Coral Island

Literature & Fiction

R. M. Ballantyne

Action & Adventure

Blackie and Son

School editions of English literature fiction texts; Classic fiction (Children's / Teenage)

E.F. Dodd

Classics

Wildside,2003

The coral island (A Purnell classic)

Purnell

<p>When the three sailor lads, Ralph, Jack and Peterkin are cast ashore after the storm, their first task is to find out whether the island is inhabited. Their next task is to find a way of staying alive. They go hunting and learn to fish, explore underwater caves and build boats - but then their island paradise is rudely disturbed by the arrival of pirates.</p>

The Coral Island / The Young Fur Traders

Smithmark Publishing

The Dog Crusoe

abby classics

Deep Down: A Tale of the Cornish Mines

Contemporary

Nabu Press

Martin Rattler; or, a Boy's Adventures in the Forests of Brazil

General Books LLC

It was five o'clock in the afternoon. There can be no doubt whatever as to that. Old Agnes may say what she pleases-she has a habit of doing so-but I know for certain (because I looked at my watch not ten minutes before it happened) that it was exactly five o'clock in the afternoon when I received a most singular and every way remarkable visit-a visit which has left an indelible impression on my memory, as well it might; for, independent of its singularity and unexpectedness, one of its results was the series of strange adventures which are faithfully detailed in this volume.      It happened thus:-      I was seated in an armchair in my private study in a small town on the west coast of England. It was a splendid afternoon, and it was exactly five o'clock. Mark that. Not that there is anything singular about the mere fact, neither is it in any way mixed up with the thread of this tale; but old Agnes is very obstinate-singularly positive-and I have a special desire that she should see it in print, that I have not given in on that point.

The Gorilla Hunters

R. M. Ballantyne, M. Ballantyne

Literary

1st World Library Literary Society

Blown to bits; bits so inconceivably, so ineffably, so "microscopically" small that—but let us not anticipate. About the darkest hour of a very dark night, in the year 1883, a large brig lay becalmed on the Indian Ocean, not far from that region of the Eastern world which is associated in some minds with spices, volcanoes, coffee, and piratical junks, namely, the Malay Archipelago. Two men slowly paced the brig's quarter-deck for some time in silence, as if the elemental quietude which prevailed above and below had infected them. Both men were broad, and apparently strong. One of them was tall; the other short. More than this the feeble light of the binnacle-lamp failed to reveal. "Father," said the tall man to the short one, "I do like to hear the gentle pattering of the reef points on the sails; it is so suggestive of peace and rest. Doesn't it strike you so?" "Can't say it does, lad," replied the short man, in a voice which, naturally mellow and hearty, had been rendered nautically harsh and gruff by years of persistent roaring in the teeth of wind and weather. "More suggestive to me of lost time and lee-way."

Blown to Bits

CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform

From this point it could be seen, even by unpractised eyes, that, although the confusion of letters all over the place was still considerable, there were huge gaps on the sorting-tables everywhere, while the facing-tables were of course empty. There was a push and energy also which had not prevailed at first. Men seemed as though they really were in considerable haste. Letters were being bundled up and tied with string and thrust into bags, and the bags sealed with a degree of celerity that transfixed Miss Lillycrop and silenced her. A few minutes more and the tables were cleared. Another minute, and the bags were being carried out. Thirty red vans outside gaped to receive them. Eight o’clock struck, whips cracked, wheels rattled, the eight o’clock mail was gone, and there was not a single letter left in the great sorting-room of St. Martin’s-le-Grand!

Post Haste

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Books by R. M. Ballantyne