Classics Books

I I have seen the improbable turn true too often not to have it disturb me. Suppose these memoirs still exist when the French royalist plot of 1805 and my father's peculiar role in it are forgotten. I cannot help but remember it is a restless land across the water. But surely people will continue to recollect. Surely these few pages, written with the sole purpose of explaining my father's... more...

Chapter I DIP INTO THIS NOVEL ANYWHERE.... It deals with a god in whom nobody believed, and of his adventures the day after eternity. For instance, try Chapter XVI. One Sunday afternoon I was driving through a sparsely settled region on the southwest slope of the Catskills. It was growing late and I was anxious to get back to New York, but I had lost my way. In an attempt to cut across to the Hudson... more...

HOW I GOT THEM. 1882-89. True stories are not often good art. The relations and experiences of real men and women rarely fall in such symmetrical order as to make an artistic whole. Until they have had such treatment as we give stone in the quarry or gems in the rough they seldom group themselves with that harmony of values and brilliant unity of interest that result when art comes in—not so much to... more...

THE KID AMATEUR Gerard paused on the steps of the cement plateau overlooking the racetrack, his eyebrows lifting in the wave of humor glinting across his face like sunlight over quiet water. "What?" he wondered. "Who——" The grinning mechanician who had just come across from the row of training-camps opposite supplied the information. "Oh, that's Rose's rose. Ain't... more...

Three natural physiographic divisions cross Washtenaw County from northwest to southeast. The northwestern part of the county is occupied by the rough interlobate moraine of loose-textured soil, the Interlobate Lake District; a broad Clay Morainic Belt occupies most of the central part of the county; and in the southeastern corner of the county is found a low Lake Plain, once the bed of glacial Lake... more...

August, 1790. The bard, who paints from rural plains,  Must oft himself the void supplyOf damsels pure and artless swains,  Of innocence and industry: For sad experience shows the heart  Of human beings much the same;Or polish'd by insidious art,  Or rude as from the clod it came. And he who roams the village round,  Or strays amid the harvest sere,Will hear, as now, too many a... more...

SINGLE COPIES. Any printed book will be sent prepaid on receipt of the list price. Keys and translations will be supplied to teachers only. Transportation charges on blank books, drawing books, blanks, and tablets will be at purchaser's expense. ORDERS. Each order should be clearly written and signed by the purchaser. It should give the post-office, county, and State, and also indicate whether the... more...

CHAPTER I LOVE UNKNOWN From its long sweep over the unbroken prairie a heavier blast than usual shook the slight frame house. The windows rattled in the casements, as if shivering in their dumb way in the December storm. So open and defective was the dwelling in its construction, that eddying currents of cold air found admittance at various points—in some instances carrying with them particles of the... more...

All along the line of machines, the men's hands and arms worked like the legs of spiders spinning a web. They wound wire and hammered bolts, tied knots and welded pieces of steel and fitted gears. They did not look at each other or sing or whistle or talk or laugh. And then—he made a mistake. Instantly he stepped back and a trouble shooter moved into his place. The trouble shooter's hands... more...

The woman on the horse reined in her weary steed. It stood with its legs wide-braced, its head drooping, as if it found even the weight of the gold-tasseled, red-leather bridle too heavy. The woman drew a booted foot out of the silver stirrup and swung down from the gilt-worked saddle. She made the reins fast to the fork of a sapling, and turned about, hands on her hips, to survey her surroundings.... more...