Childrens Books

just past the chalk-quarry and before you come to the gravel-pit. And then there was a white house with a green garden and anorchard beyond, and mother said, "Here we are!"

"How white the house is," said Robert.
"And look at the roses," said Anthea.
"And the plums," said Jane.
"It is rather decent," Cyril admitted.

The Baby said, "Wanty go walky;" and the hack stopped with a last rattleand jolt.Everyonegot its legs kicked or its feet trodden on in the scramble toget out of the carriage that very minute, but no one seemed to mind.Mother, curiously enough, was in no hurry to get out; Continue reading

THE FIRST CHAPTER

PUDDLEBY

ONCE upon a time, many years ago when our grandfathers were little children--there was a doctor; and his name was Dolittle--John Dolittle,M.D. "M.D." means that he was a proper doctor and knew a whole lot. He lived in a little town called, Puddleby-on-the-Marsh.

All the folks,young and old, knew him well by sight. And whenever he walked down thestreet in his high hat everyone would say, "There goes theDoctor!--He's a clever man." And the dogs and the children would allrun up and follow behind him; and even the crows that lived in thechurch-tower would caw and nod their heads. The house he lived in, on the edge of the town, was quite small;

Many years ago the Doctor gave me permission to do this. But we were both of us so busy then voyaging around the world, having adventures and filling note-books full of natural history that I never seemed to get time to sit down and write of our doings. Now of course, when I am quite an old man, my memory isn't so good any more. But whenever I am indoubt and have to hesitate and think, I always ask Polynesia, the parrot.

That wonderful bird (she is now nearly two hundred and fifty years old) sits on the top of my desk, usually humming sailor songs to herself, while I write this book. And, as every one who ever met her knows, Polynesia's memory is the most marvelous memory in the world. Continue reading

When my convivial host discovered that he had told me so much, and that I was prone to doubtfulness, his foolish pride assumed the task the old vintage had commenced, and so he unearthed written evidence in the form of musty manuscript, and dry official records of the British Colonial Office to support many of the salient features of his remarkable narrative.

I do not say the story is true, for I did not witness the happenings which it portrays, but the fact that in the telling of it to you I have taken fictitious names for the principal characters quite sufficiently evidences the sincerity of my own belief that it maybe true.The yellow, mildewed pages of the diary of a man long dead, and the records of the Colonial Office dovetail perfectly with the narrative of my convivial host, Continue reading

CHAPTER 1 How it happened that Mastro Cherry, carpenter, found a piece of wood that wept and laughed like a child. Centuries ago there lived "A king!" my little readers will say immediately. No, children, you are mistaken. Once upon a time there was a piece of wood. It was not an expensive piece of wood. Far from it. Just a common block of firewood, one of those thick, solid logs that are put on the fire in winter to make cold rooms cozy and warm.

I do not know how this really happened, yet the fact remains that one fine day this piece of wood found itself in the shop of an old carpenter. His real name was Mastro Antonio, but everyone called him Mastro Cherry, for the tip of his nose was so round and red and shiny that it looked like a ripe cherry. As soon as he saw that piece of wood, Mastro Cherry was filled with joy. Rubbing his hands together happily, he mumbled half to himself:

his noddle solemnly. When Pinocchio scratched his head in this way you could be sure that there was trouble in the air And so there was. The room was empty, the windows closed, and the door as well; no noise came from the still quiet street; a 2 deep silence filled the air, yet there, right there, close to him, he heard queer sounds like blows-tick-tock ... tick-tock ... tick-tock ... tick-tock.

It sounded like some one who was amusing himself by rapping with his knuckles on a wooden box-tick-tock ... tick-tock ... tick-tock."But who is it?" called out the puppet, suddenly, jumping down from the sofa and running to peer into everycorner of the room. When he had knocked over the chest, rummaged the wardrobe with the mirror, upset thelittle table, turned over the chairs, Continue reading

glass in the front door, a tiled passage that was called a hall, a bath-room with hot and cold water, electric bells, French windows, and a good deal of white paint, and 'every modern convenience', as the house-agents say.

