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From The Little Green Goblin by James Ball Naylor.
Little Bob Taylor was mad, discouraged, and thoroughly miserable. Things had gone wrong—as things have the perverse habit of doing with mischievous, fun-loving boys of ten—and he was disgruntled, disgusted. The school year drawing to a close had been one of dreary drudgery; at least that was the retrospective view he took of it. And warm, sunshiny weather had come—the season for outdoor sports and vagrant rambles—and the end was not yet. Still he was a galley slave in the gilded barge of modern education; and open and desperate rebellion was in his heart.
One lesson was not disposed of before another intrusively presented itself, and tasks at home multiplied with a fecundity rivaling that of the evils of Pandora’s box. Yes, Bob was all out of sorts. School was a bore; tasks at home were a botheration, and life was a frank failure. He knew it; and what he knew he knew.
He had come from school on this particular day in an irritable, surly mood, to find that the lawn needed mowing, that the flower-beds needed weeding,—and just when he desired to steal away upon the wooded hillside back of the house and make buckeye whistles! He had demurred, grumbled and growled, and his father had rebuked him. Then he had complained of a headache, and his mother had given him a pill—a pill! think of it—and sent him off to bed.
Bob was out of sorts with himself
So here he was, tossing upon his own little bed in his own little room at the back of the house. It was twilight. The window was open, and the sweet fragrance of the honeysuckle flowers floated in to him. Birds were chirping and twittering as they settled themselves to rest among the sheltering boughs of the wild cherry tree just without, and the sounds of laughter and song came from the rooms beneath, where the other members of the family were making merry. Bob was hurt, grieved. Was there such a thing as justice in the whole world? He doubted it! And he wriggled and squirmed from one side of the bed to the other, kicked the footboard and dug his fists into the pillows—burning with anger and consuming with self-pity. At last the gathering storm of his contending emotions culminated in a downpour of tears, and weeping, he fell asleep.
“Hello! Hello, Bob! Hello, Bob Taylor!”
Bob popped up in bed, threw off the light coverings and stared about him. A broad band of moonlight streamed in at the open window, making the room almost as light as day. Not a sound was to be heard. The youngster peered into the shadowy corners and out into the black hallway, straining his ears. The clock down stairs struck ten deliberate, measured strokes.
“I thought I heard somebody calling me,” the lad muttered; “I must have been dreaming.”
He dropped back upon his pillows and closed his eyes.
“Hello, Bob!”
The boy again sprang to a sitting posture, as quick as a jack-in-a-box, his eyes and mouth wide open. He was startled, a little frightened.
“Hel—hello yourself!” he quavered.
“I’m helloing you,” the voice replied. “I’ve no need to hello myself; I’m awake.”
Bob looked all around, but could not locate the speaker.
“I’m awake, too,” he muttered; “at least I guess I am.”
“Yes, you’re awake all right enough now,” the voice said; “but I nearly yelled a lung loose getting you awake.”
“Well, where are you?” the boy cried.
A hoarse, rasping chuckle was the answer, apparently coming from the open window. Bob turned his eyes in that direction and blinked and stared, and blinked again; for there upon the sill, distinctly visible in the streaming white moonlight, stood the oddest, most grotesque figure the boy had ever beheld. Was it a dwarfed and deformed bit of humanity, or a gigantic frog masquerading in the garb of a man? Bob could not tell; so he ventured the very natural query:
“What are you?”
“I’m a goblin,” his nocturnal visitor made reply, in a harsh strident, parrot-like voice.
“A goblin?” Bob questioned.
“Yes.”
“Well, what’s a goblin?”
“Don’t you know?” in evident surprise.
“No.”
“Why, boy—boy! Your education has been sadly amiss.”
“I know it,” Bob replied with unction, his school grievances returning in full force to his mind. “But what is a goblin? Anything like a gobbler?”
“Stuff!” his visitor exclaimed in a tone of deep disgust. “Anything like a gobbler! Bob, you ought to be ashamed. Do I look anything like a turkey?”
“No, you look like a frog,” the boy laughed.
“Shut up!” the goblin croaked.
“I won’t!” snapped the boy.
“Look here!” cried the goblin. “Surely you know what goblins are. You’ve read of ’em—you’ve seen their pictures in books, haven’t you?”
“I think I have,” Bob said reflectively, “but I don’t know just what they are.”
“You know what a man is, don’t you?” the goblin queried.
“Of course.”
“Well, what is a man?”
“Huh?” the lad cried sharply.
“What is a man?”
“Why, a man’s a—a—a man,” Bob answered, lamely.
