Flashback Dawn (A Serialized Novel), Part 7: "Generation Zero"

Can she be more than a mistress? With a tarnished reputation, Mercy Lyndhurst expected to become the Earl of Rochford's mistress, not his wife. Immediately abandoned by her husband after their wedding, Mercy transformed herself from commoner to countess, vowing to protect the lands and people her husband was forced to leave. Over the past six years, William has restored the family fortune all the while tortured by his memories of Mercy…and the dark night he killed a man. When a threat draws him home, William learns just how much has changed–including his wife. While the passion still flares between them, he fears he has wounded her too badly to regain her trust. But as the danger grows they must unite to save the estate…and possibly their marriage.

Güney yurdundan Kuzey yurduna her yl gnderilen dokuz lüm mahkumu... Mahkumlardan birinin yeminine ihanet ederek kamas... Yeniden seilen mahkumlar bu sefer ant ierler nedensiz, sonu belirsiz bu düzeni bozmaya. Son mahkum olmaya... Onlar ZGRLK SAVAILARI!!! Nam- dier LM MAHKUMLARI!! lüm mahkumlarnn ak, kskanlk, mücadele ve heyecanla dolu zorlu yolculuu elik ederek Güne ve Ay Tapnaklar arasna incecik ipliklerle dokunmu tasavvuf mistik dokuyu kefetmeniz; kendi isel uyannz gerekletirmeniz temennisiyle... YAZAR: Neslihan Gültepe Maden, 1987 Konya doumlu. Seluk niversitesi Türke Eitimi Ana Bilim Dal mezunudur. Antalya’da Türke retmeni olarak grev yapmakta, Evli ve ü ocuk annesi..

The speaker had just pushed his horse over the brow of a slope which he and his servant had for some time been mounting, through the steamy warmth of a foggy May morning. The thick haze which lay heavy in this region of marshy ground had hidden the surrounding country from them hitherto; but as they reached the summit of the gradual rise they had been ascending, the cloud wreaths suddenly drifted away, and the sun began to shine out upon the undulating plain stretched before their eyes; and lo, the plain was alive with squadrons of soldiers—infantry, cavalry, artillery—drawn up in battle array; and the note of the bugle rang through the air, whilst away in the distance, on the opposite side of the plain, there was a movement which told that already the battle had begun. A sullen roar from the guns boomed forth, and the whole plain shook with the reverberation. Great masses of smoke rolled along and slowly dispersed after each salvo; but it was upon the evolutions of the bodies of horsemen and footmen that the keen eyes of the youthful traveller were intently fixed. "Dicon," he cried, "this is in all sooth a battle; and where the battle rages, there will the great victor of Blenheim be. We have not chanced upon this route in vain. Men warned us of the perils of seeking passage through a country which has become the theatre of war; but fortune's star has befriended us thus far, and now, if I mistake me not, we stand within sight of the greatest warrior of the age. For greatly shall I be astonished if the Duke of Marlborough himself be not conducting the evolutions of yonder squadrons."The brilliant dark eyes of the young man lighted with a great glow of excitement and admiration. He shaded them with his hand, and intently followed the evolutions of the moving masses in the plain stretched before his eyes. He was looking upon the village of Tavières and the mound of Ottomond, and the waters of the Mehaign rolled below at his feet. The right wing of the French army rested here, as he quickly saw; but for the moment the main activity lay over in the distance beyond Ramillies and Offuz, in the direction of Anderkirk. Yet as the traveller stood intently gazing, he saw a movement in the line of the allied army on this nearer side, and he exclaimed aloud in his excitement,— "See, Dicon, see! That attack yonder is but a feint. The key of the position lies here beneath us at Tavières, with its Tomb of Ottomond. See yonder those regiments of marching soldiers creeping round beneath the shelter of that rising ground! They will fling themselves upon the enemy's right, whilst the French general is diverting his available forces to protect his left. Villeroi, my friend, you did not well to dispose your forces in concave lines. You lose time in passing from place to place; and with such a general as our English Duke pitted against you, you cannot afford to lose any point in the game. Ha! See that? The Dutch and English soldiers are charging down upon Tavières! Watch how they come on—a great resistless tide of well-drilled veterans. See how they sweep all before them! See how the French fly forth! Ha, Villeroi, what think you now? Yes, you see your error; fain would you hurry back your reserves from left to right. But the time has gone by. They are miles away, and here are the Allies carrying all before them! Hurrah for old England! hurrah for the great Duke! Dicon, have you stomach for the fight? Do you remember Barcelona and Mountjuich? If we were men enough to help there, why not here too?"

