his cigarette over the lee rail and tucked a sheaf of papers into his mouth so as to have two spare hands. Day had ten minutes before glared up over an oily swell-writhing sea of bottle-green; dew lay in fat greasy gouts on the deck planks and the skylight frames, foretelling in clear prophecy another spell of scalding West African sunshine; and a mile out from the crashing, bellowing surf that smoked along the beach, the S.S. M'poso buttocked sullenly over the swells, with engines rung off, and sweating firemen on the top of the fiddley, slewing ventilators to catch a flavor of the breeze.'They've seen us, sir, at the factory,'said Mr. Balgarnie.'All the boys are out working cargo, and there's old Swizzle-Stick Smith sucking his eternal pipe and hustling them with a chiquot. I can catch the glint of his eyeglass. Wonder how long that man's been out on the Coast? Must be a matter of twenty years now by all accounts since he had his last run home. He's found the right kind of ju-ju to dodge fever-palaver, anyhow. They say he's a lazy old beach-comber as a general thing, but he's up bright and early this morning.''

Excerpt:'DESCRIPTION OF CHARACTERS: Admiral Grice (Retired), a testy old gentleman of about sixty-five, with the manner of an old sea dog, of ruddy complexion, with white hair and whiskers. William Faraday, a well-preserved man of about sixty-five. Fashionable, superficial and thoroughly selfish. Colonel Smith, a dignified, dryly humorous man of military bearing, about forty years old. Robert Tarver, an empty-headed young swell. Henry Steele and James Raleigh, two young men of about thirty and thirty-five respectively. Martin, a dignified old family servant. Celia Faraday, an unaffected woman of twenty-nine, with a sense of humor. Madge (Mrs. Rockingham) and Evelyn (Lady Trenchard), handsome, well-dressed, fashionable women of twenty-five and twenty-seven respectively. Phyllis, the youngest sister, a charming and pretty but thoughtlessly selfish girl of twenty. Mrs. Chisholm Faraday, of Chicago (Aunt Ida), a florid, quick-tempered, warm-hearted woman of fifty or thereabouts.'

Excerpt:'The two new boys in Heriot's house had been suitably entertained at his table, and afterwards in his study with bound volumes of Punch. Incidentally they had been encouraged to talk, with the result that one boy had talked too much, while the other shut a stubborn mouth tighter than before. The babbler displayed an exuberant knowledge of contemporary cricket, a more conscious sense of humour, and other little qualities which told their tale. He opened the door for Miss Heriot after dinner, and even thanked her for the evening when it came to an end. His companion, on the other hand, after brooding over Leech and Tenniel with a sombre eye, beat a boorish retreat without a word. Heriot saw the pair to the boys'part of the house. He was filling his pipe when he returned to the medley of books, papers, photographic appliances, foxes'masks, alpen-stocks and venerable oak, that made his study a little room in which it was difficult to sit down and impossible to lounge. His sister, perched upon a coffin-stool, was busy mounting photographs at a worm-eaten bureau.'

The story starts with a quick sketch of characters and the current situation before quickly moving into theft and murder. Lady Rawson, the wife of a high-ranking member of British Intelligence service (Sir Robert) is murdered. She has a secret past, mysterious Russian cohorts and was in disguise when she was killed. Who was she and who did the foul deed? (Goodreads)

Excerpt:'Nick Carter leaned nearer to the wall and listened to what the two men were discussing. The wall was that of a booth in the café of the Shelby House. It was a partition of matched sheathing only, through which ordinary conversation in the adjoining booth could be easily overheard, and both men in this case spoke above an ordinary tone. Obviously, therefore, they were discussing nothing of a private nature, or anything thought to be of much importance, or serious significance. It meant no more to them, in fact, than it would have meant to most men, to all save one in a million. That one in a million was seated alone in the next booth—Nick Carter. The two men were strangers to the detective. They had entered when he was near the end of his lunch, and while waiting for their orders to be served they engaged in the conversation which, though heard only by chance, soon seriously impressed the detective. “You were a little later than usual this noon, Belden,” said one. “Yes, a few minutes, Joe, but I thought you would wait for me. My ticker got busy just as I was about to leave. I remained to take the dispatch, Gordon, and it proved to be quite a long one.” “Something important?” “Not very. Only political news for the local paper.” “Belden evidently is a telegraph operator,” thought Nick. “Anything warm by wire this morning?” questioned Gordon. “No, nothing,” said Belden; and then he abruptly added: “There was a singular message, however, and an unusual circumstance in connection with it.”'

A Canadian governor's daughter has been kidnapped, documents are missing, a murderous old friend appears, somebody's shooting up a saloon, a preacher falls to his death, an oil company dupes a farmer out of his land, and everybody knows that Nick Carter is on the case! (Goodreads)

