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Evoking adventure made possible by the railroad, steamship, and automobile, and before adventure was accelerated beyond recognition by the jet airliner, these 50 National Geographic articles hail from the 1890s to the 1950s. Simon Winchester's introduction rues the haste travel has acquired, while the commentary of editor Jenkins ( Off the Map: Bicycling across Siberia, 1992) introduces the author and the genesis of his or her odyssey. Theodore Roosevelt's postpresidency safari kicks off the geographical organization--Africa, South America, and so forth--and also typifies Jenkins' editorial preferences for the lost worlds of imperialism, still-unexplored regions of earth and sea, and peoples untouched by modernity. Some of Jenkins' selections may be oft-anthologized classics by Roy Chapman Andrews, Richard Byrd, and Edmund Hillary, but most are not frequently reprinted. Collectively, Jenkins' grouping captures imagination-firing details in non-Western settings, such as capture by Mongolian bandits. Suiting the armchair as well as they did as long as a century ago, these articles will be popular indeed. Gilbert Taylor Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved --This text refers to the Hardcover edition.

This is Life is a missing baby mystery and an enchanted Parisian adventure. Hand in hand with lovable heroine Aurelie Renard, you will see life as you've never seen it before, discover the key to great art, witness the true cost of love, and learn how all these things may be controlled by the in-breath of a cormorant. Chock-full of charming characters and hilarious set-pieces this is a hugely enjoyable novel that will make you see life anew.

Drove House has always loomed large over village life. Boarded-up for years, it is reputed to be brimming with ghosts, and is shunned by the locals - all except Billy, for whom it has been the site of childhood dens and secret adolescent adventures. When the captivating Muriel moves in with her bohemian mother, they sweep out the ghosts and breathe new life into both the house and Billy's quiet rural existence. After an idyllic summer, though, Muriel returns to her life in London, and the newly empty Drove House becomes the backdrop for Billy's struggle to reconcile the vanishing agricultural lifestyle he has inherited with the glimpses of a baffling new way of life Muriel seemed to offer. Charting the conflict between these two competing worlds, Peter Benson's award-winning first novel is at once a lyrical portrait of the landscape of the Somerset Levels and a touching evocation of first love.

A story about a little person in a very big world. Magnus Mandalora never thought he would leave the safe confines of the small homely village of Lower Kertoob. He certainly never expected to end up in the middle of a long-running war between the saintly Cherines and the beastly Glurgs. But when circumstance places him in such a dubious position, he finds himself on a rollicking adventure where nothing is quite as it seems. Magnus Opum is an epic fantasy that's slightly skewed - Tolkien with a twist.

"Linda, dozing in the light of the campfire, jolted awake. She sat up, stretched, willed herself to wakefulness. It was her first duty on watch-she'd insisted on a stint-and she'd dozed. How reliable of her. She peered into the woods, listening, wondering why she'd awoken. The campfire crackled and whispered. A spark popped. She thumbed open the cylinder release of her revolver and counted bullets. The gun looked ancient, like a long-barreled cowboy weapon. As if she would know. She eased the cylinder shut with a click. She settled back again, grateful she hadn't shot anyone. Something rustled in the darkness of the nearby forest. She should be accustomed to this by now. Rainforest nights were deathly quiet in comparison to Boston nights, but that was just the problem. It would take a gunshot or a siren to jar her awake back home, but mere whispers did the trick here. They signaled movement. The jungle was alive, teeming. Jaguars would be about, prowling. The big cats had killed and eaten grown men on occasion. Man-eating jaguars. Nice. No chance of sleep now. Grant slumped in his chair opposite the fire, sound asleep, snoring softly, reassuringly. Not quite enough to set her at ease. The others had gone to bed. He preferred to stay with the watch, a visible, armed backup. What would be more comforting than Indiana Jones sound asleep would be Indiana Jones wide awake. She coughed, gently. Grant slept on. "Grant," she said. No response. "Hey, Grant!" He stirred and rubbed his eyes. "What?" "I didn't say anything." "Hm. Okay." Linda glanced about. "I'm hearing things in the woods. Maybe those sounds woke you." Grant sat up. "What kind of sounds?" He picked up his rifle. "Something moving." They sat in silence for long moments, listening. At last, Grant said, "The alarms haven't tripped. That's a good sign. Anything big would have set them off." He looked at his watch. "Why don't you get some sleep? You've only g

"Linda, dozing in the light of the campfire, jolted awake. She sat up, stretched, willed herself to wakefulness. It was her first duty on watch-she'd insisted on a stint-and she'd dozed. How reliable of her. She peered into the woods, listening, wondering why she'd awoken. The campfire crackled and whispered. A spark popped. She thumbed open the cylinder release of her revolver and counted bullets. The gun looked ancient, like a long-barreled cowboy weapon. As if she would know. She eased the cylinder shut with a click. She settled back again, grateful she hadn't shot anyone. Something rustled in the darkness of the nearby forest. She should be accustomed to this by now. Rainforest nights were deathly quiet in comparison to Boston nights, but that was just the problem. It would take a gunshot or a siren to jar her awake back home, but mere whispers did the trick here. They signaled movement. The jungle was alive, teeming. Jaguars would be about, prowling. The big cats had killed and eaten grown men on occasion. Man-eating jaguars. Nice. No chance of sleep now. Grant slumped in his chair opposite the fire, sound asleep, snoring softly, reassuringly. Not quite enough to set her at ease. The others had gone to bed. He preferred to stay with the watch, a visible, armed backup. What would be more comforting than Indiana Jones sound asleep would be Indiana Jones wide awake. She coughed, gently. Grant slept on. "Grant," she said. No response. "Hey, Grant!" He stirred and rubbed his eyes. "What?" "I didn't say anything." "Hm. Okay." Linda glanced about. "I'm hearing things in the woods. Maybe those sounds woke you." Grant sat up. "What kind of sounds?" He picked up his rifle. "Something moving." They sat in silence for long moments, listening. At last, Grant said, "The alarms haven't tripped. That's a good sign. Anything big would have set them off." He looked at his watch. "Why don't you get some sleep? You've only g