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Biff’s father and uncle were both well-traveled and accustomed to unusual situations and they felt it could be a matter of learning and enjoyment for the sixteen-year-old boy. He was big, strong, and very intelligent, so his relatives felt such a trip could add to a future for the lad. It turned our far differently than expectations. A jungle wilderness jam-packed with hazards and thrills. That’s what eventually confronted Biff going through territory inhabited with dreaded head-hunters. It had begun when Biff boarded a plane bound for Brazil and was handed an unexpected letter.

An unusual call from Chinese merchant Ling Tang began an on-going set of circumstances for young Biff Brewster. He was planning a trip to Rangoon in Burma to visit his Uncle Charlie. It seemed such a trip for Biff would be a good way to spend the remainder of his summer vacation from school. It was a pleasant thought for beginning something very different to look forward to. However, “different” isn’t a strong enough description of what was going to happen.

A subtitle of this book is “The Lost World Under the Sea,” and it’s somewhat based on the famed legend of Atlantis. That was an ancient city or continent that was supposedly inundated by the sea. Whether it actually existed has been a question that has lasted for thousands of years. Greek philosopher Plato wrote about it around 360 BC, so even his possible information was second-hand. Tsunamis (sea storms) have existed for centuries and if there really was an Atlantis, any survivors may have fled inland and built new cities.

Even the coming of an autumn dusk could not subdue the color of this land. Shadows here were not gray or black; they were violet and purple. The crumbling adobe walls were laced by strings of crimson peppers, vivid in the torch and lantern light. It had been this way for days, red and yellow, violet—colors many had hardly been aware existed back in the cool green, silver, gray-brown of Kentucky. So this was Tubacca! Back in ‘59 this had been a flourishing town, well on its way to prominence in the Southwest.

Unassuming in plot and style, Heidi may none the less lay claim to rank as a world classic. In the first place, both background and characters ring true. The air of the Alps is wafted to us in every moment; the house among the pines, the meadows, and the eagle poised above the naked rocks form a picture that no one could willingly forget. And the people, from the kindly towns-folk to the quaint and touching peasant types, are as real as any representation of human nature need be. Every goat even, has its personality.

This is a very unusual book, wherein the majority of the story is contents of an ancient diary found by two friends on a fishing holiday while on the grounds of an old dilapidated house. The moldy manuscript has inscribed tales of strange things seen and heard. There are horrible creatures and huge monsters described as though they were old gods of mythology.

Frederick Faust (pen name Max Brand) was said to have written in excess of twenty-five million words as he seemed to have a button to push to generate fictional ideas. Of course, it’s known that much of his work was issued under pen names, around twenty of them, a great many of them wild Westerns. This one that features a drifter named Donnegan. He gets off a train and takes on a job with a rich man who doesn’t seem to care much about the difference between rights and wrongs.

This is a classic mystery novel by the creator of the fictional Chinese detective Charlie Chan. The tale you’re about to hear is in London just before WWI. American visitor Geoffrey West is attracted to a beautiful young lady and he decides to try and get her attention by putting a personal ad in the so-called "Agony Column" of a London newspaper. She sees it and responds by demanding he send her several letters so she can make up her mind as to whether she has any interest in him. Before anything else happens, Geoffrey winds up being thought possibly guilty of a vicious murder.

IIn the summer of 1850, a topsail schooner slipped into the cove under the rocky promontory of Trinidad Head in California and dropped anchor at the edge of the kelp (algae)-fields. Fifteen minutes later her small-boat deposited on the beach a man armed with long squirrel-rifle and an axe, and carrying food and clothing in a brown canvas pack. From the beach he saw the schooner raise anchor and stand out to sea before the northwest trade winds. When it disappeared from his view, he swung his pack to his broad back and strode resolutely into the timber at the mouth of a little river.