THIS BOOK is written for all little lads and lasses, but especially for the former, since it is the true—quite true—story of a little lad who lived to be, perhaps, the greatest king this world has ever seen.?It is a strange, wild tale this of the adventures of Prince Akbar among the snowy mountains between Kandahar and Kabul, and though the names may be a bit of a puzzle at first, as they will have to be learned by and bye in geography and history lessons, it might be as well to get familiar with them in a story-book; though, indeed, as everybody in it except Roy the Rajput, Meroo the cook boy; Tumbu, the dog; and Down, the cat (and these four may have been true, you know, though they have not been remembered) really lived, I don't know whether this book oughtn't to be considered real history, and therefore??A LESSON BOOK:??"Anyhow, I hope you won't find it dull."??STORIES:?FAREWELL ?THE FIRST VICTORY ?THE ROYAL UMBRELLA ?TUMBU-DOWN ?ON THE ROAD ?AT COURT ?WINTER?DOWN'S STRATAGEM?SPRING ?THE NIGHT OF RECORD ?A WINTER MARCH?SNOW AND ICE ?OVER THE PASS ?IN THE VALLEY?DEAREST-LADY?CRUEL BROTHER KUMRAN?IMPRISONMENT?THE GARDEN OF GAMES?BETWIXT CUP AND LIP?ESCAPED?DAWN

He contado en el prologo de mi libro En el pais del Arte (Tres meses en Italia) como a mediados de 1895 tuve que huir de Valencia, despues de una manifestacion contra la guerra colonial, que degenero en movimiento sedicioso, dando origen a un choque de los manifestantes con la fuerza publica.??Perseguido por la autoridad militar como presunto autor de este suceso, vivi escondido algunos dias, cambiando varias veces de refugio, mientras mis amigos me preparaban el embarque secreto en un vapor que iba a zarpar para Italia.??Uno de mis alojamientos fue en los altos de un despacho de vinos situado cerca del puerto, propiedad de un joven republicano, que vivia con su madre. Durante cuatro dias permaneci metido en un entresuelo de techo bajo, sin poder asomarme a las ventanas que daban a la calle, por ser esta de gran transito y andar la policia y la Guardia civil buscan-dome en la ciudad y sus alrededores.??Obligado a permanecer en una habitacion interior, completamente solo, lei todos los libros que poseia el tabernero, los cuales no eran muchos ni dignos de interes. Luego, para distraerme, quise escri bir, y tuve que emplear los escasos medios que el dueno de la casa pudo poner a mi disposicion: ??una botellita de tinta violeta a guisa de tintero, un portapluma rojo, como los que se usan en las escuelas, y tres cuadernillos de papel de cartas rayado de azul... AUTOR: Vicente Blasco Ibanez nacio el 29 de enero de 1867 en Valencia (Espana). Era hijo de Ramona Ibanez y del comerciante Gaspar Blanco. Estudio Derecho en la Universidad de Valencia. Participo en la politica uniendose al Partido Republicano". En 1894 fundo el periodico El pueblo. En el ano 1896, fue detenido y condenado a varios meses de prision. En 1889 contrajo matrimonio con Maria Blasco del Cacho, hija del magistrado Rafael Blasco y Moreno. Cuando subio al poder Canovas del Castillo, el escritor se exilio brevemente en la ciudad de Paris. Fue un autor vinculado en muchos aspectos al naturalismo frances. Por otra parte, la explicita intencion politicosocial de algunas de las novelas de Blasco Ibanez, aunada al escaso bagaje intelectual del autor, lo mantuvo alejado de los representantes de la Generacion del 98. Murio el 28 de enero de 1928 en Menton (Francia)a los 60 anos. Entre sus titulos destacan:"Arroz y Tartana" (1894), "La Barraca" (1898), "Entre Naranjos (1900), "Canas y Barro" (1902), "La Horda" (1905), "Sangre y Arena" (1908) o "Los Cuatro Jinetes Del Apocalipsis" (1916).

