Try and Trust. Bound to Rise. Risen from the Ranks. Herbert Carter's Legacy. =BRAVE AND BOLD SERIES.= Brave and Bold. Jack's Ward. Shifting for Himself. Wait and Hope. =NEW WORLD SERIES.= Digging for Gold. Facing the World. In a New World. =VICTORY SERIES.= Only an Irish Boy. Adrift in the City. Victor Vane, or the Young Secretary. =FRANK AND FEARLESS SERIES.= Frank Hunter's Peril. Frank and Fearless. The Young Salesman. =GOOD FORTUNE LIBRARY.= Walter Sherwood's Probation. A Boy's Fortune. The Young Bank Messenger. =RUPERT'S AMBITION.= =JED, THE POOR-HOUSE BOY.= * * * * * HARRY CASTLEMON. HOW I CAME TO WRITE MY FIRST BOOK. When I was sixteen years old I belonged to a composition class. It was our custom to go on the recitation seat every day with clean slates, and we were allowed ten minutes to write seventy words on any subject the teacher thought suited to our capacity. One day he gave out "What a Man Would See if He Went to Greenland." My heart was in the matter, and before the ten minutes were up I had one side of my slate filled. The teacher listened to the reading of our compositions, and when they were all over he simply said: "Some of you will make your living by writing one of these days." That gave me something to ponder upon. I did not say so out loud, but I knew that my composition was as good as the best of them. By the way, there was another thing that came in my way just then. I was reading at that time one of Mayne Reid's works which I had drawn from the library, and I pondered upon it as much as I did upon what the teacher said to me. In introducing Swartboy to his readers he made use of this expression: "No visible change was observable in Swartboy's countenance." Now, it occurred to me that if a man of his education could make such a blunder as that and still write a book, I ought to be able to do it, too. I went home that very day and began a story, "The Old Guide's Narrative," which was sent to the _New York Weekly_, and came back, respectfully declined. It was written on both sides of the sheets but I didn't know that this was against the rules. Nothing abashed, I began another, and receiving some instruction, from a friend of mine who was a clerk in a book store, I wrote it on only one side of the paper. But mind you, he didn't know what I was doing. Nobody knew it; but one day, after a hard Saturday's work--the other boys had been out skating on the brick-pond--I shyly broached the subject to my mother. I felt the need of some sympathy. She listened in amazement, and then said: "Why, do you think you could write a book like that?" That settled the matter, and from that day no one knew what I was up to until I sent the first four volumes of Gunboat Series to my father. Was it work? Well, yes; it was hard work, but each week I had the satisfaction