Adventure Media

Adventure - A bold, exciting participation in an unusual experience, or an undertaking of a spirited nature.


Campfire Stories


Storytelling is just about a lost art in today's world. Personal electronic devices take people to another world outside their current reality through music, video, and gaming. Gifted storytellers were able to capture the attention of their audience by making a strong impression upon their listeners by adding emotion to their characters, not merely reading words but bringing action into the story. They would often make such an impression on their audience as to change the mood of a group, by engaging them emotionally, intellectually, and holding the listeners attention through verbal action. The speaker would become the characters in the story, by using different voices and changes in inflection of the words they spoke. Storytelling brought people together. Early storytellers were often known as "keepers of the truth".


Families used to gather together around their Radiola radio receivers starting in the early 1920's, listening to articulate characters create radio drama. Early radio was an era between live people telling stories to each other around the evening fire, to the visualization of 1950's early television. In today's world it often dominates how we entertain ourselves.


For many of us, a large part of the wilderness adventure experience is to leave behind our iPod's and Blackberry's. You can become so far from civilization, you could yell and scream all day long, and there's no one to hear your call. If you want entertainment, you're on your own. This is where the art of campfire storytelling can bring excitement, laughter, even fear to an otherwise calm and quiet group of individuals, sitting and staring dreamily into an evening's campfire. Not that quietness is to be avoided, but lets say limited, or the topics of discussion moved towards reflecting on the events of the day, instead of office gossip or the needs of a secure computer network. Storytelling can help to break us free from the everyday thoughts we normally live within.

"He found himself gasping. It was dreadfully fetid, unbearably hot. In a paroxysm of terror he ripped and clawed at the satin until it was shredded. He made a futile attempt to dig with his feet at the earth from the collapsed burrow that blocked his retreat. If he were only able to revrese his position he might be able to claw his way through to air... air..."

The Graveyard Rats,

as told by William Forgey, M.D.,

in his book "Campfire Tales"


"Would you like to tell a scary story? - Original and classic stories of adventure, ghosts, and other scary super-natural encounters. Chase ghoulies from a deep, dark grave; vindicate the misdeeds of a deranged madman; look over your shoulder for mysterious movements in the dark; travel in time to an Asian jungle; and discover swamps with eerie creatures from the night." - William W. Forgey M.D.





By William Forgey, M.D.


          The three books I've written on campfire stories were designed for the adult who needs a good, scary story to tell to youngsters In the 11 to 15 age group. Why scary stories? In 10 years of service as a scoutmaster to 3 different troops, and having worked with many other troops and groups of youngsters in summer camps and elsewhere, the most requested campfire event has been a good, scary story. Humorous tales, Indian legends, parables, and educational stories all have their place. And indeed I have treated my scouts to all of them. But the most often verbalized request -- almost a challenge it seems -- is "scare me." It might appear impossible to compete with the magnificent visual effects of videos and movies which particularly lend them­selves to adventure stories. But actually a good story can have far greater entertainment impact. A story requires the listener to use his own imagination -- the movie spoon feeds its visual and sound effects, it leaves no room for personal imagination. No experience in the visual arts is more powerful than the human imagination.


Scary story telling is a craft and there are certain skills and techniques which should be utilized to be the most successful. There are some aspects of this craft which should be employed for optimum results in the full introduction of this book.


Note: It is also important to outline a story you wish to tell by the campfire. Each of these stories in this book have such an outline, which will remind you of the points that must be made to make the tale complete. In fact, all three books listed below have an outline to assist the story teller.


Read a ghost story now. Following (below the three book links), are three stories, one from each of the three books written. Take a few minutes for yourself, and plunge into a scary, deranged, or mysterious world by reading a story, or all three. Dare to read, and see if you don't look over your shoulder next time the darkness surrounds you, and you hear a bump in the night.


Click on each title link, and you'll be taken to a web page within Amazon to see the cover, read more about the book, with an option to purchase the book. Click the <BACK> button on your browser to return to this page


Campfire Stories, 2nd: Things That Go Bump in the Night , Volume 1, by William Forgey M.D. This 2nd edition is a collection of twenty ghost stories by a variety of authors, including Dr. Forgey, with suggestions on how each should be told to a group, preferably around a campfire. Dr. Forgey acquired his storytelling reputation during his 10 years as a scout leader. Each story has been chosen to be especially easy to tell from memory.