“Good—very good;” the goblin chuckled, interlocking his slim fingers over his protuberant abdomen and rocking himself to and fro upon his slender legs. “I see your schooling’s done you some good. Yes, a man’s a man, and a goblin’s a goblin. Understand? It’s all as clear as muddy water, when you think it over. Hey?”
“You explain things just like my teacher does,” the boy muttered peevishly.
“How’s that?” the goblin inquired, seating himself upon the sill and drawing his knees up to his chin.
“Why, when we ask him a question, he asks us one in return; and when we answer it, he tangles us all up and leaves us that way.”
“Does he?” the goblin grinned.
“Yes, he does,” sullenly.
“He must be a good teacher.”
“He is good—good for nothing,” snappishly.
The goblin hugged his slim shanks and laughed silently. He was a diminutive fellow, not more than a foot in height. His head was large; his body was pursy. A pair of big, waggling ears, a broad, flat nose, two small, pop eyes and a wide mouth made up his features. His dress consisted of a brimless, peaked cap, cutaway coat, long waistcoat, tight fitting trousers and a pair of tiny shoes—all of a vivid green color. His was indeed an uncouth and queer figure!
“Say!” Bob cried, suddenly.
“Huh?” the goblin ejaculated, throwing back his head and nimbly scratching his chin with the toe of his shoe.
“What are you called?”
“Sometimes I’m called the Little Green Goblin of Goblinville.”
“Oh!”
“Yes.”
“But what’s your name?”
“Fitz.”
“Fitz?”
“Yes.”
“Fitz what?”
“Fitz Mee.”
“Fits you?” laughed Bob. “I guess it does.”
“No!” rasped the goblin. “Not Fitz Hugh; Fitz Mee.”
“That’s what I said,” giggled the boy, “fits you.”
“I know you did; but I didn’t. I said Fitz Mee.”
“I can’t see the difference,” said Bob, with a puzzled shake of the head.
“Oh, you can’t!” sneered the goblin.
“No, I can’t!”—bristling pugnaciously.
“Huh!”—contemptuously—“I say my name is Fitz Mee; you say it is Fitz Hugh; and you can’t see the difference, hey?”
“Oh, that’s what you mean—that your name is Fitz Mee,” grinned Bob.
“Of course it’s what I mean,” the goblin muttered gratingly; “it’s what I said; and a goblin always says what he means and means what he says.”
“Where’s your home?” the boy ventured to inquire.
“In Goblinville,” was the crisp reply.
“Goblinville?”
“Yes; the capital of Goblinland.”
“And where’s that?”
“A long distance east or a long distance west.”
“Well, which?”
“Either or both.”
“Oh, that can’t be!” Bob cried.
“It can’t?”
“Why, no.”
“Why can’t it?”
“The place can’t be east and west both—from here.”
“But it can, and it is,” the goblin insisted.
“Is that so?”—in profound wonder.
“Yes; it’s on the opposite side of the globe.”
“Oh, I see.”
The goblin nodded, batting his pop eyes.
“Well, what are you doing here?” Bob pursued.
“Talking to you,” grinned the goblin.
“I know that,” the lad grumbled irritably. “But what brought you here?”
“A balloon.”
“Oh, pshaw! What did you come here for?”
“For you.”
“For me?”
“Yes; you don’t like to live in this country, and I’ve come to take you to a better one.”
“To Goblinland?”
“Yes.”
“Is that a better country than this—for boys?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“In what way is it better?” Bob demanded, shrewdly. “Tell me about it.”
“Well,” the goblin went on to explain, unclasping his hands and stretching his slender legs full length upon the window-sill, “in your country a boy isn’t permitted to do what pleases him, but is compelled to do what pleases others. Isn’t that so?”
“Yes, it is,” the lad muttered.
“But in our land,” the goblin continued, “a boy isn’t permitted to do what pleases others, but is compelled to do what pleases himself.”
“Oh!” ejaculated Bob, surprised and pleased. “That’s great. I’d like to live in Goblinland.”
“Of course you would,” said the goblin, placing a finger alongside of his flat nose and winking a pop eye. “Your parents and your teacher don’t know how to treat you—don’t appreciate you; they don’t understand boys. You’d better come along with me.”
“I’ve a notion to,” Bob replied thoughtfully. Then, abruptly: “But how did you find out about me, that I was dissatisfied with things here?”
“Oh, we know everything that’s going on,” the goblin grinned; “we get wireless telephone messages from all over the world. Whenever anybody says anything—or thinks anything, even—we learn of it; and if they’re in trouble some one of us good little goblins sets off to help them.”
