Classics Books

CHAPTER I. CAREW OF CROMPTON. Had you lived in Breakneckshire twenty years ago, or even any where in the Midlands, it would be superfluous to tell you of Carew of Crompton. Every body thereabout was acquainted with him either personally or by hearsay. You must almost certainly have known somebody who had had an adventure with that eccentric personage—one who had been ridden down by him, for that... more...

THE UTTERMOST FARTHING I   It is not without some misgivings that I at length make public the strange history communicated to me by my lamented friend Humphrey Challoner. The outlook of the narrator is so evidently abnormal, his ethical standards are so remote from those ordinarily current, that the chronicle of his life and actions may not only fail to secure the sympathy of the reader but may even... more...

"The C.O. wants to see you." "What for?" I asked. "I don't know, but he is in the orderly room." It was the adjutant who was speaking, and his manner led me to think there was something in the wind which he did not like to tell me. I left the mess, and a few moments later I was standing before the C.O. "I have just received a telegram from the War Office; you are... more...

I.ABOARD THE CARMANIA MARGOT NOT A NATURAL TOURIST; LACKS CURIOSITY—HEADLINES IN LONDON COMPARED WITH HEADLINES IN NEW YORK—AMERICAN WOMEN WORLDLY—AMERICAN MEN THE GENUINE ARTICLE I MOTORED to Southampton on Saturday, the 21st of January, this year, and after saying good-bye to my husband and my son, retired to my berth on the Carmania. I am a bad traveller, and had been laid up with a sort of... more...

CHAPTER I. A HARBOUR FROM THE STORM. The wind howled across the level fields, and flying showers of sleet rattled against the old leathern coach as it drove through the thickening dusk. A bitter winter, this year of the Royal tragedy. A rainy summer, and a mild rainy autumn had been followed by the hardest frost this generation had ever known. The Thames was frozen over, and tempestuous winds had... more...

CHAPTER I For some reason the desert scene before Lucy Bostil awoke varying emotions—a sweet gratitude for the fullness of her life there at the Ford, yet a haunting remorse that she could not be wholly content—a vague loneliness of soul—a thrill and a fear for the strangely calling future, glorious, unknown. She longed for something to happen. It might be terrible, so long as it was wonderful.... more...

LETTER I. TO THE SHOP-KEEPERS, TRADESMEN, FARMERS, AND COMMON-PEOPLE OF IRELAND. NOTE About the year 1720 it was generally acknowledged in Ireland that there was a want there of the small change, necessary in the transaction of petty dealings with shopkeepers and tradesmen. It has been indignantly denied by contemporary writers that this small change meant copper coins. They asserted that there was no... more...

CHAPTER I.AN OLD BEE HUNTER. The bee hunters in my early days used one of two methods in hunting the bee. The hunter would select a clear day, generally during buckwheat bloom, and after determining on a course, sun them to the tree. This was done by placing the hat or hand between the eye and sun as close to the light as the eye would permit. If the hunter knew the difference between the flight of a... more...

To keep the record straight: Orville Close was first man on the Moon. Harold Ferguson was second. They never talk about it. It started on that October morning when the piece came out in the Parkville News. Harold grumbled that they'd gotten the story all wrong, calling his ship a rocket ship, and treating him like a flagpole sitter or a man going over Niagara Falls in a barrel. His wife took their... more...

The Curate Grows Suspicious; and Takes his Stick. “Do what, miss?” said Dally Watlock. “That! There, you did it again.” “La, miss; I on’y thought my face might be a bit smudgy, and I wiped it.” “Don’t tell me a falsehood, Dally. I know what it means. You felt guilty, and your face burned.” “La, miss; I don’t know what you mean.” “Then I’ll tell you, Dally. You are growing... more...