Campfire Tales, 2nd: Ghoulies, Ghosties, and Long-Leggety Beasties (Campfire Books) , Volume 1, by William Forgey M.D. This 2nd edition is not just a collection of stories; it is a valuable resource for story telling. This book is filled with original and classic stories of adventure, ghosts, and other scary super-natural encounters.


Campfire Stories, Volume 3: More Things That Go Bump in the Night . This is the third book in a trilogy from "Doc" Forgey, which includes "Campfire Stories, Vol. 1" and "Campfire Tales, Vol. 2". These stories are Ideal for camper's ages 11 through 16 and for adults who occasionally hear things that go bump in the night. Edited by William W. Forgey, M.D. - With special editorial assistance and original stories by, David R. Scott and Scott E. Powers.


-Use in this website has been authorized by the author, William Forgey, M.D.



…Ghoulies, Ghosties and

Long-Leggety Beasties


As told by Doc Forgey

Illustration by Paul G. Hoffman


No so many years ago there was a group of young men, a little older than you boys, who were in college. They developed a hobby, and that hobby was to try and find buried treasure. They felt that the best way of doing that was to learn Spanish. Not regular Spanish, but the old Spanish, the Spanish spoken by the Conquistadores. These ancient soldiers had captured the Indians of Central America - the Inca, the Mayan, and Aztec. Stealing their gold and other treasures, they would bring it back to Spain in their galleons. They kept meticulous records because this gold was the property of the king. The instant they laid their hands on it, it was considered the king's property. So they kept very good track of it - their lives were forfeit were they to lose their accounting of these treasures.

In Spain at the Alhambra, the old royal castle where these records were sent, there are piles of ancient documents which are old records of the gold shipments. The boys felt that within those archives there could be some secret that might let them find a lost treasure. Indeed they studied these records carefully. They went over there during the summer and spent weeks and weeks poring over all sorts of these ancient journals. They had explained to the officials that they were there for academic purposes and therefore they were allowed access to the archives to help their studies.

One summer they found it. There was a record of a mine, a very rich mine located in a province that today is in southern Mexico. The Spaniards were running it with Indian slave labor and getting tremendous quantities of gold. Year after year the gold was being shipped back to Spain, when suddenly ... it stopped!

Something mysterious had happened. There was no more gold from this area.

Several things could have happened. The Indians could have mutinied and actually killed off the guards. But if that were to have happened, the Spaniards would have sent more guards and an army detail to restore order, for this was a very wealthy mine. So that could not have been it. A disease could have struck killing off everyone in that area. But again, with that much value to this mine, surely the mine would have been reopened regardless of the cost.

Something mysterious had happened to have caused this whole operation to have just closed down. The name given to the mine was: "La Cucaracha".

The three young friends took all of the money that they had and formed an expedition to go down deep into the jungles of lower Mexico. They had an approximate location from the old Spanish name of the district, and so they went to find La Cucaracha.

They went to small towns in the highlands on the jungle edge to see if they could get any clue about where some mysterious things may have occurred. In one town there was a bar with an old man there - he did not know anything about La Cucaracha, but he said: "You know, there is an Indian legend about a mine called: La Antigua, in the back country. It means 'The Old One."

That was the closest of anything they had come upon, the only thing that they had to go with, it certainly sounded mysterious. Maybe the Indians had a different name for the mine than the Spanish Conquistadores. They asked the old man to take them to La Antigua and they headed off into the jungles on their quest.

They cut their way through the thick underbrush, SLASHING their way through the foliage, and finally after they had gotten way out in the jungles they found a mysterious shaft. This shaft HAD to be man made. It was cut out of solid rock, a shaft that just disappeared into the depths of the bedrock of the earth.

They had to find out what was at the bottom of this pit. They dropped a rock down it ... they could hear nothing. So they rigged up a winch, and one of the guys climbed into a parachute harness. The Indians working with his two friends would lower him into the shaft.

He had a head light on. Soon he was below the surface of the ground and the darkness of the musty pit closed in around him. As he was being lowered further and further into the shaft, the rope started to slowly spin around. He slowly twirled around and around as he went down deeper and deeper. Pretty soon he could see no light from the top of the shaft at all. There was just a tiny light way up above as he was being lowered into that shaft.

As he was being lowered deeper and deeper, he noticed that the walls were turning a rusty brown color. As he went further down he thought that maybe he could see the bottom of this mine shaft. But he was spinning faster and faster, too fast to clearly make out what was below.

