File1:

The tropical rain fell in drenching sheets, hammering the currugated
roof of the clinic building, roaring down the metal gutters, splashing
on the ground in a torrent. Roberta Carter sighed, and stared out the
window. From the clinic, she could hardly see the beach or the ocean
beyond, cloaked in low fog. This wasn't what she had expected when
she had come to the fishing village of Bahia Anasco, on the west coast
of Costa Rica, to spend two months as a visiting physician. Bobbie Carter
had expected sun and relaxation, after two grueling years of residency
in emergency medicine at Michael Reese in Chicago.
She had been in Bahia Anasco now for three weeks. And it had rained every
day.
Everything else was fine. She liked the isolation of Bahia Anasco, and
the friendliness of its people. Costa Rica had one of the twenty best
medical systems in the world, and even in this remote coastal village,
the clinic was well maintained, amply supplied. Her paramedic, manuel
Aragon, was intelligent and well trained. Bobbie was able to practice
a level of medicine equal to what she had practiced in Chicago.
Excerpt from Jurassic Park. Written by Michael Crichton.

File2:

The boy with fair hair lowered himself down the last few feet of rock
and began to pick his way toward the lagoon. Though he had taken off his
school sweater and trailed it now from one hand, his grey shirt stuck to
him and his hair was plastered to his forehead. All around him the long
scar smashed into the jungle was a bath of heat. He was clambering
heavily among the creepers and broken trunks when a birf, a vision of
red and yellow, flashed upwards with a witch-like cry; and this cry was
echoed by another.
"Hi!" It said. "Wait a minute!"
The undergrowth at the side of teh scar was shaken and a multitude of
raindrops fell pattering.
"Wait a minute," the voice said. "I got caught up."
The fair boy stopped and jerked his stockings with an automatice gesture
that made the jungle seem for a moment like the Home Counties.
Excerpt from Lord of the Flies. Written by William Golding.

File3:

All overgrown by cunning moss,
All interspersed with weed,
The little cage of “Currer Bell”
In quiet “Haworth” laid.
This Bird – observing others
When frosts too sharp became
Retire to other latitudes –
Quietly did the same –
But differed in returning –
Since Yorkshire hills are green –
Yet not in all the nests I meet –
Can Nightingale be seen –
All Overgrown by Cunning Moss. Written by Emily Dickinson.

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Other specified properties aren’t being scored automatically at this time so this is not necessarily good news…