Classic Books

Serialized in early 1900s, ‘Through the Magic Door’ reveals Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s interests in literary genres as well as the names of the books that he readd. It sometimes appears like a conversational article.

Unlike some other reproductions of classic texts. We have not used OCR (Optical Character Recognition), as this leads to bad quality books with introduced typos. In books where there are images such as portraits, maps, sketches etc we have endeavoured to keep the quality of these images, so they represent accurately the original artefact. We believe this work is culturally important and have elected to bring the book back into print as part of our continuing commitment to the preservation of printed works worldwide.

Those who have experienced the charms of a nomad’s life, will, I trust, be once more reminded of happy days of freedom, will sympathise with us in our difficulties, and share the pleasures which they alone can appreciate. Should others, by chance, find some little interest in perusing these pages, and be tempted to taste for themselves the sweets of wandering through little known lands, they will be recompensed for doing so, and I shall have found my reward.

“What time is it?” inquired Dame Hansen, shaking the ashes from her pipe, the last curling rings from which were slowly disappearing between the stained rafters overhead.
“Eight o’clock, mother,” replied Hulda.
“It isn’t likely that any travelers will come to-night. The weather is too stormy.”
“I agree with you. At all events, the rooms are in readiness, and if any one comes, I shall be sure to hear them.”
“Has your brother returned?”
“Not yet.”
“Didn’t he say he would be back to-night?”
“No, mother. Joel went to take a traveler to Lake Tinn, and as he didn’t start until very late, I do not think he can get back to Dal before to-morrow.”
“Then he will spend the night at Moel, probably.”
“Yes; unless he should take it into his head to go on to Bamble to see Farmer Helmboe.”
“And his daughter Siegfrid.”
“Yes. Siegfrid, my best friend, whom I love like a sister!” replied the young girl, smiling.

The day was pleasant, in that particularly pleasant part of summer time, which the boys call “vacation,” when Tiger and Tom walked slowly down the street together.

You may think it strange that I mention Tiger first, but I assure you, Tom would not have been in the least offended by the preference. Indeed, he would have told you that Tiger was a most wonderful dog, and knew as much as any two boys, though this might be called extravagant.

Nearly a year ago, on Tom’s birthday, Tiger arrived as a present from Tom’s uncle, and as the dog leaped with a dignified bound from the wagon in which he made his journey, Tom looked for a moment into his great, wise eyes, and impulsively threw his arms around his shaggy neck.

Timaeus is one of Plato’s dialogues, mostly in the form of a long monologue given by the title character Timaeus of Locri, written c. 360 BC.

Time and Time Again’ is a 20th century novel by James Hilton, an English novelist. It is a story of a modest 20th century hero of his times. Bright with wit and incident by a master storyteller, it mounts to a startling , but credible climax.

Lost Horizon’ is a 1933 novel by English writer James Hilton. It is best remembered as the origin of Shangri-La, a fictional utopian lamasery high in the mountains of Tibet. While attempting to escape a civil war, four people are kidnapped and transported to the Tibetan mountains. After their plane crashes, they are found by a mysterious Chinese man. He leads them to a monastery hidden in “the valley of the blue moon” — a land of mystery and matchless beauty where life is lived in tranquil wonder, beyond the grasp of a doomed world.

The call on the TV-phone came right in the middle of my shaving. They have orders not to call me before breakfast for anything less than a national calamity. I pressed “Accept,” too startled to take the lather from my face.

“Hi, Gyp,” George Kelly said to me from the screen. “Hurry it up, boy.” He made no reference to my appearance on his screen. “Quit draggin’ your feet!”

This I take from George Kelly. First of all, he’s Director of the F.B.I. Even more important, he’s my boss. “Hey, George,” I protested, knowing he would not have called on a routine matter. “I got up before breakfast as it is. What’s up?” I hardly needed to ask. When they call me, it’s always the same sickening kind of trouble.

TITIAN VECELLI, undeniably the greatest Venetian painter of the Renaissance, leaps into the full light of the movement. To be sure he appears full-grown, as Venus is said to have done when she appeared above the foam in the waters of Cythera, or Pallas Athene when she sprang from the brain of Zeus, but happily he was destined to live to a great age.
We have few and scanty records to tell of the very early days. So wide was his circle of patrons in after life, so intimate his acquaintance with the leading men of his generation, that it is not difficult to find out what manner of man he was without the aid of his pictures, even though they have a very definite story to tell the painstaking student.

THE work of the day being over, I sat down upon my doorstep, pipe in hand, to rest awhile in the cool of the evening. Death is not more still than is this Virginian land in the hour when the sun has sunk away, and it is black beneath the trees, and the stars brighten slowly and softly, one by one. The birds that sing all day have hushed, and the horned owls, the monster frogs, and that strange and ominous fowl (if fowl it be, and not, as some assert, a spirit damned) which we English call the whippoorwill, are yet silent. Later the wolf will howl and the panther scream, but now there is no sound. The winds are laid, and the restless leaves droop and are quiet. The low lap of the water among the reeds is like the breathing of one who sleeps in his watch beside the dead.