He needed to slow down, so he reached his leg way out to touch the wall of the mine shaft to stop the rapid spinning. As he did this, while spinning around, his foot literally gouged into the wall of the shaft - suddenly he realized what that rust color was. Thousands, millions of cockroaches had climbed up the side of the shaft - indeed as he looked further down he could see that the bottom of the shaft - the place to which he was being lowered - was a teeming mass of cockroaches. He was being lowered to his death, he was about to be buried alive by cockroaches!

AAAUUUGGGHHH! He shouted as loud as he could, hoping his friends would hear him and stop lowering him into that ocean of writhing insects.

His foot had dislodged the cockroaches on the walls and millions came cascading down, some falling, thousands flying, a suffocating mass of whirling wings. Trying to get his breath for a second scream he choked on a mouth full of the vile insects. They were in his ears, in his nose, his throat gagged with wriggling, struggling insects. He was suffocating, he was gagging - trying to scream and vomit at the same time.

He had learned the dread secret of La Cucaracha Mine.

And the closer to the bottom of this pit, closer to being buried alive in a mountain of cockroaches. All light from his helmet obscured by the massive number of insects, he knew he was closer and closer to the bottom of the shaft. THOUSANDS AND THOUSANDS OF THE ROACHES POUNDED HIM ON ALL SIDES. HE COULDN'T GET HIS BREATH, BUT HE HAD TO BREATHE! Desperately he struggled for air.

They were down his shirt, swarming around his head, thousands, and thousands of them.

HELP!!!! His screams were muffled by the millions of whirling cockroaches. He shouted again, and he shouted again desperate for help amongst this nightmare of cockroaches. Cascading cockroaches were burying him alive!

Suddenly ... he jerked to a stop!

He felt himself being raised, raised as rapidly as he knew his friends could. Once on the surface, he laid gagging and choking trying to breath. His friends on the surface realized something was wrong. Thousands of cockroaches suddenly began swarming out of the entrance to the shaft, and when they saw that they stopped lowering him and immediately tried to get their friend out of there. They now all knew the secret of La Cucaracha!

Subsequently the village people made certain that the shaft was boarded up so that never again would somebody be lowered into the sprawling mass of insects that had taken over La Cucaracha mine.



As told by Doc Forgey

Illustration by David Sanders

This story is an adaptation of a traditional English folk story.


This story took place in a wild isolated area in the moors of Northern England. One day a stranger came to the village and said his name was Mr. Black. He was a tall good looking man with black hair and a big bushy black mustache.

It was the custom of the day that gentlemen would go around the village in the afternoons and court the young women, always in the presence of a chaperon, usually a parent. There was one woman that really took his fancy. Mary was her name. Mary was an orphan child, she didn't have any parents but she had four brothers. So whenever Mr. Black came to court, which was about once a month in the beginning, one of the brothers would always be there. They would sit and talk and have tea.

Mary really started to like Mr. Black. He was a lot more interesting than the boys who usually came around. He had been to far away lands, he knew a lot of different people, and he knew strange languages. Well before long he was coming there about once a week, usually on a Tuesday. After some time, Mr. Black said, "You know Mary, I have been coming to visit you and you have never been to visit me."

Mary said, "Mr. Black I don't believe I know where you live.

As a matter of fact, I don't think anyone around here knows where you live."

            Mr. Black said, "Well it’s no secret. I do keep myself to myself but I live in a house in the woods just north of town."

            "Aahh, Mr. Black, that's what it is! People around here don't go into those woods. Why I have never been any distance

at all into them."

            Mr. Black said, "Well they are perfectly safe woods and I'll come by sometime and take you out there."

            Well he never did get around to it and Mary was just as glad. She wasn't too sure about going into those woods. Finally it came to be a spring afternoon. It was on a Sunday, a beautiful day. The sun was shining and Mary was out picking wild flowers. She was kind of wandering some and daydreaming. She kept picking a few more, mostly blue bells. She was wandering along not paying much attention to where she was. Without knowing it she had gotten into the woods north of town.

Now she wasn't really lost. She knew she just had to head back south to get home but she had clearly gone a lot deeper then she had planned. She looked around and she noticed a little clearing off to the side. She thought she could perhaps go over there and get her bearings with the sun and maybe find a path heading back home south. Well she walked and when she got to the end of the clearing she saw an old English style house at the far end.

She thought, "That must be Mr. Black's house. Well he did invite me for tea and I'm sure he would know the best way home." So she walked over toward the house. When she got there she went up the three big granite steps. There was a heavy knocker on the door. She clanged it a few times. It rang hollow inside. No one answered. She was kind of curious, so she came around the steps and went to the side of the house and peered in one of the windows. All she could see was a wooden hallway. She was really intrigued by now and she thought, "I'm sure Mr. Black wouldn't mind if I just went in and looked around a bit."

