Fiction Books

Nothing To Eat. Not by the Author of "Nothing to Wear." The Argument THOUGH famine prevails not at all in the city;Though none of starvation have died in the street;Yet many there are now exciting our pity,Who're daily complaining of nothing to eat. The every-day cry and the every-day fare,That's every day heard where the Livewells are dining,Is nothing to eat, or else nothing to... more...

I, Q. K. P. Doesticks, of No Hall, Nowhere; No Castle, no Villa, no Place, Court, or Terrace; Who didn’t write “Junius,” or “Nothing to Wear,” Who never have visited London or Paris; Who am not a phantom, a myth, or a mystery, But a “homo,” as solid as any of history; As real as Antony, Cæsar, or Brutus,— A wide-awake Yankee, so “tarnation ’cute” as To always write Nothings,... more...

THE OMNIBUS. It was not so much a day as a burning, fiery furnace. The roar of London's traffic reverberated under a sky of coppery blue; the pavements threw out waves of heat, thickened with the reek of restaurants and perfumery shops; and dust became cinders, and the wearing of flesh a weariness. Streams of sweat ran from the bellies of 'bus-horses when they halted. Men went up and down... more...

PROLOGUE Years ago, when I was very small, we lived in a great house in a long, straight, brown-coloured street, in the east end of London.  It was a noisy, crowded street in the daytime; but a silent, lonesome street at night, when the gas-lights, few and far between, partook of the character of lighthouses rather than of illuminants, and the tramp, tramp of the policeman on his long beat seemed to... more...

There was, Telzey Amberdon thought, someone besides TT and herself in the garden. Not, of course, Aunt Halet, who was in the house waiting for an early visitor to arrive, and not one of the servants. Someone or something else must be concealed among the thickets of magnificently flowering native Jontarou shrubs about Telzey. She could think of no other way to account for Tick-Tock's spooked... more...

John Rush smoothed the covers over his wife, tucking them in where her restless moving had pulled them away from the mattress. The twins moved beside him, their smooth hands following his in the task, their blind eyes intent on nothingness. "Thank you," he said softly to them, knowing they could not hear him. But it made him feel better to talk. His wife, Mary, was quiet. Her breathing was... more...

THE BLACK WOMAN. The horseman reined in as his jaded steed scrambled up the shelving bank, and for a space sat there motionless, for which the horse gave mute thanks. The moon was struggling to heave through fleecy clouds, as it was hard on midnight; in the half obscurity the rider gazed around suspiciously. There was nothing in sight to cause any man fear. Behind him rippled the Dee, and all around... more...

Chester Pelton retracted his paunch as far as the breakfast seat would permit; the table, its advent preceded by a collection of mouth-watering aromas, slid noiselessly out of the pantry and clicked into place in front of him. "Everything all right, Miss Claire?" a voice floated out after it from beyond. "Anything else you want?" "Everything's just fine, Mrs. Harris,"... more...

If Providence, instead of a vagabond, had made me a justice of the peace, there is no species of penalty I would not have enforced against a class of offenders, upon whom it is the perverted taste of the day to bestow wealth, praise, honour, and reputation; in a word, upon that portion of the writers for our periodical literature whose pastime it is by high-flown and exaggerated pictures of society,... more...

CHAPTER I. 'For be it knownThat their saint's honour is their own.'—SCOTT. The town of Micklethwayte was rising and thriving. There were salubrious springs which an enterprising doctor had lately brought into notice. The firm of Greenleaf and Dutton manufactured umbrellas in large quantities, from the stout weather-proof family roof down to the daintiest fringed toy of a parasol. There... more...