"LITTLE WARS" is the game of kings-for players in an inferior social position. It can be played by boys of every age from twelve to one hundred and fifty-and even later if the limbs remain sufficiently supple-by girls of the better sort, and by a few rare and gifted women. This is to be a full History of Little Wars from its recorded and authenticated beginning until the present time, an account of how to make little warfare, and hints of the most priceless sort for the recumbent strategist....

Little Wars

If you (presuming you are of the sex that does such things)-if you had gone into the Drapery Emporium-which is really only magnificent for shop-of Messrs. Antrobus & Co.-a perfectly fictitious "Co., " by the bye-of Putney, on the 14th of August, 1895, had turned to the right-hand side, where the blocks of white linen and piles of blankets rise up to the rail from which the pink and blue prints depend, you might have been served by the central figure of this story that is now beginning. He would have come forward, bowing and swaying, he would have extended two hands with largish knuckles and enormous cuffs over the counter, and he would have asked you, protruding a pointed chin and without the slightest anticipation of pleasure in his manner, what he might have the pleasure of showing you. Under certain circumstances-as, for instance, hats, baby linen, gloves, silks, lace, or curtains-he would simply have bowed politely, and with a drooping expression, and making a kind of circular sweep, invited you to "step this way, " and so led you beyond his ken; but under other and happier conditions, -huckaback, blankets, dimity, cretonne, linen, calico, are cases in point, -he would have requested you to take a seat, emphasising the hospitality by leaning over the counter and gripping a chair back in a spasmodic manner, and so proceeded to obtain, unfold, and exhibit his goods for your consideration. Under which happier circumstances you might-if of an observing turn of mind and not too much of a housewife to be inhuman-have given the central figure of this story less cursory attention.

The Wheels of Chance

The buying of orchids always has in it a certain speculative flavour. You have before you the brown shrivelled lump of tissue, and for the rest you must trust your judgment, or the auctioneer, or your good-luck, as your taste may incline. The plant may be moribund or dead, or it may be just a respectable purchase, fair value for your money, or perhaps-for the thing has happened again and again-there slowly unfolds before the delighted eyes of the happy purchaser, day after day, some new variety, some novel richness, a strange twist of the labellum, or some subtler colouration or unexpected mimicry. Pride, beauty, and profit blossom together on one delicate green spike, and, it may be, even immortality. For the new miracle of Nature may stand in need of a new specific name, and what so convenient as that of its discoverer? "Johnsmithia"! There have been worse names.

30 Strange Stories

H.-G. Wells (1866-1946) 

"- Leur Progrès, comme ils disent, ça marche, déclara M. Tom Smallways, ça marche, et l'on se demande comment ça peut toujours marcher. 

M. Smallways faisait cette remarque longtemps avant le début de la guerre dans les airs, accoté contre la palissade, au bout de son jardin, et, d'un regard qui n'exprimait ni louange ni blâme, il contemplait la vaste usine à gaz de Bun Hill. Au-dessus des gazomètres pressés les uns contre les autres, trois formes étranges apparurent, grandes vessies flasques qui se balançaient lourdement, devenaient plus rondes et plus énormes - des ballons que l'on gonflait pour les ascensions hebdomadaires de l'Aéro-Club. 

- C'est comme ça tous les samedis, précisa le voisin M. Stringer, le laitier. Pas plus tard qu'hier, tout le monde se serait précipité pour voir un ballon partir, et maintenant il n'y a pas un trou à la campagne qui n'ait son départ de ballon tous les dimanches... Heureusement pour les compagnies du gaz ! 

- Samedi dernier, répliqua M. Smallways, j'ai été obligé de ramasser trois brouettées de gravier dans mes pommes de terre... trois brouettées de lest qu'ils nous ont versées sur la tête. Ils m'ont écrasé les touffes qui n'étaient pas enterrées. 

- Il y a des dames, parait-il, qui montent là-dedans... 

- Si on peut appeler ça des dames... En tout cas, ce n'est pas l'idée que je me fais d'une dame... Grimper en l'air et jeter des tas de sable sur le monde, ce n'est pas cela qu'on m'a enseigné à considérer comme une occupation pour des dames. 

M. Stringer approuva de la tête, et les deux voisins continuèrent à surveiller les masses boursouflées, avec une expression qui avait passé de l'indifférence à la désapprobation." 

Roman d'anticipation écrit en 1907.