Well, when I had been dead about thirty years I begun to get a little anxious. Mind you, had been whizzing through space all that time, like a comet.? Like a comet! Why, Peters, I laid over the lot of them! Of course there warn’t any of them going my way, as a steady thing, you know, because they travel in a long circle like the loop of a lasso, whereas I was pointed as straight as a dart for the Hereafter; but I happened on one every now and then that was going my way for an hour or so, and then we had a bit of a brush together. ??But it was generally pretty one-sided, because I sailed by them the same as if they were standing still. An ordinary comet don’t make more than about 200,000 miles a minute. Of course when I came across one of that sort—like Encke’s and Halley’s comets, for instance—it warn’t anything but just a flash and a vanish, you see. ??You couldn’t rightly call it a race. It was as if the comet was a gravel-train and I was a telegraph despatch. But after I got outside of our astronomical system, I used to flush a comet occa-sionally that was something like. We haven’t got any such comets—ours don’t begin. One night I was swinging along at a good round gait, everything taut and trim, and the wind in my favor—I judged I was going about a million miles a minute—it might have been more, it couldn’t have been less—when I flushed a most uncom-monly big one about three points off my starboard bow. ??By his stern lights I judged he was bearing about northeast-and-by-north-half-east. Well, it was so near my course that I wouldn’t throw away the chance; so I fell off a point, steadied my helm, and went for him. You should have heard me whiz, and seen the electric fur fly! ??In about a minute and a half I was fringed out with an electrical nimbus that flamed around for miles and miles and lit up all space like broad day. The comet was burning blue in the distance, like a sickly torch, when I first sighted him, but he begun to grow bigger and bigger as I crept up on him. I slipped up on him so fast that when I had gone about 150,000,000 miles I was close enough to be swallowed up in the phosphorescent glory of his wake, and I couldn’t see anything for the glare. Thinks I, it won’t do to run into him, so I shunted to one side and tore along. By and by I closed up abreast of his tail. Do you know what it was like? It was like a gnat closing up on the continent of America. I forged along. ??By and by I had sailed along his coast for a little upwards of a hundred and fifty million miles, and then I could see by the shape of him that I hadn’t even got up to his waistband yet. Why, Peters, we don’t know anything about comets, down here. If you want to see comets that are comets, you’ve got to go outside of our solar system—where there’s room for them, you understand. My friend, I’ve seen comets out there that couldn’t even lay down inside the orbits of our noblest comets without their tails hanging over.

Ally was lost—the little blue-eyed dear! That is to say, she was nowhere to be found. And of course there was commotion in the Valley. Michael, the gar-dener, was going one way; and John, the house-man, another; and Pincher, one of the loggers, was making for the hills with Uncle Billy in one direction, and Old Uncle and Will and Charlie had gone up in another; and Aunt Rose and Aunt Susan were hunting through the house; and Janet and Essie were running this way and that—and it was noon, and still they hadn't found her. Will was sure Ally would be found in the strawberry-patch on the farther edge of the intervale across the river, and as the boat was on the other side he had of-fered to swim over and fetch it. Charlie had been equally sure that she was looking for bear-cubs again in the hollow half-way up Blue Top. Aunt Susan was convinced that she had fallen asleep somewhere under a bush, when she could not be found in the house. ABOUT AUTHOR: Harriet Elizabeth Prescott Spofford (1835 –1921) was a notable American writer remembered for her novels, poems and detective stories. Biography:Born in Calais, Maine, in 1835 Spofford moved with her pa-rents to Newburyport, Massachusetts, which was ever after her home, though she spent many of her winters in Boston and Washington, D.C. She attended the Putnam Free School in Newburyport, and Pinkerton Academy in Derry, New Hampshire from 1853 to 1855. At Newburyport her prize essay on Hamlet drew the attention of Thomas Wentworth Higginson, who soon became her friend, and gave her counsel and encouragement.Spofford began writing after her parents became sick, sometimes working fifteen hours a day. She contributed story papers for small pay to Boston. In 1859, she sent a story about Parisian life entitled “In a Cellar” to Atlantic Monthly. The magazine's editor, James Russell Lowell, at first believed the story to be a translation and withheld it from publication. Reassured that it was original, he published it and it establis-hed her reputation. She became a welcome contributor to the chief periodicals of the United States, both of prose and poetry. Spofford's fiction had very little in common with what was regarded as representative of the New England mind. Her gothic romances were set apart by luxuriant descriptions, and an unconventional handling of female stereotypes of the day. Her writing was ideal, intense in feeling. In her descriptions and fancies, she reveled in sensuous delights and every variety of splendor.In 1865, she married Richard S. Spofford, a Boston lawyer. They lived on Deer Island overlooking the Merrimack River atAmesbury, a suburb of Newburyport, where she died on August 14, 1921.When Higginson asked Emily Dickinson whether she had read Spofford's work “Circumstance,” Books:? Sir Rohan's Ghost, 1860? The Amber Gods, and Other Stories, 1863, republished 1989? Azarian: An Episode, 1864? New England Legends, 1871? The Thief in the Night, 1872? Art Decoration Applied to Furniture, 1878? The Servant Girl Question, 1881? Marquis of Carabas, 1882? Poems, 1882? Hester Stanley at St. Mark's, 1883? Ballads About Authors, 1887? A Scarlet Poppy, and Other Stories, 1894? Old Madame, and Other Tragedies, 1900? That Betty, 1903? The Ray of Displacement and other stories, 1903? Old Washington, 1906? The Fairy Changeling, 1910? A Little Book of Friends, 1916? The Elder's People, 1920

