Juvenile Fiction Books

CHAPTER I "Impossible, Ned! It can't be as much as that!" "Well, you can prove the additions yourself, Tom, on one of the adding machines. I've been over 'em twice, and get the same result each time. There are the figures. They say figures don't lie, though it doesn't follow that the opposite is true, for those who do not stick closely to the truth do, sometimes,... more...

When nursery lamps are veiled, and nurse is singing In accents low,Timing her music to the cradle's swinging,Now fast, now slow,— Singing of Baby Bunting, soft and furry In rabbit cloak,Or rock-a-byed amid the toss and flurryOf wind-swept oak; Of Boy-Blue sleeping with his horn beside him, Of my son John,Who went to bed (let all good boys deride him)With stockings on; Of sweet Bo-Peep following... more...

CHAPTER I "I hear that Janus Grubb is going to take a passel of gals on a tramp over the hills," observed the postmaster, helping himself to a cracker from the grocer's barrel. "Gals?" questioned the storekeeper. "Yes. There's a lot of mail here for the parties, mostly postals. Can't make much out of the postals, but some of the letters I can read through the... more...

The Outpost. On the northern shores of the Gulf of Saint Lawrence there stood, not very long ago, a group of wooden houses, which were simple in construction and lowly in aspect. The region around them was a vast uncultivated, uninhabited solitude. The road that led to them was a rude one. It wound round a rugged cliff, under the shelter of which the houses nestled as if for protection from the cold... more...

Once upon a time, Though I can't say exactly when, There lived, away in the country, A Little Small Red Hen. She wore a nice little apron, And a little sunbonnet too, And she walked picketty pecketty, As little Hens always do.   She had lived the whole of her little life, In the same little house; it stood All by itself, in a lonely spot, Just at the edge of a wood. It was very snug and cosy and... 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... more...

PART FIRST To begin with I wish to disclaim the possession of those high gifts of imagination and expression which would have enabled my pen to create for the reader the personality of the man who called himself, after the Russian custom, Cyril son of Isidor—Kirylo Sidorovitch—Razumov. If I have ever had these gifts in any sort of living form they have been smothered out of existence a long time... more...

CHAPTER I. BILLABONG Norah's home was on a big station in the north of Victoria—so large that you could almost, in her own phrase, "ride all day and never see any one you didn't want to see"; which was a great advantage in Norah's eyes. Not that Billabong Station ever seemed to the little girl a place that you needed to praise in any way. It occupied so very modest a position... more...

CHAPTER I "Brother," said Mother Morrison, "you haven't touched your glass of milk. Hurry now, and drink it before we leave the table." Brother's big brown eyes turned from his knife, which he had been playing was a bridge from the salt cellar to the egg cup, toward the tumbler of milk standing beside his plate. "I don't have to drink milk this morning, Mother,"... more...

CHAPTER I "LOOK AT THE SKYLIGHT!" With a joyful laugh, her curls dancing about her head, while her brown eyes sparkled with fun, a little girl danced through the hall and into the dining room where her brother was eating a rather late breakfast of buckwheat cakes and syrup. "Oh, Bunny, it's doing it! It's come! Oh, won't we have fun!" cried the little girl. Bunny Brown... more...