She came back around and climbed the front steps. As she did something caught her eye. She looked up and saw that there were the words carved in the lintel above the door. The words said "Be Bold, Be Bold!"

She felt, "That's an odd welcome."

She tried the door and found that it was open. She walked in and saw a hallway with doors leading off to the side. Right in front of her was a broad staircase leading up to a long gallery that was filled with windows, allowing the sun to pour in. It was the kind of staircase that made you want to walk up it pretending you were rich and very grand. Well that's exactly what Mary did. She walked up pretending she was very elegant and when she got to the top, the sun was just pouring in those windows and it was all so beautiful. She was in kind of a day dreaming mood.

She noticed another door at the far end of the hall and thought, that must be Mr. Black's bedroom."

She walked down toward it. As she got closer she saw that there were more words carved in the lintel above it, and these words said "Be Bold, Be Bold, But Not Too Bold!"

She tried the door and it was the bedroom. It was kind of dark inside. The curtains were drawn. It was a large room. Over to one side there was a brass bed and right next to it there was a mahogany wash stand with a porcelain bowl and pitcher. What really caught her eye was another door. She thought, "That must be Mr. Black's closet. Oh, he is such a fine dresser I would like to see some of his clothes."

So she walked over toward it. As she got close she saw that there were more words carved above it and these words said, "Be Bold, Be Bold, But Not Too Bold, Or Your Heart's Blood Will Run Cold!"

She opened that door and it was pitch black inside. It took awhile for her eyes to adjust to that darkness. Once they did she saw what appeared to be three bath tubs. The first was filled with a dark liquid. She tasted it and it tasted like blood. The second was filled with what appeared to be human bones. And the third was filled with hair, long human hair and skin! She was terrified. She ran out of the closet and shut the door. She looked around to make sure that she had not touched anything or left any sign that she had been there.

She ran out of the bedroom. She closed the door and she was hurrying down the landing when she heard something! She looked out of the windows and she saw Mr. Black striding across the clearing, pulling a young woman by the hair! The girl was struggling and screaming. Mary knew she had to hide somewhere. She looked around and finally ran down the steps, went to the side of the staircase and crouched down below it. No sooner had she squatted down when Mr. Black flung open the door. He came strutting across the hallway, still pulling that young woman by the hair.

He started up the staircase, the girl struggling all the way - kicking, screaming, and pleading for mercy. She reached out and grabbed hold of the banister. Mr. Black, without breaking stride, pulled out a large knife and hacked off her hand at the wrist. He jerked the sobbing girl right up the staircase, down the hallway and into his room.

That hand had fallen into Mary's lap! Stifling a scream, she wrapped it up in her apron and ran out of the house, scurrying home as fast as she could.

Well that was on a Sunday and on Tuesday Mr. Black came to court. Mary made sure that all four of her brothers were there. They were sitting, having tea, and after a while Mr. Black said, "You know, Mary, you aren't very talkative. Is anything the mat­ter?"

Mary said, "Well Mr. Black, I have been having a bad dream and I have not been getting much sleep."

Mr. Black answered, "Well, you know I have traveled the world and I have read many dreams. Perhaps if you tell me your dream I will be able to help you."

Mary said, "Well Mr. Black I dreamed I was out picking wild flowers and I came to an old house. I dreamed I went up the steps of that house and I saw some words carved in the lintel above the door. The words said, "Be Bold, Be Bold!"

Mr. Black sat stiffly in his chair and interrupted, "Surely it was not so!"

Mary continued, "I dreamed that I went into that house and up a staircase and came to another door with more words carved in it. These words said, "Be Bold, Be Bold, But Not Too Bold!"

Now Mr. Black's face turned pale and he said, "But surely it was not so and is not so."

"I dreamed that I went into that door and came still to another door with more words carved above it and these words said, "Be Bold, Be Bold, But Not Too Bold, Or Your Heart's Blood Will Run Cold!"

Mr. Black said, "But surely it was not so, and it is not so, and never could be so."

Mary continued, "But that is the way it was in my dream, Mr. Black. And I dreamed that I opened that third door and there were three vats inside. The first was filled with human blood, and the second was filled with human bones, and the third was filled with human hair and skin."

Mr. Black said, "Well surely it was not so, and it is not so, and never could be so, and a curse on him that would make it so."