Excerpt:'When Miss Elizabeth Wiggin settled herself comfortably in the shade of the spreading oak in Libby's pasture, she looked forward eagerly to a pleasant and quiet hour with her book, “Wooed, Won, and Wedded.” As may be surmised from the title of the book, Miss Wiggin was romantic. She was likewise just eighteen years of age, and the daughter of Judge Nathan P. Wiggin, of Greenbush, the village that could be seen nestling in the valley something like a mile distant from that hillside oak. Miss Wiggin lived in Greenbush, but on pleasant afternoons she had a habit of wandering away, accompanied only by an aged shepherd dog, in search of some spot where she could read without fear of interruption. For her grim old father objected to trashy love stories, and her ascetic spinster aunt, who had acted as the judge's housekeeper since the death of Mrs. Wiggin, held all such fiction in abhorrence. Indeed, the animus of Aunt Sally Wiggin against stories depicting the ravages wrought by the little god of the bow and arrow was so extreme that, by consigning such terrible tales to the flames whenever she found them about the house, she conscientiously did her best to prevent them from turning the head of her niece. She even forbade the village news dealer to sell Bessie any more books of that type. In these days, however, it is no easy matter to deprive any one of the mental pabulum that is desired, and Aunt Sally had set herself a task that she could not accomplish. Lemuel Dodd, Judge Wiggin's hostler and man of all work, red-headed, freckled, and homely as a slump fence, undeterred by the discouraging fact that his persistent efforts to make love to Bessie seemed merely to arouse her amusement, became her secret and faithful ally. Twice a week, at least, he spent twenty-five cents of his wages for a paper-covered novel to be smuggled into her possession, and invariably he chose the ones whose titles seemed to promise that their contents would come up to Elizabeth's requirements. “There ain't many single fellers left round this town,” Lemuel told himself, “and mebbe if she reads enough of them yarns she'll git so desprit she'll have to grab what's handy. And when she gits the notion to grab, I'm going to take keer that I'm the handiest thing in reach.” And so, on this sunny September afternoon, Bessie Wiggin was seeking the shade of the oak in Libby's pasture, presumably afar from interruption, and prepared thoroughly to enjoy Lemuel's latest contribution. Her face was almost hidden by one of Aunt Sally's extremely old-fashioned sunbonnets, which she had hastily taken when she slipped out of the house with the book. Shep, the old dog, stretched himself in the short grass at her feet and prepared to go to sleep comfortably.'

Madge and Ella have lived at Clover Cottage for six weeks when a series of strange events begin to occur. A gentleman who arrives asking for a piano lesson from Madge, suddenly bolts out the back door and over the hedge when he sees a rough-looking character watching him from the street in front of the cottage. This man in turn, runs away when he sees a shabbily dressed woman come around the corner. The woman, marches into the cottage, declaring that the cottage is haunted, and she is the wife of the ghost! An attempted burglary, and a cryptic note left at the scene, just add to the mystery.

Bartleby, the Scrivener: A Story of Wall Street'is a short story by the American writer Herman Melville. In the story, a Wall Street lawyer hires a new clerk who, after an initial bout of hard work, refuses to make copies or do any other task required of him, refusing with the words'I would prefer not to.'Numerous critical essays have been published about the story, which scholar Robert Milder describes as'unquestionably the masterpiece of the short fiction'in the Melville canon.

Excerpt: “There was a considerable number of people in the little parlour—to wit, Mr. Bates in his big chair on one side of the fire, sipping rum-and-water, and reading a newspaper which was soft and crumpled with the usage of the day at the nearest public-house; and Mrs. Bates on the other, seated between the fireplace and the table, mending the stockings of the family. Charley was reading an old yellow novel behind his mother, and Matilda was making her winter bonnet with a quantity of materials in a large piece of paper on the table, which was covered with a red and green cloth. It was October, and not cold, but there was a fire, and a branched gas pendant with two lights, shed heat as well as light into the close little room. There was another daughter, Sarah Jane, who was coming and going about the table, now and then making incursions into the kitchen; and behind backs in the corner, on a black haircloth sofa against the wall, were seated the pair of lovers.'

Excerpt:'The lazy blue river and the wide, brown plains of Picardy lay basking in the still splendor of the November afternoon. The mysterious hush of the autumn lay upon the fields and the farmsteads. A flock of herons in a near-by marsh meditated gravely, standing one-legged, and watching the cows kneedeep in the muddy meadows. High in the sunny air, a vulture sailed, majestically evil, watching both the cows and the herons. The world was saying farewell softly to the sunny hours. The only sound that broke the deep silence was the steady trot of the big Normandy horses on the flinty towpath, as they drew a covered boat along the narrow and shallow stream, and the faint echo of the voices of five persons sitting[2] on the roof of the boat in the sunshine. The herons cocked their eyes toward the boat, and listened attentively, though they could not understand a word of these strange, noisy, laughing, weeping, fighting, dancing, talking creatures, called men and women. Sometimes, so the herons thought, these odd beings were a little kind; sometimes they were very cruel, but always they were formidable, and were masters of life and death. The great question under discussion on the roof of the boat was, where the theatrical company of jugglers and singers should spend the winter. Grandin, the proprietor of the show, a tall, handsome, boastful man, with a big voice like a church organ and a backbone made of brown paper, always gave his opinion first, but was generally overruled by Madame Grandin, also tall, handsome, easily wheedled or bullied, but inexorably truthful. Decisions really rested with the three subordinates, Diane Dorian, the prima donna, Jean Leroux, her partner, and the individual known as François le Bourgeois, juggler.'

Excerpt:'My object in writing most of these papers—especially those collected under the general heads of'Sketches of Character'and'Social Grievances'—was to present what I had observed and what I had thought, in the lightest and the least pretentious form; to address the public (if I could) with something vi of the ease of letter writing, and something of the familiarity of friendly talk. The literary Pulpit appeared to me at that time—as it appears to me still—to be rather overcrowded with the Preachers of Lay Sermons. Views of life and society to set us thinking penitently in some cases, or doubting contemptuously in others, were, I thought, quite plentiful enough already. More freshness and novelty of appeal to the much-lectured and much-enduring reader, seemed to lie in views which might put us on easier terms with ourselves and with others; and which might encourage us to laugh good-humouredly over some of the lighter eccentricities of character, and some of the more palpable absurdities of custom—without any unfair perversion of truth, or any needless descent to the lower regions of vulgarity and caricature. With that idea, all the lighter contributions to these Miscellanies were originally written; and with that idea they are now again dismissed from my desk, to win what approval they may from new readers.'