“Why, how good of you!” Bob murmured, in sincere admiration. “You chaps are a bully lot!”
“Yes, indeed,” the goblin giggled; “we’re a good-hearted lot—we are. Oh, you’ll just love and worship us when you learn all about us!”
And the little green sprite almost choked with some suppressed emotion.
“I’m going with you,” the boy said, with sudden decision. “Will your balloon carry two, though?”
“We can manage that,” said the goblin. “Come here to the window and take a squint at my aërial vehicle.”
Bob crawled to the foot of the bed and peeped out the window. There hung the goblin’s balloon, anchored to the window-sill by means of a rope and hook. The bag looked like a big fat feather bed and the car resembled a large Willow clothes-basket. The boy was surprised, and not a little disappointed.
“And you came here in that thing?” he asked, unable to conceal the contempt he felt for the primitive and clumsy-looking contraption.
“Of course I did,” Fitz Mee made answer.
“And how did you get from the basket to the window here?”
“Slid down the anchor-rope.”
“Oh!” Bob gave an understanding nod. “And you’re going to climb the rope, when you go?”
“Yes; can you climb it?”
“Why, I—I could climb it,” Bob replied, slowly shaking his head; “but I’m not going to.”
“You’re not?” cried the goblin.
“No.”
“Why?”
“I’m not going to risk my life in any such a balloon as that. It looks like an old feather bed.”
“It is a feather bed,” Fitz answered, complacently.
“WHAT!” exclaimed Fitz Mee
“What!”
The goblin nodded sagely.
“Whee!” the lad whistled. “You don’t mean what you say, do you? You mean it’s a bed tick filled with gas, don’t you?”
“I mean just what I say,” Fitz Mee replied, positively. “That balloon bag is a feather bed.”
“But a feather bed won’t float in the air,” Bob objected.
“Won’t it?” leered the goblin.
“No.”
“How do you know? Did you ever try one to see?”
“N—o.”
“Well, one feather, a downy feather, will fly in the air, and carry its own weight and a little more, won’t it?”
“Yes,” the lad admitted, wondering what the goblin was driving at.
“Then won’t thousands of feathers confined in a bag fly higher and lift more than one feather alone will?”
“No,” positively.
“Tut—tut!” snapped the goblin. “You don’t know anything of the law of physics, it appears. Won’t a thousand volumes of gas confined in a bag fly higher and lift more than one volume unconfined will?”
“Why, of course,” irritably.
“Well!”—triumphantly,—“don’t the same law apply to feathers? Say!”
“I—I don’t know,” Bob stammered, puzzled but unconvinced.
“To be sure it does,” the goblin continued, smoothly. “I know; I’ve tried it. And you can see for yourself that my balloon’s a success.”
“Yes, but it wouldn’t carry me,” Bob objected; “I’m too heavy.”
“I’ll have to shrink you,” Fitz Mee said quietly.
“Shrink me?” drawing back in alarm bordering on consternation.
“Yes; it won’t hurt you.”
“How—how’re you going to do it?”
“I’ll show you.”
The goblin got upon his feet, took a small bottle from his waistcoat pocket and deliberately unscrewed the top and shook out a tiny tablet.
“There,” he said, “take that.”
“Uk-uh!” grunted Bob, compressing his lips and shaking his head. “I don’t like to take pills.”
“This isn’t a pill,” Fitz explained, “it’s a tablet.”
“It’s all the same,” the boy declared obstinately.
“Won’t you take it?”
“No.”
“Then you can’t go with me.”
“I can’t?”
The goblin shook his head.
“Isn’t there some other way you can—can shrink me?”
Again Fitz Mee silently shook his head.
“W-e-ll,” Bob said slowly and reluctantly, “I’ll take it. But, say?”
“Well?”
“What’ll it do to me—just make me smaller?”
“That’s all.”
“How small will it make me?”
“About my size,” grinned the goblin.
“Oo—h!” ejaculated Bob. “And will it make me as—as ugly as you are?” in grave concern.
The goblin clapped his hands over his stomach, wriggled this way and that and laughed till the tears ran down his fat cheeks.
“Oh—ho!” he gasped at last. “So you think me ugly, do you?”
“Yes, I do,” the lad admitted candidly, a little nettled.
“Well, that’s funny,” gurgled the goblin; “for that’s what I think of you. So you see the matter of looks is a matter of taste.”
“Huh!” Bob snorted contemptuously. “But will that tablet change my looks? That’s what I want to know.”
“No, it won’t,” was the reassuring reply.
“And will I always be small—like you?”
“Look here!” Fitz Mee croaked hoarsely. “If you’re going with me, stop asking fool questions and take this tablet.”
