David Howarth

The east wind blew furiously, beating gray sheets down the streaming panes. Along the village street flowed a turbid torrent, the squalid wash of an "old-timer-three-days'-blow" from the Great Lakes. Threshing was hung up. Every wheel was stopped for a thousand miles across the prairies.

There was once a little boy named Diamond and he slept in a low room over a coach house. In fact, his room was just a loft where they kept hay and straw and oats for the horses. Little Diamond’s father was a coachman and he had named his boy after a favorite horse. Diamond’s father had built him a bed in the loft with boards all around it, because there was so little room in their own end of the coach house. So when little Diamond lay there in bed, he could hear the horses under him munching away in the dark or moving sleepily in their dreams. His father put old Diamond, the horse after whom he was named, in the stall under the bed because he was quiet and did not go to sleep standing, but lay down like a reasonable creature.

On a memorable morning of early December, London opened its eyes on a frigid grey mist. There are mornings when King Fog masses his molecules of carbon in serried squadrons in the city, while he scatters them tenuously in the suburbs; so that your morning train may bear you from twilight to darkness. But to-day the enemy's manoeuvring was more monotonous. From Bow even unto Hammersmith there draggled a dull, wretched vapour, like the wraith of an impecunious suicide come into a fortune immediately after the fatal deed. The barometers and thermometers had sympathetically shared its depression, and their spirits (when they had any) were low. The cold cut like a many-bladed knife.

There is always tragedy when man invades the solitudes of the earth, for his coming never fails to mean the destruction of the wild things. But, surely, nowhere can the pathos be greater than when, in the western part of North America, there is a discovery of new gold-diggings. Then from all points of the compass men come pouring into the mountains with axe and pick, gold-pan and rifle, breaking paths through the forest wildernesses, killing and driving before them the wild animals that have heretofore held the mountains for their own.

Savinien–Hercule de Cyrano Bergerac, swashbuckler, hero, poet, and philosopher, came of an old and noble family, richer in titles than in estates. His grandfather still kept most of the titles, and was called Savinien de Cyrano Mauvieres Bergerac Saint–Laurent. He was secretary to the King in 1571, and held other important offices.

A classic tale of mischance and mischief based on the original adventures. A naughty wooden puppet gets into trouble, disobeys his father, forgets his pomises, and skips through life looking for fun. Just like a "real boy." Until he learns that to become truly real, he must open his heart and think of others.

The east wind blew furiously, beating gray sheets down the streaming panes. Along the village street flowed a turbid torrent, the squalid wash of an "old-timer-three-days'-blow" from the Great Lakes. Threshing was hung up. Every wheel was stopped for a thousand miles across the prairies.

FEW mediaeval heroes are so widely known as William Tell. His exploits have been celebrated by one of the greatest poets and one of the most popular musicians of modern times. They are doubtless familiar to many who have never heard of Stauffacher or Winkelried, who are quite ignorant of the prowess of Roland, and to whom Arthur and Lancelot, nay, even Charlemagne, are but empty names.

The Princess and Curdie are back in this sequel to The Princess and the Goblin. Princess Irene and Curdie are a year or two older, and must overthrow a set of corrupt ministers who are poisoning Irene's father, the king. Irene's grandmother is also back and she gives Curdie a strange gift and a monster called Lina to help him on his quest. A wonderful tale of adventure and courage.

Revolutionary for the time in encouraging children to think like children, the adventure of Princess Irene and Curdie, the boy miner, was to influence generations of writers, including Chesterton and Tolkien. Overflowing with fantastic ideas and images to delight the young and allegory to inspire their morality The Princess and the Goblin has remained one of the most exciting tales for over 100 years. Irene lives in a castle on a mountain under which there is a labyrinth of tunnels inhabited by Goblins. Also, within the hillsides, is a group of miners digging for precious metals. When the Goblins try to kidnap the Princess and flood the mines it is up to Curdie, the boy miner, and Irene's great-great-great grandmother to use their wit and resource to defeat the wicked plan. 'I for one can really testify to a book that has made a difference to my whole existence, which helped me to see things in a certain way from the start; ... of all the stories I have read, it remains the most real, the most realistic, in the exact sense of the phrase the most like life. It is called The Princess and the Goblin, and is by George MacDonald...' —G. K. Chesterton

The former edition of this little tale was put forth with an Introduction (which was intended to be in keeping with it) from the pen of an imaginary author,—that William Churne, of whom Bishop Corbet writes, and who, two centuries since, seems to have been the great authority on all matters connected with Fairy-land.