Once upon a time, Though I can\'t say exactly when, There lived, away in the country, A Little Small Red Hen. She wore a nice little apron, And a little sunbonnet too, And she walked picketty pecketty, As little Hens always do.

This scarce antiquarian book is a facsimile reprint of the original. Due to its age, it may contain imperfections such as marks, notations, marginalia and flawed pages. Because we believe this work is culturally important, we have made it available as part of our commitment for protecting, preserving, and promoting the world\'s literature in affordable, high quality, modern editions that are true to the original work.

This scarce antiquarian book is a facsimile reprint of the original. Due to its age, it may contain imperfections such as marks, notations, marginalia and flawed pages. Because we believe this work is culturally important, we have made it available as part of our commitment for protecting, preserving, and promoting the world's literature in affordable, high quality, modern editions that are true to the original work. --This text refers to the Hardcover edition. --This text refers to the Hardcover edition.

Custard Castle has a King, a Queen, a wizard, a dragon under the stairs - and a terrifying Thing in the dungeon! Four gently humorous stories for younger children.Four stories about Custard Castle, which has three hundred dusty rooms and only seven people.The Thing in the Dungeon: something is howling and yowling in the depths of the castle, and it's up to Jack the servant-boy to find it...The Dragon under the Stairs: Custard Castle is freezing! So why won't the dragon light the fires?The Messy Princess: Bella the maid is fed up with tidying Princess Fifi's things, so she turns the tables on her.The Marvellous Moat: the King decides that Custard Castle needs a moat. But when Wizard Watchit casts a spell on it, he ends up with a very unusual moat indeed...Full of humour and gentle excitement, The King of Custard Castle is perfect for younger children or for reading aloud.

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Book 02Escape from Headhunter Island Kimi & Quala drift off to sea in a small fishing boat, landing on a strange Island, Kimi tries to escape from headhunters, wild animals, meanwhile, revive Quala.His Excellency Walter Brown, Ireland's first resident Ambassador to Turkey presented his credentials in September 1968. He delegated the business of finding a residence to his wife, a French Countess, Colette Coerduroi-Brown.It is left to Dennis O'Gorman, the mission's Third Secretary, to restrain the exuberance of the Countess and handle the negotiations. He becomes embroiled in Turkish politics, in a house that is considered to be haunted. Enter a murderer!Diligent, ambitious, often unlucky; Dennis is obliged to turn detective.Millicent, his fiancée in Limerick, disapproves. The Department in Dublin frowns.He is fed a diet of red herrings, washed down by undependable wine.Dennis perseveres.

Excerpt: ...Osborne, in despair; "they\'ll never guess \'P\'!" The next scene was gorgeous. Solomon John, as a Turk, reclined on John Osborne\'s army-blanket. He had on a turban, and a long beard, and all the family shawls. Ann Maria and Elizabeth Eliza were brought in to him, veiled, by the little boys in their Hindoo costumes. This was considered the great scene of the evening, though Elizabeth Eliza was sure she did not know what to do,

CHAPTER I THE WICKED GIANT HE was ten. But his clothes were forty. And it was this difference in the matter of age, and, consequently, in the matter of size, that explained why, at first sight, he did not show how thin-bodied he was, but seemed, instead, to be rather a stout little boy. For his faded, old shirt, with its wide sleeves lopped off just above his elbows, and his patched trousers, shortened by the scissors to knee length, were both many times too large for him, so that they lay upon him, front, back and sides, in great, overlapping pleats that were, in turn, bunched into heavy tucks; and his kitchen apron, worn with the waistband about his neck, the strings being tied at the back, also lent him—if viewed from the front—an appearance both of width and weight. But he was not stout. His frame was not even fairly well covered. From the apron hem in front, the two legs that led down to the floor were scarcely larger than lead piping. From the raveling ends of his short sleeves were thrust out arms that matched the legs—bony, skinny arms, pallid as to color, and with hardly any more shape to them than there was to the poker of the cookstove. But while the lead-pipe legs ended in the sort of hard, splinter-defying boy\'s feet that could be met with on any stretch of pavement outside the tenement, the bony arms did not end in boyish hands. The hands that hung, fingertips touching halfway to the knee, were far too big for a boy of ten. They were red, too, as if all the blood of his thin shoulders had run down his arms and through his wrists, and stayed there. And besides being red, fingers, palms and backs were lined and crinkled. They looked like the hands of a hard-working, grown girl. That was because they knew dish washing and sweeping, bed making and cooking, scrubbing and laundering. But his head was all that a boy\'s head should be, showing plenty of brain room above his ears. While it was still actually—and naturally—large for his body, it looked much too large; not only because the body that did its bidding was undersized, but because his hair, bright and abundant, added to his head a striking circumference. He hated his hair, chiefly because it had a hint of wave in it, but also because its color was yellow, with even a touch of green! He had been taunted about it—by boys. But what was worse, women and girls had admired it, and laid hands upon it—or wanted to. And small wonder; for in thick undulations it stood away from forehead and temples as if blown by the wind. A part it had not, nor any sort of neat arrangement. He saw strictly to that. Whenever his left hand was not busy, which was less often than he could wish, he tugged at his locks, so that they reared themselves on end, especially at the very top, where they leaned in various directions and displayed what appeared to be several cowlicks. At every quarter that shining mop was uneven, because badly cut by Big Tom Barber, his foster father, whose name belied his tonsorial ability....

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What would you do if you were framed and sentenced to twenty years in an Asian prison? Would it make any difference if the heinous crimes that you’d gotten away with carried far longer sentences? Would knowing that your actions led directly to the suicide of your financial controller prick your conscience? Blind hate kept Douglas Aspine alive in Changi Prison. He had no conscience or compassion for those he had hurt, only the lust for revenge. Would this evil man succeed in bringing down those who had framed him?