“Give it to me,” Bob muttered, in sheer desperation.
And he snatched the tablet and swallowed it.
Immediately he shrunk to the size of the goblin.
“My!” he cried. “It feels funny to be so little and light.”
He sprang from the bed to the window-sill, and anticly danced a jig in his night garment.
“Get into your clothes,” the goblin commanded, “and let’s be off.”
Bob nimbly leaped to the floor, tore off his night-robe and caught up his trousers. Then he paused, a look of comical consternation upon his apple face.
“What’s the matter?” giggled the goblin.
“Why—why,” the boy gasped, his mouth wide open, “my clothes are all a mile too big for me!”
Fitz Mee threw himself prone upon his stomach, pummeled and kicked the window-sill, and laughed uproariously.
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Just why were his clothes to large, and what happened next you may ask? Well you will have to download the Little Green Goblin to find out for yourself.
The Little Green Goblin by James Ball Naylor – the 12 adventures of Bob and the Little Green Goblin.
ISBN: 9788835375777
DOWNLOAD LINK: https://bit.ly/33XA2Uk
10% of the publisher’s profits are donated to charity.
Yesterday’s books for today’s Charities.
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KEYWORDS/TAGS: The Little Green Goblin, childrens fantasy, folklore, fairy tale, fable, action, adventure, young adult, young people, readers, bibliophile, Midnight Visit, Storm, Danger, Giant, Lost, Desert, Magnetize, magnetise, Spring, Encounter, Wireless Message, Headquarters, strange lands, aeronaut, aëronaut, air-tank, anchor, Arabs, balloon, beast, binoculars, Bob, bottom, boy-giant, camels, chemist, children, companion, comrade, country, croaked, desire, devils, ejaculated, electric, Epilepsy, factories, feather-bed, feathers, Fitz, goblin, Goblinland, Goblinville, gob-tabs, gold, lad, laugh, laughed, leopard, lion, lips, little, locker, magic, mayor, medicine, Mee, moonlight, mountain, needle, nuggets, oasis, ocean, officer, palace, parrot, pop, Portuguese, Roberty, Boberty, sheik, south, sprite, Taylor, thumb-screw, thunder, wild,
MARION MARLOWE
From Farm to Fortune
A book for Old Fashioned Teenage Girls
Farm girl Marion Marlowe is on her way home when she stops to take in the surrounding countryside. “Same farms, same hills, same animals! Oh, I’m just sick of country life and a farm life!” Little does she know that her circumstances are about to change! A magnificent singer, she breaks into song and might readily be forgiven for glorying in her superb natural talent.
On arrival at home, she finds Dolores, or Dollie as she was called, weeping in the yard. She tells Marion that her father, not for the first time, wants her to enter a loveless marriage with the detestable Silas Johnson, which she has refused to do.
Time passes and a mysterious Mr Carlos Lawson appears at the farm, which causes unease with Marion. She also overhears a conversation between Silas and her father and realises that Silas has a hold on her father and is wanting Dollie in exchange. Despite her misgivings she confides in Carlos Lawson and instantly regrets what she has done.
While helping the orphan Bert Jackson escape from the orphanage after one beating too many, she discovers that Dollie, too, has runaway. Only she hasn’t runaway but been abducted by the black-hearted Carlos Lawson and the two have gone to New York.
Marion sees the rescue of her sister as a valid excuse to escape the confines of the farm and plans to go to New York in search of her sister. She then packs and leaves for the city on a quest to find her sister.
Join Marion Marlowe on this, the first of her many adventures in 1900’s New York city.
YESTERDAY’S BOOKS FOR TODAY’S CHARITIES.
10% of the profit from the sale of this book will be donated to charity.
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Search our store for the other books in the MARION MARLOWE series.
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THE DIGGERS – The Australians in France during WWI
Patrick MacGill
In this small ebook, are but nine chapters which give an Australian perspective of their time spent on the Western Front in France.
The imperishable deeds of the Commonwealth’s glorious soldiers, least of all the Australians, or Diggers, have carved for themselves a deep niche in the topmost towers of the Temple of the Immortals. The story of the valour of the Diggers will live throughout the ages, and future generations of Australians will speak of them as we do of all the heroic figures of antiquity. Their valour has covered Australia with a lustre that shines throughout the world, so that her name, which in 1914 was little known, by 1918 had become a household word in the mouths of all the peoples of the earth.
