Fiction Books

PART I—SPRINGIHe walked along Holywell that afternoon of early June with his short gown drooping down his arms, and no cap on his thick dark hair. A youth of middle height, and built as if he had come of two very different strains, one sturdy, the other wiry and light. His face, too, was a curious blend, for, though it was strongly formed, its expression was rather soft and moody. His eyes—dark... more...

CHAPTER I.                "Incubo. Look to the cavalier. What ails he?                      . . . . .               Hostess. And in such good clothes, too!"                        BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER: Love's Pilgrimage.      "Theod. I have a brother—there my last hope!.              Thus... more...

The Latest Viewpoints of Men Worth While Stuyvesant Fish Says That Americans Are Wasteful, While Pastor Wagner Praises Our National Character—John D. Rockefeller, Jr., and Professor Fagnani Discuss Joseph's Corner in Corn—Thomas F. Ryan Holds That Opportunity to Win Wealth is Necessary to Industrial Progress—Andrew Carnegie as the Financier of Spelling Reform—With Other Opinions of... more...

ATHALIA HALL stopped to get her breath and look back over the road climbing steeply up from the covered bridge. It was a little after five, and the delicate air of dawn was full of wood and pasture scents—the sweetness of bay and the freshness of dew-drenched leaves. In the valley night still hung like gauze under the trees, but the top of the hill was glittering with sunshine. "Why, we've... more...

The ladies of St. James’s Go swinging to the play; Their footmen run before them With a “Stand by! Clear the way!” But Phyllida, my Phyllida! She takes her buckled shoon. When we go out a-courting Beneath the harvest moon. The ladies of St. James’s! They are so fine and fair, You’d think a box of essences Was broken in the air: But Phyllida, my Phyllida! The breath of heath and furze When... more...

CHAPTER ITHE OPEN PORT 'Fun!' said Ken Carrington, as he leaned over the rail of the transport, 'Cardigan Castle,' and watched the phosphorescent waters of the Aegean foaming white through the darkness against her tall side. 'Fun!' he repeated rather grimly. 'You won't think it so funny when you find yourself crawling up a cliff with quick-firers barking at you... more...

CHAPTER I The sun shone, that morning, and even from a city office window the Spring wind could be felt, sweet and keen and heady, making you feel that you wanted to be out in it, laughing, facing toward the exciting, happy things Spring was sure to be bringing you, if you only went a little way to meet them—just a little way! Marjorie Ellison, bending over a filing cabinet in a small and solitary... more...

CHAPTER I THE PROBLEM OF THE CRITIQUE The problem of the Critique may be stated in outline and approximately in Kant's own words as follows. Human reason is called upon to consider certain questions, which it cannot decline, as they are presented by its own nature, but which it cannot answer. These questions relate to God, freedom of the will, and immortality. And the name for the subject which... more...

ithin a thick-walled sphere of steel eight feet in diameter, with crystal-clear fused-quartz windows, there crouched an alert young scientist, George Abbot. The sphere rested on the primeval muck and slime at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, one mile beneath the surface.Marooned on the sea-floor, his hoisting cable cut, young Abbot is left at the mercy of the man-sharks.The beam from his 200-watt... more...

CHAPTER I THE YOUNG MAN NEXT DOOR My story begins with an incident that is bound to happen some time in any household that boasts—or perhaps deplores—a high-spirited girl of twenty-three in it. It begins with "a row" about a young man. My story begins, too, where the first woman's story began—in a garden. It was the back garden of our red-roofed villa in that suburban street,... more...