Bert Smallways vit tranquillement dans une petite ville d'Angleterre. Avec son associé Grubb, il vivote de la location de vélos et la réparation mécanique. Rien ne le prédestinait à se retrouver à bord du dirigeable allemand qui allait agresser New-York et déclencher une terrible guerre mondiale sans fin...

La guerre dans les airs

H. G. Wells skilfully combines tension, wit and terror in The Invisible Man, a masterpiece of science fiction. Complete & Unabridged. Part of the Macmillan Collector's Library; a series of stunning, clothbound, pocket-sized classics with gold foiled edges and ribbon markers. These beautiful books make perfect gifts or a treat for any book lover. A mysterious stranger arrives at a rural Sussex inn on a cold winter's night with his face obscured by bandages and his body cloaked in a long, heavy coat. He locks himself in his room and spends his stay labouring over chemicals in intricate glass bottles. The villagers, bewildered by what lurks under the bandages, could never be prepared for the terrible truth: that the man is a scientist who has rendered himself invisible and is desperately struggling to find an antidote. He flees to the rugged, cliff-lined coast where, pursued by police and an angry mob, he is intent on murderous revenge.

The Invisible Man

THE WORLD SET FREE was written in 1913 and published early in 1914, and it is the latest of a series of three fantasias of possibility, stories which all turn on the possible developments in the future of some contemporary force or group of forces. The World Set Free was written under the immediate shadow of the Great War. Every intelligent person in the world felt that disaster was impending and knew no way of averting it, but few of us realised in the earlier half of 1914 how near the crash was to us. The reader will be amused to find that here it is put off until the year 1956. He may naturally want to know the reason for what will seem now a quite extraordinary delay. As a prophet, the author must confess he has always been inclined to be rather a slow prophet. The war aeroplane in the world of reality, for example, beat the forecast in Anticipations by about twenty years or so. I suppose a desire not to shock the sceptical reader's sense of use and wont and perhaps a less creditable disposition to hedge, have something to do with this dating forward of one's main events, but in the particular case of The World Set Free there was, I think, another motive in holding the Great War back, and that was to allow the chemist to get well forward with his discovery of the release of atomic energy.

The World Set Free

HarperCollins is proud to present its incredible range of best-loved, essential classics.

 "For a time I believed that mankind had been swept out of existence, and that I stood there alone, the last man left alive."

 When a strange, meteor-like object lands in the heart of England, the inhabitants of Earth find themselves victims of a terrible attack. A ruthless race of Martians, armed with heat rays and poisonous smoke, is intent on destroying everything that stands in its way. As the unnamed hero struggles to find his way across decimated wastelands, the fate of the planet hangs in the balance .

The War of the Worlds

A Victorian scientist develops a time machine and travels to the year 802,171 AD. There he finds the meek, child-like Eloi who live in fear of the underground-dwelling Morlocks. When his time machine goes missing, the Traveller faces a fight to enter the Morlocks' domain and return to his own time.
THE TIME MACHINE remains one of the cornerstones of science-fiction literature and has proved hugely influential.

The Time Machine

H. G. Wells (1866-1946) 

"L'étranger arriva en février, par une matinée brumeuse, dans un tourbillon de vent et de neige. Il venait, à pied, par la dune, de la station de Bramblehurst, portant de sa main couverte d'un gant épais, une petite valise noire. Il était bien enveloppé des pieds à la tête, et le bord d'un chapeau de feutre mou ne laissait apercevoir de sa figure que le bout luisant de son nez. La neige s'était amoncelée sur ses épaules, sur sa poitrine ; elle ajoutait aussi une crête blanche au sac dont il était chargé. 

Il entra, chancelant, plus mort que vif, dans l'auberge, et, posant à terre son bagage : 

- Du feu, s'écria-t-il, du feu, par charité ! Une chambre et du feu ! 

Il frappa de la semelle, secoua dans le bar la neige qui le couvrait, puis suivit Mme Hall dans le petit salon pour faire ses conditions. Sans autre préambule, et jetant deux souverains sur la table, il s'installa dans l'auberge." 

Un étrange client s'installe dans l'auberge, tenue par Mme Hall, au village d'Iping, en Angleterre. Toujours emmitouflé de la tête aux pieds, personne ne peut voir son visage. Les villageois causent, chacun y va de son hypothèse... Qui est-il ? Un chercheur défiguré ou atteint d'une malformation ? Un hors la loi recherché par la police ? Bientôt d'étranges phénomènes ont lieu dans le village...

Little Wars

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