Fiction Books

I REBIRTH   To me no mortal but a spirit blest,  A Light-girt messenger of Love art thou—  The radiant star of Hope upon thy brow.  The thrice-pure fire of Love within thy breast!  Thou comest to me as a heavenly guest,  As God's fulfilment of the purest vow  Love's heart e'er made—thou com'st to show e'en now   The Infinite, th' Eternal and the Best!... more...

I. It is with diffidence that I offer a translation of Michael Angelo's sonnets, for the first time completely rendered into English rhyme, and that I venture on a version of Campanella's philosophical poems. My excuse, if I can plead any for so bold an attempt, may be found in this—that, so far as I am aware, no other English writer has dealt with Michael Angelo's verses... more...

AFTERWARD. There is no vacant chair. The loving meet—A group unbroken—smitten, who knows how?One sitteth silent only, in his usual seat;We gave him once that freedom. Why not now? Perhaps he is too weary, and needs rest;He needed it too often, nor could weBestow. God gave it, knowing how to do so best.Which of us would disturb him? Let him be. There is no vacant chair. If he will takeThe mood... more...

I. “ENGLAND.”IN THE CAMP. This is a leader’s tent.  “Who gathers here?”   Enter and see and listen.  On the groundMen sit or stand, enter or disappear,   Dark faces and deep voices all around. One answers you.  “You ask who gathers here?   Companions!  Generals we have none, nor chief.What need is there?  The plan is all so clear—  The future’s hope, the present’s grim... more...

WITH OMARI sat with Omar by the Tavern door,Musing the mystery of mortals o'er,And soon with answers alternate we stroveWhether, beyond death, Life hath any shore."Come, fill the cup," said he. "In the fire of Spring Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling. The Bird of Time has but a little way To flutter—and the Bird is on the Wing.""The Bird of Time?" I answered.... more...

Beneath him the clovered hill-slope was warm in the sun. Northwest Smith moved his shoulders against the earth and closed his eyes, breathing so deeply that the gun holstered upon his chest drew tight against its strap as he drank the fragrance of Earth and clover warm in the sun. Here in the hollow of the hills, willow-shaded, pillowed upon clover and the lap of Earth, he let his breath run out in a... more...

Chapter 1 The long boat of the Marjorie W. was floating down the broad Ugambi with ebb tide and current. Her crew were lazily enjoying this respite from the arduous labor of rowing up stream. Three miles below them lay the Marjorie W. herself, quite ready to sail so soon as they should have clambered aboard and swung the long boat to its davits. Presently the attention of every man was drawn from his... more...

CHAPTER I The Good Grey Nerve His name was Sanford Hantee, but you will hear that only occasionally, for the boys of the back streets called him Skag, which "got" him somewhere at once. That was in Chicago. He was eleven years old, when he wandered quite alone to Lincoln Park Zoo, and the madness took him. A silent madness. It flooded over him like a river. If any one had noticed, it would have... more...

THE RED SPLASH OF ROMANCE The walls of the big living-room in the Arrowhead ranch house are tastefully enlivened here and there with artistic spoils of the owner, Mrs. Lysander John Pettengill. There are family portraits in crayon, photo-engravings of noble beasts clipped from the Breeder's Gazette, an etched cathedral or two, a stuffed and varnished trout of such size that no one would otherwise... more...

"SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE"   Marie Gessler, known as Marie Chaumontel, Jeanne d'Avrechy, the Countess d'Aurillac, was German. Her father, who served through the Franco-Prussian War, was a German spy. It was from her mother she learned to speak French sufficiently well to satisfy even an Academician and, among Parisians, to pass as one. Both her parents were dead. Before they departed,... more...