The Great War made Australia—a young community without traditions—a nation, acutely and proudly conscious of its nationality. Upon that day some hundred years gone, when in the grey of early dawn the first Australian soldier leapt upon an unknown shore and in the face of a murderous fire scaled the heights of Gaba Tepe—a feat of arms almost unparalleled in the history of war—the young Australian Community put on the toga of nationhood, and in one stride entered on a footing equal to any other nation in the family of free nations of the earth. Gallipoli—scene of that most glorious attempt which though falling short of the promised success, lost nothing of its greatness—thy name is and forever will be held sacred to all!
When Gallipoli had been given up as a forlorn hope, the soldiers of the Commonwealth were relocated to Europe’s Western Front, when in the Spring of 1918 the great German offensive pressed back and by force of numbers broke through the sorely tried British line, the Australian divisions were hurried down from the North and rushed up to stem the German armies.
The story of the battles fought by the Australians before Amiens is amongst the most thrilling in the history of this great world conflict. Here the fate of civilization was decided. The great German army, marching along the road in column of route, like the armies of Napoleon a hundred years before, reached the crest of high land overlooking Amiens, and with but a few miles between them and the key to Paris, were held up by a veritable handful of Australians, later reinforced as the rest of the Divisions came to hand. It was the turning of the tide; the fighting raged around Villers-Bretonneux, but the car of the German Juggernaut rolled forward no more. An impassable barrier had been set up beyond which the enemy could not pass. But the young soldiers of Australia, not satisfied with arresting his onward march, began to force the Hun back; at first slowly, and then faster and faster, until in the great offensive of August 8, when along with four Divisions of Canadians and two British, they swept him back in headlong rout, nor gave him pause until breaking through the vaunted Hindenburg line they stood victorious at Beaurevoir.
The deeds of these brave men will remain forever fresh in the minds of the Commonwealth and Allied nations. Australia has reason to be proud of her war effort; she has done great things; but she has paid a great price. That a small community of just five million recruited and sent 330,000 men twelve thousand miles across the seas, is a great thing. The number dead—57,000—with total casualties—289,723—show how great the price Australia paid for Liberty.
Indeed, it was the “new” colonies of South Africa, New Zealand, Australia and Canada which paid a heavy price in war dead. But it would only be another 21 years before they would be asked to pay yet again.
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HASHTAGS: #advance, #Allies, #Americans, #Amiens, #Anzac, #attack, #Australians, #barrage, #battalion, #battle, #bayonet, #Beaurevoir, #Boche, #British, #Cambrai, #Canadian, #canal, #children, #cold, #colonies, #commonwealth, #cross, #Dardanelles, #Diggers, #divisions, #empire, #enemy, #engineers, #fighting, #France, #GabaTepe, #Gallipoli, #Germans, #GreatWar, #graves, #guns, #Hamel, #Hindenburg, #home, #Huns, #Kiwis, #liberty, #machinegun, #NewZealanders, #officer, #Peronne, #shells, #shelling, #soldiers, #Somme, #south Africans, #steel, #struggle, #tears, #trenches, #troops, #tunnel, #villages, #VillarsCarbonnel, #VillersBretonneux, #WWI, #WesternFront, #weapons, #world, #worldwar,
Herein are 119 satirical cartoons published in Punch between 1890 and 1915 which focus on the growing threat of war in the years preceding and during the first two years of the GREAT WAR.
The cartoons are grouped into the following categories:
- The Days Preceding the War
- The Struggle
- Uncle Sam
- The Comedies of the Great Tragedy
- Women and Children First
- The New Rake’s Progress—Unser Kaiser
- The Raider
- The Unspeakable Turk
- Italia!
The cartoons encompass all the Allied nations and most of those aligned with the Central Powers. The sea war also features the antics of both navies and of course the sinking of non-military liners.
During the war the media swung into action in effect becoming an Allied propaganda machine. In addition to Punch, Dutchman Louis Raemakers was also proactive in this media. Raemakers cartoons were so effective that he and his family had to flee the Netherlands when the German High Command offered a reward for his capture.
Working in London he continued to publish his cartoons mainly in The Times and even went on a promotional tour of the USA. It was thought that his many works, which can be seen in the eBooks Raemakers Cartoons of WWI – vols. 1 & 2, was partly instrumental in changing the opinion of the American public towards involvement in the “European” war.
The effect of these cartoons on rallying public opinion before and during the Great War was incalculable and the propaganda machine continued to play a major role in the conflicts following the Great War.
Format: eBook – ePub, Kindle/Mobi, PDF
Download Link: https://folklore-fairy-tales-myths-legends-and-other-stories.stores.streetlib.com/en/various/punch-cartoons-of-the-great-war-119-great-war-cartoons-published-in-punch/
Folklore and Fairytales - Free Stories for Children 