Captain Cook—His Life, Voyages, and Discoveries. Early Training. Among all those Englishmen who, from a humble origin, have risen to an honourable position, Captain James Cook is especially worthy of record. His parents were of the peasant class—his father having commenced life as a farm-labourer, and his mother being a cottager’s daughter. Probably, however, they were both superior to others of the same station, as the... more...

On the east coast of England, there is a small hamlet surrounded by high sand-hills, with scarcely a blade of grass or even a low shrub to be seen in its neighbourhood. The only vegetable productions, indeed, which can flourish in that light soil, are the pale green rushes, whose roots serve to bind the sand together, and to prevent the high easterly winds, so constantly blowing on that coast, affecting it as much as they would otherwise do. Even... more...

“Dick Burton, you’re a daddy! Polly’s been and got a baby for you, old boy!” exclaimed several voices, as the said Dick mounted the side of the old “Boreas,” on the books of which ship he was rated as a quarter-master, he having just then returned from a pleasant little cutting-out expedition, where he had obtained, besides honour and glory, a gash on the cheek, a bullet through the shoulder, and a prong from a... more...

Archibald Hughson, a young Shetland lad, having a strong desire to go to sea, and his mother withholding her consent, determines to run from home.—He is treacherously assisted by Max Inkster, a wicked sailor, who succeeds in getting him stowed away on board the “Kate,” a Greenland whaler. “Where are you going, Archy?” asked Maggie Hughson, as she ran after her brother, who was stealing away from the house, evidently... more...

Chapter One. “What! Ned Raymond ahoy! Heave to, lad. What! dost seek to give a wide berth to an old friend? That once was not your wont. Ned Raymond ahoy, I say!” The slight dark moustache on the lip of the person addressed showed that he had just reached the age of manhood. His raven hair hung in ringlets from his head. A black velvet cloak thrown over one shoulder, and a tightly-fitting dress of the same material and hue, set off his... more...

“Hugh, my lad! Hugh, run and tell Madge we have come back,” cried Uncle Donald, as he and I entered the house on our return, one summer’s evening, from a hunting excursion in search of deer or any other game we could come across, accompanied by three of our dogs, Whiskey, Pilot, and Muskymote. As he spoke, he unstrapped from his shoulders a heavy load of caribou meat. I, having a similar load, did the same—mine was lighter than... more...

Chapter One. The Wolf, a letter-of-marque of twenty guns, commanded by Captain Deason, sailing from Liverpool, lay becalmed on the glass-like surface of the Pacific. The sun struck down with intense heat on the dock, compelling the crew to seek such shade as the bulwarks or sails afforded. Some were engaged in mending sails, twisting yarns, knotting, splicing, or in similar occupations; others sat in groups between the guns, talking together in... more...

Chapter One. “I say, didn’t you hear a cry?” exclaimed Charley Fielding, starting up from the camp fire at which we were seated discussing our evening meal of venison, the result of our day’s hunting. He leaned forward in the attitude of listening. “I’m sure I heard it! There it is again, but whether uttered by Redskin or four-footed beast is more than I can say.” We all listened, but our ears were not... more...

Chapter One. Some years ago two travellers, mounted on wiry yet strong looking steeds, were wending their way through a forest in Australia. They were both young and dressed much alike in broad-brimmed pith hats, loose red shirts, corduroy trousers and high boots with spurs. Each of them had stuck in his belt an axe, a brace of pistols, and a long knife; while at his back was slung a serviceable-looking rifle, showing that they were prepared to... more...

Chapter One. “How many more days, Jan, will it be before we get across this abominable desert?” I asked of our black guide, as we trudged along, he leading our sole remaining ox, while my uncle, Mr Roger Farley, and I led our two horses laden with the remnants of our property. “May be ten days, may be two ten,” answered Jan Jigger, whose knowledge of numerals was somewhat limited. I gave a groan, for I was footsore and... more...