Even to-day it is not possible to travel into the remote corners of the West without seeing the lives of people still affected by a fighting past. How can the truth be told about the pioneering of the West if the struggle, the fight, the blood be left out? It cannot be done. How can a novel be stirring and thrilling, as were those times, unless it be full of sensation? My long labors have been devoted to making stories resemble the times they depict. I have loved the West for its vastness, its contrast, its beauty and color and life, for its wildness and violence, and for the fact that I have seen how it developed great men and women who died unknown and unsung.

“It was Christmas Eve.
“I begin this way because it is the proper, orthodox, respectable way to begin, and I have been brought up in a proper, orthodox, respectable way, and taught to always do the proper, orthodox, respectable thing; and the habit clings to me.
“Of course, as a mere matter of information it is quite unnecessary to mention the date at all. The experienced reader knows it was Christmas Eve, without my telling him. It always is Christmas Eve, in a ghost story,
“Christmas Eve is the ghosts’ great gala night. On Christmas Eve they hold their annual fete. On Christmas Eve everybody in Ghostland who IS anybody—or rather, speaking of ghosts, one should say, I suppose, every nobody who IS any nobody—comes out to show himself or herself, to see and to be seen, to promenade about and display their winding-sheets and grave-clothes to each other, to criticise one another’s style, and sneer at one another’s complexion.” -Introduction

Romain Rolland’s biography of Tolstoy is both a tribute to its great subject and an assessment of his work. Rolland, who received the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1915, was profoundly affected by Tolstoy’s writing and particularly concerned with Tolstoy’s conceptions of art.

A plaintive sob greeted his words from the neighbourhood of the sofa. For once in her life Mrs Chester’s kindly, good-tempered face had lost its smiles, and was puckered up into lines of distress. She let one fat, be-ringed hand drop to her side and wander restlessly over the satin skirt in search of a pocket. Presently out came a handkerchief, which was applied to each eye in turn, and came away bedewed with tears.

Tom Sawyer, Detective is an 1896 novel by Mark Twain. It is a sequel to The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and Tom Sawyer Abroad. Tom Sawyer attempts to solve a mysterious murder in this burlesque of the immensely popular detective novels of the time.

The reports in the American newspapers of the loss of Tom Slade, aviator, were read by his many admirers and friends with a sense of shock and with feelings of personal bereavement.

A classic adventure series by many writers including Stratemeyer Syndicate and his successors associated with Tom Swift. Tom Swift, in his first adventure, has purchased a motorcycle and immediately gets busy modifying it. Eager to test his enhancements, Tom volunteers to transport his father’s revolutionary turbine design plans across the country roads to Albany. Unaware of the evil corporate investors who want to steal the invention for themselves, Tom falls into their trap and finds himself facing the greatest peril of his young life. It is up to Tom not only to retrieve the blueprints and turbine prototype, but also to bring a gang of hired thugs to justice.

Some of Lawrence’s most well-known poems are those that deal with the relationship between nature and man. All of the poems in this book revolve around a simple figure: the tortoise.

First published in the year 1913, in the present book, ‘Totem and Taboo’ by the father of psychoanalysis Sigmund Freud, the author applies psychoanalysis to the fields of archaeology, anthropology, and the study of religion. It is a collection of four essays inspired by the work of Wilhelm Wundt and Carl Jung.

The Touch ‘n Go smart card is used by Malaysian toll expressway and highway operators as the sole electronic payment system. The credit card-sized smart card is made of plastic with Philips’ MIFARE Classic microchip technology embedded in it.

I would like to say to the diligent reader of my writings and to others who are interested in them that I am not at all concerned with appearing to be consistent. In my search after Truth I have discarded many ideas and learnt many new things. Old as I am in age, I have no feeling that I have ceased to grow inwardly or that my growth will stop at the dissolution of the flesh. What I am concerned with is my readiness to obey the call of Truth, my God, from moment to moment, and, therefore, when anybody finds any inconsistency between any two writings of mine, if he has still faith in my sanity, he would do well to choose the later of the two on the same subject.

Ascalon was the end of the trail for thirsty cowboys who gave vent to their pent-up feelings without restraint. Calvin Morgan was not concerned with its wickedness until Seth Craddock’s malevolence directed itself against him. He did not emerge from the maelstrom until he had obliterated every vestige of lawlessness, and assured himself of the safety of a certain dark-eyed girl.

First published in the year 1911, George Bird Grinnell’s novel ‘Trails of the Pathfinders’ is a collection of captivating articles through which the author examines the courage and determination of famous explorers including Lewis, Clark and Zebulon Pike.