Juvenile Fiction
Showing 61–90 of 4489 results
A Little Dusky Hero (Esprios Classics)
Harriet Theresa Comstock (1860-1943) was an American novelist and author of children's books. Comstock was born to Alpheus Smith and Jean A. Downey in Nichols, New York. She received an academic education in Plainfield, New Jersey. In 1885, she married Philip Comstock of Brooklyn, New York. She started writing in 1895, mostly short stories for magazines and books principally for children.
A Little Girl in Old Chicago
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A Little Girl in Old Pittsburg
"[...] Grandfather Bradin kissed his little girl, though he was almost afraid to believe the good news. Three years Bernard Carrick had been following the fortunes of war and many a dark day had intervened. "Oh, that won't end the war. There's Charleston and New York. But Cornwallis! I must go out and find where the news came from." "Grandad don't believe it!" There was still a look of doubt in her eyes.[...]".
A Little Girl in Old San Francisco
Part of Amanda Douglas' delightful Little Girl series of juvenile chapter books, this volume has young protagonist Laverne escaping privation and hardship in New England to find happiness in what the author calls the Queen City of the Western Coast. It is sure to be a hit with young readers who have an interest in American history.
A Little Girl in Old St. Louis
Orphaned and abandoned, young Renee de Longueville has been passed between relatives and family friends. Traveling from France to the new world, she meets her grouchy grandfather, who gives her a less than pleasant welcome. But even though it grew out of tragic circumstances, Renee cherishes her trip to the American city of St. Louis and drinks in the bustling burg's many charms.
A Little Girl in Old Washington
A Little Girl in Old Washington By Amanda M. Douglas. Published in 1900 and now republish again in ePub file. This book has 21 chapters. CHAPTER I. A NEW HOME. "But you will have to take sides," declared Jaqueline Mason, "and it would be ungrateful if you did not take our side. You are going to live here; you really belong to us, you know. Your mother was own cousin to our dear mother, and Patty was named after her??" "I don't see why I should be called Patty when you've given up Jack and make such a fuss!" interrupted a slim, unformed girl, who was nearly as tall as the first speaker. "Well, Miss Patty, I am sixteen and in long gowns; and next winter I expect to go to balls and parties, and be presented at the White House. Oh, I wish it was a court!" A young fellow, astride the low window seat, laughed with a teasing, bantering sound in his voice, and his deep eyes were alight with mirth.
A Little Maid in Toyland
This book has been considered by academicians and scholars of great significance and value to literature. This forms a part of the knowledge base for future generations. We havent used any OCR or photocopy to produce this book. The whole book has been typeset again to produce it without any errors or poor pictures and errant marks.
A Little Princess: Being the Whole Story of Sara Crewe Now Told for the First Time
It seemed to her many years since he had begun to prepare her mind for ?the place,? as she always called it. Her mother had died when she was born, so she had never known or missed her. Her young, handsome, rich, petting father seemed to be the only relation she had in the world. They had always played together and been fond of each other. She only knew he was rich because she had heard people say so when they thought she was not listening, and she had also heard them say that when she grew up she would be rich, too. She did not know all that being rich meant. She had always lived in a beautiful bungalow, and had been used to seeing many servants who made salaams to her and called her ?Missee Sahib,? and gave her her own way in everything. She had had toys and pets and an ayah who worshipped her, and she had gradually learned that people who were rich had these things. That, however, was all she knew about it. During her short life only one thing had troubled her, and that thing was ?the place? she was to be taken to some day. The climate of India was very bad for children, and as soon as possible they were sent away from it?generally to England and to school. She had seen other children go away, and had heard their fathers and mothers talk about the letters they received from them. She had known that she would be obliged to go also, and though sometimes her father?s stories of the voyage and the new country had attracted her, she had been troubled by the thought that he could not stay with her. ?Couldn?t you go to that place with me, papa?? she had asked when she was five years old. ?Couldn?t you go to school, too? I would help you with your lessons.? ?But you will not have to stay for a very long time, little Sara,? he had always said. ?You will go to a nice house where there will be a lot of little girls, and you will play together, and I will send you plenty of books, and you will grow so fast that it will seem scarcely a year before you are big enough and clever enough to come back and take care of papa.? She had liked to think of that. To keep the house for her father; to ride with him, and sit at the head of his table when he had dinner-parties; to talk to him and read his books?that would be what she would like most in the world, and if one must go away to ?the place? in England to attain it, she must make up her mind to go. She did not care very much for other little girls, but if she had plenty of books she could console herself. She liked books more than anything else, and was, in fact, always inventing stories of beautiful things and telling them to herself. Sometimes she had told them to her father, and he had liked them as much as she did.
A Lost Leader
One December evening, in the year 1648, the little town of Farnham showed unusual signs of life. Troopers were dismounting and leading their horses away to their stables, or were lounging at the doors of the houses where they were quartered, and a crowd of curious country folk and villagers gathered to stare at them, and even to put questions to the more affable-looking of the steel-coated soldiers.The press was greatest round the entrance of a house of the better class that stood back from the street with all the dignity that a flagged forecourt and a couple of high brick gate-pillars could lend it.There the sentries, who were stationed at the door, had some ado to keep back the curious throng, and many a sturdy country farmer shouldered his way into the house in the wake of his squire to catch a glimpse of his king, the ill-fated King Charles, who was to rest that night at Farnham on his last journey from the prison at Hurst Castle to the scaffold at Whitehall.