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CHAPTER I.
THE STORY BEGINS.
It begins right in the middle; but a story must begin somewhere.
The town is down below the hill.
It lies in the hollow, and stretches on till it runs against another hill, over opposite; up which it goes a little way before it can stop itself, just as it does on this side.
It is no matter for the name of the town. It is a good, large country town,—in fact, it has some time since come under city... more...
CHAPTER I.
SPILLED OUT.
Sylvie Argenter was driving about in her mother's little basket-phæton.
There was a story about this little basket-phæton, a story, and a bit of domestic diplomacy.
The story would branch away, back and forward; which I cannot, right here in this first page, let it do. It would tell—taking the little carriage for a text and key—ever so much about aims and ways and principles, and the drift of a... more...
I.
THIS WAY, AND THAT.
The parlor blinds were shut, and all the windows of the third-story rooms were shaded; but the pantry window, looking out on a long low shed, such as city houses have to keep their wood in and to dry their clothes upon, was open; and out at this window had come two little girls, with quiet steps and hushed voices, and carried their books and crickets to the very further end, establishing themselves there, where the... more...
CHAPTER I.
"MONEY, MONEY!"
"Shoe the horse and shoe the mare,And let the little colt go bare."
East or West, it matters not where—the story may, doubtless, indicate something of latitude and longitude as it proceeds—in the city of Mishaumok, lived Henderson Gartney, Esq., one of those American gentlemen of whom, if she were ever canonized, Martha of Bethany must be the patron saint—if again, feminine celestials,... more...
CHAPTER I.
THE GREEN OF THE LEAF.
"Nothing but leaves—leaves—leaves! The green things don't know enough to do anything better!"
Leslie Goldthwaite said this, standing in the bay-window among her plants, which had been green and flourishing, but persistently blossomless, all winter, and now the spring days were come.
Cousin Delight looked up; and her white ruffling, that she was daintily hemstitching, fell to her lap, as she... more...