Fiction Books

George Kenington was sixteen, and, as he told himself, someone who was sixteen knew more about love than someone who was, say, forty-two. Like his father, for instance. A whole lot more probably. When you were forty-two, you got narrow-minded and nervous and angry. You said this is this, and that is that, and there is nothing else. When someone thought and felt and talked that way, George thought... more...

CHAPTER I To know George Washington, we must first of all understand the society in which he was born and brought up. As certain lilies draw their colors from the subtle qualities of the soil hidden beneath the water upon which they float, so are men profoundly affected by the obscure and insensible influences which surround their childhood and youth. The art of the chemist may discover perhaps the... more...

CHAPTER I Having resigned his commission, Washington stood not upon the order of his going, but went at once to Virginia, and reached Mount Vernon the next day, in season to enjoy the Christmas-tide at home. It was with a deep sigh of relief that he sat himself down again by his own fireside, for all through the war the one longing that never left his mind was for the banks of the Potomac. He loved... more...

CHAPTER I A MAN IN LOVE WITH THE SOIL One December day in the year 1788 a Virginia gentleman sat before his desk in his mansion beside the Potomac writing a letter. He was a man of fifty-six, evidently tall and of strong figure, but with shoulders a trifle stooped, enormously large hands and feet, sparse grayish-chestnut hair, a countenance somewhat marred by lines of care and marks of smallpox, withal... more...

THE RULES OF CIVILITY. Among the manuscript books of George Washington, preserved in the State Archives at Washington City, the earliest bears the date, written in it by himself, 1745. Washington was born February 11, 1731 O.S., so that while writing in this book he was either near the close of his fourteenth, or in his fifteenth, year. It is entitled "Forms of Writing," has thirty folio pages,... more...

W.J. TURNER ROMANCE When I was but thirteen or so  I went into a golden land,Chimborazo, Cotopaxi  Took me by the hand. My father died, my brother too,  They passed like fleeting dreams,I stood where Popocatapetl  In the sunlight gleams. I dimly heard the master's voice  And boys far-off at play,Chimborazo, Cotopaxi  Had stolen me away. I walked in a great golden dream  To and fro... more...

CHAPTER I. It was a beautiful May-day morning when George Green rose at an early hour; for it was his birthday, and he had not been able to sleep so long as usual, for counting of the joyful anniversary. "Ten years old, are you indeed, my boy?" said his father, who found Master George eagerly awaiting him in the breakfast parlour. "Yes, papa; and I am to have a whole holiday, and mamma has... more...

Chapter I Her Earlier Memories If old Jeremy Clapp had not sneezed his teeth into the fire that winter day this story might have had a more seemly beginning; but, being a true record, it must start with that sneeze, because it was the first happening in Georgina Huntingdon's life which she could remember distinctly. She was in her high-chair by a window overlooking a gray sea, and with a bib under... more...

I. She was certainly a singular girl, and if he felt at the end that he did n't know her nor understand her, it is not surprising that he should have felt it at the beginning. But he felt at the beginning what he did not feel at the end, that her singularity took the form of a charm which—once circumstances had made them so intimate—it was impossible to resist or conjure away. He had a strange... more...

CHAPTER I. THE THIEVES' CORNER At the foot of the hill on which stands the Campidoglio at Rome, and close beneath the ruins that now encumber the Tarpeian rock, runs a mean-looking alley, called the Viccolo D'Orsi, but better known to the police as the 'Viccolo dei Ladri,' or 'Thieves' Corner'—the epithet being, it is said, conferred in a spirit the very reverse of... more...