Fiction Books

Chapter I. THE BEACH. A coach-and-six, as a rule, may be called an impressive Object.But something depends on where you see it. Viewed from the tall cliffs—along the base of which, on a strip of beach two hundred feet below, it crawled between the American continent and the Atlantic Ocean—Captain Oliver Vyell's coach-and-six resembled nothing so nearly as a black-beetle. For that matter the... more...

CHAPTER I INTRODUCING PERSIS The knocking at the side door and the thumping overhead blended in a travesty on the anvil chorus, the staccato tapping of somebody's knuckles rising flute-like above the hammering of Joel's cane. TO some temperaments the double summons would have proved confusing, but Persis Dale dropped her sewing and moved briskly to the door, addressing the ceiling as she... more...

CHAPTER 1 "Nobody," said Cap'n Bill solemnly, "ever sawr a mermaid an' lived to tell the tale." "Why not?" asked Trot, looking earnestly up into the old sailor's face. They were seated on a bench built around a giant acacia tree that grew just at the edge of the bluff. Below them rolled the blue waves of the great Pacific. A little way behind them was the house, a... more...

n the gray darkness the curved fangs of a saber-toothed tiger gleamed white and ghostly. The man-figure that stood half crouched in the mouth of the cave involuntarily shivered.Rawson learns to his cost that the life-spark of a fabled race glows in the black heart of a dead, Western volcano."Gwanga!" he said. "He goes, too!" But the man did not move more than to shift a club to his... more...

THE FEAR OF DEATH. Thou! whose superior, and aspiring mindCan leave the weakness of thy sex behind;Above its follies, and its fears can rise,Quit the low earth, and gain the distant skies:Whom strength of soul and innocence have taughtTo think of death, nor shudder at the thought;Say! whence the dread, that can alike engageVain thoughtless youth, and deep-reflecting age;Can shake the feeble, and appal... more...

I went one year on the pilgrimage to the Holy House of Allah, and when I had accomplished my pilgrimage, I turned back for visitation of the tomb of the Prophet, whom Allah bless and keep! One night, as I sat in the garden,[FN#80] between the tomb and the pulpit, I heard a low moaning in a soft voice; so I listened to it and it said, "Have the doves that moan in the lotus-tree * Woke grief in... more...

INTRODUCTION TURGENEV was the first writer who was able, having both Slavic and universal imagination enough for it, to interpret modern Russia to the outer world, and Virgin Soil was the last word of his greater testament. It was the book in which many English readers were destined to make his acquaintance about a generation ago, and the effect of it was, like Swinburne's Songs Before Sunrise,... more...

The trouble began in a seemingly trivial way. Connor had wanted to speak to Rhoda, his wife, wished himself onto a trunk line and then waited. "Dallas Shipping here, Mars and points Jupiterward, at your service," said a business-is-business, unwifely voice in his mind. "I was not calling you," he thought back into the line, now also getting a picture, first flat, then properly 3-D and... more...

Having read a French edition of the Life of Venerable Sister Bourgeois, published in 1818, the translator of the present work was so charmed by its perusal that she resolved on rendering it into English for the spiritual edification of others. Many years ago the work of translation was commenced, but from some preventing cause or other, was as often laid aside. Yet the idea of presenting it to the... more...

CHAPTER I. THE TRAMP. "Will you give me a glass of water, please?" A ragged, bearded tramp stood before the door of a cottage near the outskirts of a country village, and propounded this question to a pretty girl who stood in the door. "In a moment." The girl disappeared, soon returning with a pitcher. She went to the pump near, and soon had the pitcher running over with sparkling... more...