What you’re about to hear takes place in West Inch, a city on the English-Scottish border. The title is an unusual reference to a shadow forming over the city that’s said to be about the influence and reputation of the infamous Napoleon. This is all a change of literary output by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, famed for his stories about Sherlock Holmes. He had gotten a little tired of that character and turned, at least for a while, to a man named Jock Calder, who was one of the soldiers at the scene of military activity, including the battle of Waterloo.

Nothing is so easy as falling in love on a long sea voyage, except falling out of love. Especially was this the case in the days when the wooden clippers did finally land you in Sydney or in Melbourne under the four full months. Passengers and crew all saw far too much of each other, unless, indeed, they were to see still more. Their superficial attractions were mutually exhausted, they lost heart and patience in the disappointing strata which lie between the surface and the bed-rock of most natures.

This book is an example of Alternative History. That, in essence, is asking what the future could be like. It suggests the US could have become a Dominion of America. Call this standard history with a twist, or even mythology in part. It is certainly historical material, told in fictional fashion.

In truth the mastery of flying was the work of thousands of men—this man a suggestion and that an experiment, until at last only one vigorous intellectual effort was needed to finish the work. But the inexorable injustice of the popular mind has decided that of all these thousands, one man, and that a man who never flew, should be chosen as the discoverer, just as it has chosen to honor Watt as the discoverer of steam and Stephenson of the steam-engine.

The ferry-boat was waiting when Rebecca Flint got off the train with her bag and lunch basket. When she and her small trunk were safely embarked she sat stiff and straight and calm in the ferry-boat as it shot swiftly and smoothly across stream. There was a horse attached to a light country wagon on board, and he pawed the deck uneasily. His owner stood near, with a wary eye upon him, although he was chewing, with as dully reflective an expression as a cow.

The fiction world of today needs a “Saint” more than it ever did. For years now that scene has been dominated by the “anti-heroes"—those grim gray operators in a sunless sub-culture where global issues are worked out with totally unemotional pragmatism, those hapless uninspired puppets manipulated and expended by ruthlessly dedicated little brothers of Big Brother. It made morbidly fascinating narrative, but it never gave anyone a lift until it climaxed in the hyper-gadgeted parodies of 007 extravaganzas.

The chief character, Lord Peter Wimsey, goes to the Bellona Club to have a meal with an old friend of his, ninety-year old General Fentiman. In great surprise, he finds the aged man fully dressed by the fire in full rigor mortis. A question arises concerning the time of death and the situation develops into a serious murder investigation. Wimsey sometimes seemed to have a supercilious attitude as a monocled aristocrat and sometimes became a sort of professional detective. His family motto was, “As my whimsy takes me.”

If it had not rained on a certain May morning, Valancy Stirling’s whole life would have been entirely different. She would have gone, with the rest of her clan, to Aunt Wellington’s engagement picnic and Dr. Trent would have gone to Montreal. But it did rain and you shall hear what happened to her because of it. Valancy wakened early, in the lifeless, hopeless hour just preceding dawn. She had not slept very well.

While investigating a mysterious old house high on a cliff, Joe and Frank Hardy hear a scream and are scared away thinking the place might be haunted. Their dad has been hired by a pharmaceutical firm to find missing drug shipments and calls on the boys to help. He disappears at one point and his sons team up to rescue him from whatever happened. They made an extremely brave rescue of their dad from unscrupulous smugglers.

It seems very unreal but the author is not only top-notch with his plot handling but he never strays from the bounds of reason. It isn’t easy to fool someone like detective sergeant Blick of Scotland Yard, but he does it. Blick is called in by an archeologist named Mr. Fransenmery to help solve the killing of Guy Markenmore, who had been away from the area for seven years and had returned because of the expected death of his father.

In the whole history of the English people there is no period so absolutely heroic, so full of enthralling interest, as that in which the might of England made itself apparent by land and sea—the period which saw good Queen Bess mistress of English hearts and Englishmen and sovereign of the great beginnings which came to such a magnificent fruition under Victoria. That was indeed a golden time—an age of great venture and enterprise—a period wherein men’s hearts were set on personal valor and bravery—the day of great deeds and of courage most marvelous.