Fiction Books

CHAPTER I WHEREIN A LAD SEES MAKERS OF HISTORY "Has any one seen Eric Hamilton?" I asked. For an hour, or more, I had been lounging about the sitting-room of a club in Quebec City, waiting for my friend, who had promised to join me at dinner that night. I threw aside a news-sheet, which I had exhausted down to minutest advertisements, stretched myself and strolled across to a group of old... more...

CHAPTER I The scene was Dean Street, Soho, and this story opens on a snowy winter night in the January of 1888. The modern improvements of Shaftesbury Avenue were as yet unmade, and the foreign district of London had still to be opened up. A cold north wind was blowing on the few pedestrians whom necessity, or some urgent obligation, had compelled to tramp the pavements laden with snow. A few cabs and... more...

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY IN THE WOOD There were once a King and Queen, who were very unhappy at not having any children, more unhappy than words can tell. Vows, pilgrimages, everything was tried, but nothing was of any avail; at length, however, a little daughter was born to them. There was a splendid christening. For godmothers, they gave the young Princess all the fairies they could find in the... more...

I PERSONAL   Forest and meadow and hill, and the steel-blue rim of the ocean  Lying silent and sad, in the afternoon shadows and sunshine.          (Longfellow—"Miles Standish") Val and I, being twins, have always been looked upon as inseparables. True, we have been often forced apart during life's course; yet, somehow, we have always managed to drift back again into the... more...

This simple narrative journal was written at Cañon Creek in the Sierra Nevada Mountains of California, in the middle of December, 1852, by Mrs. Lodisa Frizzell, who, with her husband, Lloyd Frizzell, and their four sons, set out on April 14th, of that year, from their unnamed home, not far from Ewington, Effingham County, Illinois, on the upper reaches of the Little Wabash River, on an overland... more...

Arthur Duryea, a young, handsome man, came to meet his father for the first time in twenty years. As he strode into the hotel lobby—long strides which had the spring of elastic in them—idle eyes lifted to appraise him, for he was an impressive figure, somehow grim with exaltation. The desk clerk looked up with his habitual smile of expectation; how-do-you-do-Mr.-so-and-so, and his fingers strayed... more...

CHAPTER I. THE METAMORPHOSIS. NEW YORK, Sunday, Dec. 16. I am going to set down as calmly and fully as I can a plain statement of all that has happened since I came to New York. I shall not trim details, nor soften the facts to humour my own amazement, nor try to explain the marvel that I do not pretend to understand. I begin at the beginning—at the plunge into fairy tale and miracle that I made,... more...

That evening I lighted a cigar and went down to sit on the outermost pile of the Asquith dock to commune with myself. To say that I was disappointed in Miss Thorn would be to set a mild value on my feelings. I was angry, even aggressive, over her defence of the Celebrity. I had gone over to Mohair that day with a hope that some good reason was at the bottom of her tolerance for him, and had come back... more...

"Well, Corporal Westerburg," Doctor Henry Harris said gently, "just why do you think you're a plant?" As he spoke, Harris glanced down again at the card on his desk. It was from the Base Commander himself, made out in Cox's heavy scrawl: Doc, this is the lad I told you about. Talk to him and try to find out how he got this delusion. He's from the new Garrison, the new... more...

A LEADER FROM A FOREIGN NEWSPAPER: THE NEW RUSSIAN MANIFESTO. Mention was recently made, in Vol. ix., p. 218., of the valuable character of many of the leading articles in the continental journals, and a wish expressed that translations of them were more frequently communicated in our own papers to English readers. The great newspapers of this country are too rich in varied talent and worldwide... more...