This Christmas, New York Times bestselling author Diana Palmer revisits a tale of danger and true love under the mistletoe… What does Millie Evans want in her stocking for Christmas? Just one thing…to feel safe. Even though her stalker is dead, he arranged for a hit man to kill her. Now the special government agent Millie has loved from afar for years has vowed to protect her. The man of her dreams seems finally within her grasp… In order to keep Millie safe, Tony Danzetta moves the prim librarian into his home. He insists on keeping her in sight 24/7, but their proximity causes Tony to question what he really wants for the holidays. Can the agent resign himself to keeping Millie at arm's length – or can their secret connection blossom into a real happily ever after?

Return to 1800's Defiance, Colorado, in this beguiling story offinding love in the most unexpected places from #1 New York Times best-selling author Susan Mallery Lucas and Jackson MacIntyre stand to inherit the saloon, gold mine andranch that define the town of Defiance, Colorado. There's just oneproblem: the uncle who has left them the properties created a clausein his will stipulating that both brothers must marry if they want toclaim their inheritance. Emily Smythe knew she'd likely never marry, and she's moved toColorado to prove her independence from her family. She has a shrewdbusiness sense, so when she approaches Lucas about turning thesaloon's vacant upper level into a hotel, he sees the logic in theidea. Lucas has a proposition for Emily, too: become his wife in nameonly so that he can claim his inheritance, and she can run her hotelin his saloon. But though the marriage may be a business arrangement,Lucas soon finds it difficult to resist his new wife…

From New York Times best-selling author Joan Johnston, a heart-warming fan-favourite story of what it means to risk your whole heart for the one you love… A lone wolf like Stony Carlton isn't easy to tame. Commitment may be fine for other men, but Stony is a born rambler and refuses to be tied down, even to the right woman. Because how could such a person really exist? But then he meets the spirited Tess Lowell, a small-town waitress with emotional scars of her own, thanks to an ugly divorce. And, somehow, as the straight-talking redhead slowly earns a place in his heart, he can't help but think about what it might be like to give up his roaming ways…

The Mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning his little home. First with brooms, then with dusters; then on ladders and steps and chairs, with a brush and a pail of whitewash; till he had dust in his throat and eyes, and splashes of whitewash all over his black fur, and an aching back and weary arms. Spring was moving in the air above and in the earth below and around him, penetrating even his dark and lowly little house with its spirit of divine discontent and longing. It was small wonder, then, that he suddenly flung down his brush on the floor, said 'Bother!' and 'O blow!' and also 'Hang spring-cleaning!' and bolted out of the house without even waiting to put on his coat. Something up above was calling him imperiously, and he made for the steep little tunnel which answered in his case to the gavelled carriage-drive owned by animals whose residences are nearer to the sun and air. So he scraped and scratched and scrabbled and scrooged and then he scrooged again and scrabbled and scratched and scraped, working busily with his little paws and muttering to himself, 'Up we go! Up we go!' till at last, pop! his snout came out into the sunlight, and he found himself rolling in the warm grass of a great meadow. 'This is fine!' he said to himself. 'This is better than whitewashing!' The sunshine struck hot on his fur, soft breezes caressed his heated brow, and after the seclusion of the cellarage he had lived in so long the carol of happy birds fell on his dulled hearing almost like a shout. Jumping off all his four legs at once, in the joy of living and the delight of spring without its cleaning, he pursued his way across the meadow till he reached the hedge on the further side. 'Hold up!' said an elderly rabbit at the gap. 'Sixpence for the privilege of passing by the private road!' He was bowled over in an instant by the impatient and contemptuous Mole, who trotted along the side of the hedge chaffing the other rabbits as they peeped hurriedly from their holes to see what the row was about. 'Onion-sauce! Onion-sauce!' he remarked jeeringly, and was gone before they could think of a thoroughly satisfactory reply. Then they all started grumbling at each other. 'How STUPID you are! Why didn't you tell him——' 'Well, why didn't YOU say——' 'You might have reminded him——' and so on, in the usual way; but, of course, it was then much too late, as is always the case. It all seemed too good to be true. Hither and thither through the meadows he rambled busily, along the hedgerows, across the copses, finding everywhere birds building, flowers budding, leaves thrusting—everything happy, and progressive, and occupied. And instead of having an uneasy conscience pricking him and whispering 'whitewash!' he somehow could only feel how jolly it was to be the only idle dog among all these busy citizens. After all, the best part of a holiday is perhaps not so much to be resting yourself, as to see all the other fellows busy working.

The Brothers Karamazov, is the final novel by the Russian author Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Dostoyevsky spent nearly two years writing The Brothers Karamazov, which was published as a serial in The Russian Messenger and completed in November 1880. Dostoyevsky intended it to be the first part in an epic story titled The Life of a Great Sinner, but he died less than four months after its publication. The Brothers Karamazov is a passionate philosophical novel set in 19th century Russia, that enters deeply into the ethical debates of God, free will, and morality. It is a spiritual drama of moral struggles concerning faith, doubt, and reason, set against a modernizing Russia. Dostoyevsky composed much of the novel in Staraya Russa, which inspired the main setting. Since its publication, it has been acclaimed as one of the supreme achievements in literature. Although written in the 19th century, The Brothers Karamazov displays a number of modern elements. Dostoyevsky composed the book with a variety of literary techniques. Though privy to many of the thoughts and feelings of the protagonists, the narrator is a self-proclaimed writer; he discusses his own mannerisms and personal perceptions so often in the novel that he becomes a character. Through his descriptions, the narrator's voice merges imperceptibly into the tone of the people he is describing, often extending into the characters' most personal thoughts. There is no voice of authority in the story (see Mikhail Bakhtin's Problems of Dostoyevsky's Poetics for more on the relationship between Dostoyevsky and his characters). In addition to the principal narrator there are several sections narrated by other characters entirely, such as the story of the Grand Inquisitor and Zosima's confessions. This technique enhances the theme of truth, making many aspects of the tale completely subjective. Dostoyevsky uses individual styles of speech to express the inner personality of each person. For example, the attorney Fetyukovich (based on Vladimir Spasovich) is characterized by malapropisms (e.g. 'robbed' for 'stolen', and at one point declares possible suspects in the murder 'irresponsible' rather than innocent). Several plot digressions provide insight into other apparently minor characters. For example, the narrative in Book Six is almost entirely devoted to Zosima's biography, which contains a confession from a man whom he met many years before. Dostoyevsky does not rely on a single source or a group of major characters to convey the themes of this book, but uses a variety of viewpoints, narratives and characters throughout. Major characters:Fyodor Karamazov is the father, a 55-year-old "sponger" and buffoon who sires three sons during his two marriages. He is rumored to have fathered an illegitimate son, Pavel Fyodorovich Smerdyakov, whom he employs as his servant. Fyodor takes no interest in any of his sons, who are, as a result, raised apart from each other and their father. The relationship between Fyodor and his adult sons drives much of the plot in the novel.Dmitri Fyodorovich Karamazov (a.k.a. Mitya, Mitka, Mitenka, Mitri) is Fyodor Karamazov's eldest son and the only offspring of his first marriage, with Adelaida Ivanovna Miusov. Dmitri is considered to be a sensualist, much like his father, spending large amounts of money on nights filled with champagne, women, and whatever entertainment and stimulation money can buy. Dmitri is brought into contact with his family when he finds himself in need of his inheritance, which he believes is being withheld by his father. He was engaged to be married to Katerina Ivanovna, but breaks that off after falling in love with Grushenka. Dmitri's relationship with his father is the most volatile of the brothers, escalating to violence as he and his father begin fighting over the same woman, Grushenka. While he maintains a good relationship with Ivan, he is closest to his younger brother Alyosha, referring to him as his "cherub".

