Fiction Books

JOSEPH MAZZINI 1867 Upon a windy night of stars that fell  At the wind's spoken spell,Swept with sharp strokes of agonizing light  From the clear gulf of night,Between the fixed and fallen glories one  Against my vision shone,More fair and fearful and divine than they  That measure night and day,And worthier worship; and within mine eyes  The formless folded skiesTook shape and were... more...

For over forty years, in one part of the world or another, old man Marshall had, served his country as a United States consul. He had been appointed by Lincoln. For a quarter of a century that fact was his distinction. It was now his epitaph. But in former years, as each new administration succeeded the old, it had again and again saved his official head. When victorious and voracious place-hunters,... more...

Miss Howe pushed the portière aside with a curved hand and gracefully separated fingers; it was a staccato movement, and her body followed it after an instant's poise of hesitation, head thrust a little forward, eyes inquiring, and a tentative smile, although she knew precisely who was there. You would have been aware at once that she was an actress. She entered the room with a little stride, and... more...

PART ONE Agénor Clerambault sat under an arbour in his garden at St. Prix, reading to his wife and children an ode that he had just written, dedicated to Peace, ruler of men and things, "Ara Pacis Augustae." In it he wished to celebrate the near approach of universal brotherhood. It was a July evening; a last rosy light lay on the tree-tops, and through the luminous haze, like a veil over the... more...

He waits musing. Herein the dearness of her is:The thirty perfect days of JuneMade one, in beauty and in blissWere not more white to have to kiss,To love not more in tune.And oft I think she is too true,Too innocent for our day;For in her eyes her soul looks new—Two crowfoot-blossoms watchet-blueAre not more soft than they.So good, so kind is she to me,In darling ways and happy words,Sometimes my... more...

THE QUEEN’S ANIMALS.ByG. B.Burgin and E. M. Jessop. Illustrations by E. M. Jessop.The February wind blows keenly, as we lean from the window of our railway carriage, and watch dismantled house-boats, drawn up on the river bank just outside Windsor, being prepared for the forthcoming season. Some Eton boys—it is evidently a holiday—stand looking on with lively interest. Several people get out of... more...

"Ther hopped Hawkyn,Ther daunsed Dawkyn,Ther trumped Tomkyn...." The Tournament of Tottenham. In Southampton Row, Bloomsbury, there is a small alley or passage leading into Queen Square, and rendered inaccessible to all but foot passengers by some iron posts. The shops in this passage are of a subdued exterior, and are overshadowed by a dingy old edifice dedicated to St. George the Martyr,... more...

CHAPTER I. PEACEFUL HART RANCH It was somewhere in the seventies when old Peaceful Hart woke to a realization that gold-hunting and lumbago do not take kindly to one another, and the fact that his pipe and dim-eyed meditation appealed to him more keenly than did his prospector's pick and shovel and pan seemed to imply that he was growing old. He was a silent man, by occupation and by nature, so he... more...

eorge," Clara said with restrained fury, "the least you could do is ask him. Are you a mouse or a worm?" "Well, I have gone out there and moved it every night," George protested, trying to reason with her without success. "Yes, and every morning he puts it back. George, so long as that trap is outside of our front door, I can never have a moment's peace, worrying about the... more...

A DISCONTENTED BEAUTY. "Leone," cried a loud voice, "where are you? Here, there, everywhere, except just in the place where you should be." The speaker was a tall, stout, good-tempered looking man. Farmer Noel people called him all over the country-side. He stood in the farmyard, looking all the warmer this warm day for his exertions in finding his niece. "Leone," he cried again... more...