There were three of them. Roberta was the eldest. Of course, Mothers never have favourites, but if their Mother HAD had a favourite, it might have been Roberta.

Next came Peter, who wished to be an Engineer when he grew up; and the youngest was Phyllis, who meant extremely well Mother did not spend all her time in paying dull calls to dull ladies, and sitting dully at home waiting for dull ladies to pay calls to her. She was almost always there, ready to play with the children, and read to them, and help them to do their home-lessons. Continue reading

A LETTER FROM CAPTAIN GULLIVER TO HIS COUSIN SYMPSON.

Written in the Year 1727.

I hope you will be ready to own publicly, whenever you shall be called to it, that by your great and frequent urgency you prevailed on me to publish a very loose and uncorrect account of my travels,

with directions to hire some young gentleman of either university to put them in order,and correct the style, as my cousin Dampier did, by my advice, in his book called "A Voyage round the world." But I do not remember I gave you power to consent that any thing should be omitted, and much less that any thing should be inserted; therefore, as to the latter, I do here renounce every thing of that kind;

I take up my pen in the year of grace 17__ and go back to the time when my father kept the Admiral Benbow inn and the brown old seaman with the sabre cut first took up his lodging under our roof. I remember him as if it were yesterday, as he came plodding to the inn door, his sea-chest following behind him in a hand-barrow - a tall, strong, heavy, nut-brown man, his tarry pigtail falling over the shoulder

of his soiled blue coat, his hands ragged and scarred, with black, broken nails, and the sabre cut across one cheek, a dirty, livid white. I remember him looking round the cover and whistling to himself as he did so, and then breaking out in that old sea-song that he sang so often afterwards: Continue reading

a very good family in that country, andfrom whom I was called Robinson Kreutznaer; but, by the usual corruption of words in England, we are now called-nay we call ourselves and write our name-Crusoe; and so my companions always called me.

I had two elder brothers, one of whom was lieutenant-colonel to an English regiment of foot in Flanders, formerly commanded by the famous Colonel Lockhart, and was killed at the battle near Dunkirk against the Spaniards. What became of my second brother I never knew, anymore than my father or mother knew what became of me Continue reading

CHAPTER ONE
The Man Who Died

I returned from the City about three o'clock on that May afternoon pretty well disgusted with life. I had been three months in the Old Country, and was fed up with it. If anyone had told me a year agothat I would have been feeling like that I should have laughed at him; but there was the fact. The weather made me liverish, the talk of the ordinary Englishman made me sick,

I couldn't get enough exercise, and the amusements of London seemed as flat as soda-water that has been standing in the sun. 'Richard Hannay,' I kept telling myself, 'you have got into the wrong ditch, my friend, andyou had better climb out.' It made me bite my lips to think of the plans I had been building up those last years in Bulawayo.

As soon as the light in the bedroom went out there was a stirring and afluttering all through the farm buildings. Word had gone round during the day that old Major, the prize Middle White boar, had had a strange dreamon the previous night and wished to communicate it to the other animals. It had been agreed that they should all meet in the big barn as soon as Mr. Jones was safely out of the way

Old Major (so he was always called, though the name under which he had been exhibited was Willingdon Beauty) was so highly regarded on the farm that everyone was quite ready to lose an hour's sleep in order to hear what he had to say. At one end of the big barn, on a sort of raised platform, Major was Continue reading

the admonitory events that have happened to others and take warning, and come to the knowledge of what befell bygone peoples and are restrained thereby. So glory be to Him who hath appointed the things that have been done aforetime for an example to those that come after! And of these admonitory instances are the histories called the Thousand Nights and One Night, with all their store of illustrious fables and relations.

It is recorded in the chronicles of the things that have been done of time past that there lived once, in the olden days and in bygone ages and times, a king of the kings of the sons of Sasan, who reigned over the Islands of India and China and was lord of armies and guards and servants and retainers. Continue reading