Mary said, "That is the way it was in my dream, Mr. Black. I dreamed that I came out of the closet, shut the door, went out of the bedroom, closed that door and I was hurrying down the landing when I saw you, Mr. Black, come striding across the clearing outside. You were pulling a young woman by the hair. And I dreamed I saw you come through the front door and start up the staircase, still pulling that young woman. About half way up she was struggling and screaming when she reached out and grabbed onto the banister. You, Mr. Black, drew out your knife and hacked off her hand at the wrist and pulled her on up the staircase and into our room!"

By this time Mr. Black was on his feet and he said, "Well surely it was not so and it is not so, and God forbid that it should be so."

Mary very quietly took that hand from under her apron. She put it on Mr. Black's plate and looked him straight in the eye and said, "But Mr. Black, It was so and it is so. And here is the very hand to show."

The four brothers took him out back and they killed him.

And I cannot tell you how or, your heart's blood will run cold.



Pronounced "pooh gone"

By Scott E. Power

Illustration by David Sanders


            I had never believed in Indian legends until I met Dave, a Catholic priest and missionary from a remote trading post in the wilds of northern Manitoba, Canada, a land where Cree Indian legends prevail.

            Dave and I met while I was on a canoe trip into the north. He needed transportation from Neultin Lake back to his post two hundred miles north.

            Although I was a safe canoeist, I wondered about my new partner, Dave. But within minutes of our shoving off, he proved to be an accomplished paddler. During conversation he explained that he had lived in the north for five years. He was supposed to leave after one year, but he loved it so much that he insisted on staying. He said that the Indians had taught him a lot, but he still had a lot to learn.

            He explained that the Indians had taught him that every human being has a guardian angel called a paugan. The paugan is a protector or spiritual guardian. A paugan will only interfere with reality in extreme life-threatening danger. Typically, a paugan is a likeness of an animal. Each person's paugan is different. One person's paugan might be a cougar, for some an eagle or a wolf, but it is always an animal of sig­nificance, of great importance. But there is only one way for a person to discover what type of animal his paugan might be. He must fast and dream for a fortnight, for two full weeks of dedicated misery and deprivation. Only then will the Great Spirit show a person through dreams what his paugan is.

            Dave said at first he didn't believe in it. But one day, while he was canoeing with Indian friends north into the barrens to hunt caribou, they found themselves in a wide turbulent river. The water was freezing cold. Even though it was late August, the air temperature was below freezing. Dave and his partner managed to get ashore once they realized how dangerous the stretch of river had become, but the other canoe was blown into the main channel and was being swept into dangerous standing waves. An upset at this point could mean death for the two Indians, but there was nothing that they, or that Dave and his partner, could do to get themselves out of the raging white water. Suddenly there was a swirl under the canoe and to Dave's disbelief an immense moose rose up out of the water and the canoe was lifted upon its back. The moose plunged towards shore and then suddenly sank beneath the waves, but the canoe had been freed from the main current and the Indians were able to desperately paddle their way to shore.

            Dave was dazzled with disbelief about what had happened. An Indian called Julyja, a good friend of the minister, explained that the moose was his own paugan and it had saved him once before as a boy. The canoe had been saved by Julyja's paugan.

            Well, that was all Dave needed to see. He immediately believed in the reality of the paugan and he wanted to discover his own. He asked Julyja for instruction. Julyja told him to fast for a fortnight, swim naked with the fish, and dream each day. Whatever animal he dreamed about would be his paugan.

            The following summer, Dave did all of this faithfully. At the end of his ordeal it was revealed to him that his paugan was a wolverine, one of the most independent and fierce animals of the North Country. He had never been saved by his paugan and it had been years since he witnessed it in a dream, but he knew that it existed and that it would watch over him.

            I simply could not believe in any of this. Dave told me that my disbelief was wrong. The Cree Indian legend of the paugan was indeed true and if I didn't show respect my safety was questionable.

            Several years later, I was making a solo canoe trip on a remote stretch of river in the forest country of northern Saskatchewan. It had been a pleasant trip and I was in no hurry as I was enjoying that beautiful countryside and its occasional sand beaches. The weather had been the best that I had ever had on a northern trip. Perhaps all of this lulled me into a feeling of over-confidence, because a fateful decision caused me to take a chance through some rapids that proved to be a mistake. A rock ripped my canoe open from stem to stern, causing the entire craft to disintegrate in the swirling rapids. My gear had been secured into the boat; perhaps the turbulence of the water tugging on my Duluth packs aided in destroying the canoe. By the time I had swum clear of the rapids, there was nothing to be seen of my canoe or any of my equipment. My initial relief of being alive soon turned to fear. I was hundreds of miles from any help with no food, tent, or extra clothing!

