Fiction Books

PLANNING FOR CAMPThere is a pleasure in the pathless woods,There is a rapture on the lonely shore,There is society, where none intrudesBy the deep Sea, and music in its roar:I love not Man the less, but Nature more,From these our interviews, in which I stealFrom all I may be or have been before,To mingle with the Universe, and feelWhat I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal —Lord Byron... more...

OXFORD The night before I left home for Oxford I had a talk with my father. He was not of the sentimental kind, but I knew that he had a rare fondness for my brother, my sister Nina and myself, and I have never had a moment when I did not return his affection. He had always been bothered by my lack of seriousness, and he doubted whether I should really get the best out of 'Varsity life. After... more...

Introduction Most of the poems contained in this collection are of recent date, though their author—who is at present Professor of Modern Languages at Bishop's College, Quebec—has written verse from his childhood. He is the first Canadian writer to be included in this series, and is as affectionately loyal to the Motherland as to his native country, as may be gathered from his "Song of the... more...

Fog that you might cut with a knife all the way from London to Newbury. This fog does not wet things. It is rather a smoke than a fog. There are no two things in this world; and, were it not for fear of Six-Acts (the “wholesome restraint” of which I continually feel) I might be tempted to carry my comparison further; but, certainly, there are no two things in this world so dissimilar as an English... more...

THE POINT OF VIEW "I am too modest!" snapped the great Haskel van Manderpootz, pacing irritably about the limited area of his private laboratory, glaring at me the while. "That is the trouble. I undervalue my own achievements, and thereby permit petty imitators like Corveille to influence the committee and win the Morell prize." "But," I said soothingly, "you've won the... more...

CHAPTER I. UNA CALLINGHAM'S FIRST RECOLLECTION It may sound odd to say so, but the very earliest fact that impressed itself on my memory was a scene that took place—so I was told—when I was eighteen years old, in my father's house, The Grange, at Woodbury. My babyhood, my childhood, my girlhood, my school-days were all utterly blotted out by that one strange shock of horror. My past life... more...

STORIES OF THE BORDER MARCHES THE WHITE LADY OF BLENKINSOPP Among the old castles and peel towers of the Border, there are few to which some tale or other of the supernatural does not attach itself. It may be a legend of buried treasure, watched over by a weeping figure, that wrings its hands; folk may tell of the apparition of an ancient dame, whose corpse-like features yet show traces of passions... more...

Red Brewer had plugged his electric razor into the lab circuit and he was running it over his pink jowls while I tried to discover what was haywire about the balance scales. "Have you noticed," Red said above the clatter of his shaver, "how much less you have to shave on an asteroid?" "I still shave every day," I said. There was something definitely wrong with the scales. The... more...

HOW "THE MORRISON" BROKE ST. RONAN'S RULE On this crowded twenty-four-hour cross-section of contemporary American life the curtain goes up at nine-thirty o'clock of a January forenoon. Locality, the city of Marion—the capital of a state. Time, that politically throbbing, project-crowded, anxious, and expectant season of plot and counterplot—the birth of a legislative session.... more...

CHAPTER I. Many years ago, before railroads were thought of, a company of Connecticut farmers, who had heard marvellous stories of the richness of the land in the West, sold their farms, packed up their goods, bade adieu to their friends, and with their families started for Ohio. After weeks of travel over dusty roads, they came to a beautiful valley, watered by a winding river. The hills around were... more...