IN the far-off days when Dante lived, those who wrote books wrote them in the Latin tongue. Dante himself wrote the first seven cantos of his great poem in Latin. But like many another poet, he was not satisfied with his first attempt. He flung the seven Latin cantos aside and seemingly forgot all about them, for when he was banished from Florence the poem he had begun was not among his treasures. His wife, however, found the seven cantos and tossed them into a bag among her jewels. Then she also seemed to forget all about them. Five years later a nephew of Dante chanced to find the long-forgotten verses. He at once sent them to his uncle, who was still living in exile. When Dante received the cantos he had written so long ago, he believed that their recovery was a sign from Heaven that he should complete the great poem he had begun. He therefore set to work afresh, but this time he wrote, not in Latin, but in his own beautiful mother-tongue, which was, as you know, Italian. When at length the great poem was finished, Dante named it simply, "The Comedy," and it was not until many years after his de-ath that the title was changed into "The Divine Comedy." A comedy was a tale which might be as sad as tale could be, so only that it ended in gladness.In "The Divine Comedy," then, about which this little book tells, you may expect to find much that is sad, much that is terrible. Yet you may be certain that before the end of the tale you will find in it gladness and joy..

Then came a glimmer of daylight that grew and grew, and presently ended in another arch that looked out over a scene so like a picture out of a book about Italy that everyone's breath was taken away, and they simply walked forward silent and staring. A short avenue of cypresses led, widening as it went, to a marble terrace that lay broad and white in the sunlight. The children, blinking, leaned their arms on the broad, flat balustrade and gazed. Immediately below them was a lake just like a lake in "The Beauties of Italy" a lake with swans and an island and weeping willows; beyond it were green slopes dotted with groves of trees, and amid the trees gleamed the white limbs of statues. Against a little hill to the left was a round white building with pillars, and to the right a waterfall came tumbling down among mossy stones to splash into the lake. Steps fed from the terrace to the water, and other steps to the green lawns beside it. Away across the grassy slopes deer were feeding, and in the distance where the groves of trees thickened into what looked almost a forest were enormous shapes of grey stone, like nothing that the children had ever seen before. "That chap at school ," said Gerald. "It is an enchanted castle," said Kathleen. "I don't see any castle," said Jimmy. "What do you call that, then" Gerald pointed to where, beyond a belt of lime-trees, white towers and turrets broke the blue of the sky.

THERElies before me, as I write, a quaint old book; from this little book—torn and soiled, its edges all gone—nearly all the stories in this volume are drawn. In their earliest childhood Hungarian children hear the story of "Forget-me-Not" (Nfelejts), the history of the "Twin Hunchbacks", and the doings of the wicked Sultana in the "Magic Cat" In my little book is the shell of these stories told simply and in few words. Who was the originator of them I do not think any one knows, for I have found in many instances the same incidents occurring in the fairy tales of most nations. A modified form of the vain fairy Narcissa is revived in "Little Snow White," and , if I mistake not, an incident similar to that in "The Twin Hunchbacks." But then again, who has ever traced the origin of all the proverbs and jokes that exist, and have existed for generations, in two score or more Eastern and Western, Latin, Teutonic, or Slavonic languages Old Hungarian legends, just like old Hungarian music, have to the national mind no palpable origin, though Jókay or Gaal have rewritten the former and Liszt or Brahms have familiarized the world with the latter. The following little collection has helped me in my childhood to pass many pleasant hours, so I now give them to my little English readers—embellished by many drawings—in the hope that they may derive as much pleasure from this little volume of magic and adventure as I did from my old torn copy of "Nepmesek." IN a certain country there dwelt a prince whose name was Elkabo. He had a dear little daughter called Uletka, who was a most sweet child. She and her father lived quite alone in an old castle with four towers, that stood in a beautiful glade in the centre of a great forest. Uletka was a most dainty and lovely little maid, her wings—she had wings, being related to a fairy—had grown quite strong, and glistened in the sunshine, reflecting all the colours of the rainbow. So sweet and graceful was little Uletka, that perhaps you would imagine she had no faults. Unfortunately she had one, which a wicked and revengeful fairy, who was offended with Nastia, her mother, had endowed her with, and this was the dreadful fault of Curiosity.