            In some ways the first few days were the most difficult. I still had my mosquito netting and some insect repellent, so at least I wasn't eaten alive by the mosquitoes. There was plenty of fresh water to drink. But food - I had none at all. I became more and more miserable during the first several days. I didn't know a person could become so miserable, so hungry. I built myself a shelter and planned to stay in one place, hoping another party might come down the river that summer, or that an Indian trapper or fisherman would come through.

            It was just as well that I stayed, for soon the lack of food made me weak. Travel would have been impossible. My repellent ran out and the mosquitoes started adding to my misery by biting through my clothing. My only relief came when I went swimming naked with the fish in the cold stream, fish that I could never hope to catch.

            As the days passed I became strangely tranquil. And while each day becomes a blur in my memory, there can be no doubt that I was accidentally fulfilling the quest for a paugan. After almost two weeks, a fortnight as Julyja had told Dave, I lapsed into a trance. While in the trance I stared at the clouds above me and I slowly realized that the clouds were forming into a shape. I was lifted out of my daze by the realization that I was going to see my paugan. That it was going to reveal itself to me that I might be able to appeal to it for safety and deliverance from a certain death in this wilderness.

            But the clouds were forming a shape that I was unfamiliar with. It was, naturally, a white blob. The white image seemed to boil and slowly evolved into a strange image that I struggled to recognize. Then it suddenly dawned on me what I was seeing, what my paugan really was. It was not a giant creature after all. Oh, the cloud was large, but my paugan was not. I was staring at a cloud image of a grub! An insect that lived in rotting trees which for the mighty bears of the forest formed a main food source. They were fond of ripping apart dead trees to devour those tasty morsels.

            Yes, my salvation lay all around me in the forest. I came out of my trance and grabbed a large rock and easily found a rotten log. I pounded the log apart and revealed a swarm of the maggot-like grubs, scur­rying for cover from the daylight. I scooped up entire handfuls of the white bugs and shoved them in my mouth. The bugs squirmed as I crunched them. The taste was surprisingly wonderful. There was, of course, the crunchy sensation as they were squashed between my molars and there was the delightful juice that squirted into my cheeks with every bite. I was delighted at the first taste of food that I had experienced in two weeks.

            My life had been saved by my paugan. I could live for weeks; travel for miles, all because I had been saved by my paugan - the white maggot-like grubs hidden all around me in the rotten logs!


Other books for the campfire storytellers;


Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark , -- A great book written by Alvin Schwartz. -- Welcome to the macabre world of Scary Stories. Inside, you'll find alarming tales of horror, dark revenge, and the supernatural. Stories run from the funny to the downright frightening.


Another book that should be added to your collection is More Scary Stories To Tell In The Dark,  also by Alvin Schwartz.


Caroline Feller Bauer's New Handbook for Storyteller's, -- Stories, Poems, Magic, an extensive book which guides the reader in "how to" enhance their own storytelling skills. This is a wide ranging book with all kinds of "how to" information, which could even be beneficial to instructors and teachers, as well as the campfire storyteller.


South Mountain sketches; folk tales and legends collected in the mountains of southern Pennsylvania , -- Henry W. b. 1880 Shoemaker -- This culturally important book was originally written around the turn of the 20th century, and has many imperfections due to the scanning process. But it considered a classic regional piece of work, worth saving in its original form.


Tales of the Mountain Men: Seventeen Stories of Survival, Exploration, and Frontier Spirit , -- Edited by lamar Underwood, -- Tales of the Mountain Men gathers our nation's finest mountain man writing into one riveting volume.


Stories for Around the Campfire , -- A collection of Boy Scout oriented campfire stories for telling around a campfire. Where else? There are 24 stories -- about 10 that are geared to younger children and 14 that are for older children.


Campfire Ghost Stories , -- By Jo-Anne Christensen -- This entertaining collection of great campfire ghost stories, whether read alone or aloud, is sure to raise the hair on the back of your neck. A really great collection of stories, some are typical urban legends, as well as very original stories.


Another author of stories for kids is John Bradshaw, his FUN CAMPFIRE GHOST STORIES , and compliment book FUN CAMPFIRE STORIES , do not end in a scary way. Humor is incorporated into the story, making the story telling an enjoyable and memorable event. Even the youngest reader/listener will beg for more and still sleep soundly at night.