The continued success of the Jataka Tales," as retold and published ten years ago, has led to this second and companion volume. Who that has read or told stories to children has not been lured on by the subtle flattery of their cry for "more"? ??Dr. Felix Adler, in his Foreword to "Jataka Tales," says that long ago he was "captivated by the charm of the Jataka Tales." Little children have not only felt this charm, but they have discovered that they can read the stories to themselves. And so "More Jataka Tales" were found in the volume translated from the Sanskrit into English by a group of Cambridge scholars and published by the University Press. ??The Jataka tales, regarded as historic in the Third Century B. C., are the oldest collection of folk-lore extant. They come down to us from that dim far-off time when our forebears told tales around the same hearthfire on the roof of the world. Professor Rhys Davids speaks of them as a priceless record of the childhood of our race. The same stories are found in Greek, Latin, Arabic, Persian, and in most European languages. The Greek versions of the Jataka tales were adapted and ascribed to the famous storyteller, Aesop, and under his name handed down as a continual feast for the children in the West, — tales first invented to please and instruct our far-off cousins in the East." Here East, though East, meets West! ??A "Guild of Jataka Translators," under Professor E. B. Cowell, professor of Sanskrit in the University of Cambridge, brought out the complete edition of the Jataka between 1895 and 1907. It is from this source that "Jataka Tales" and "More Jataka Tales" have been retold. ??Of these stories, spread over Europe through literary channels, Professor Cowell says, "They are the stray waifs of literature, in the course of their long wanderings coming to be recognized under widely different aspects, as when they are used by Boccaccio, or Chaucer, or La Fontaine." ? FELIX?ADLER.

A love story in Los Angeles, New York and ?stanbul..? This is first book written as a hobby by Author.

This book can also be read with The Present by Charlotte Phillips. Two books, one unforgettable Christmas… 12 deadly gifts, one killer on a Christmas countdown… On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me… this is one deadly Christmas that you can’t forget. The police are baffled by the ‘Santa’ killer, who sends his intended victims gruesome presents based on the twelve days of Christmas. When a young journalist receives a mutilated bird in the post, it’s a race against time to find the killer…

This book can also be read with The Present by DS Devlin. Two books, one unforgettable Christmas… 12 magical gifts, one love that lasts a lifetime… On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me … one romantic Christmas you won’t forget. When helping to clear out her beloved grandmother’s home, Lucy Jackson discovers twelve beautiful Christmas decorations hidden in the loft. As she discovers their heartbreaking story, a touching romance develops with the handsome gardener next door. Readers love Charlotte Phillips’ The Present: ‘A gem of a Christmas read…fabulous’ Rachel’s Random Reads ‘A charming, unashamedly romantic tale…perfect for an afternoon in front of the fire with the christmas tree lights on’ Jane Hunt Author Book Reviews

The Summer of Second Chances is the perfect feelgood summer read.’ Chrissie Manby, author of What I Did On My Holidays Lottie is about to discover that even when you think you’ve lost everything, hope and romance can be just around the corner . . . It takes time to build your life. To get into a long-term (OK, a bit boring) relationship. To find a job (you don’t completely hate). Lottie might not be thrilled with the life she’s put together, but it’s the one she’s got. So when in the course of one terrible evening, it all comes crashing down around her, Lottie has a choice: give herself over to grief at being broke, single and completely lacking in prospects. Or, brick by brick, build herself a new life. And this time, with a little help from friends, a crumbling cottage in Devon and a handsome stranger, maybe she can make it the one she always wanted. The Summer of Second Chances is an irresistibly funny read about never giving up, whatever the world throws at you. Perfect for fans of Jenny Colgan, Jane Costello and Christie Barlow.