CHAPTER I A FLAT DUTCH TURNIP BEGINS ITS CAREER My name is Jacobus Teunis Vandemark. I usually sign J.T. Vandemark; and up to a few years ago I thought as much as could be that my first name was Jacob; but my granddaughter Gertrude, who is strong on family histories, looked up my baptismal record in an old Dutch Reformed church in Ulster County, New York, came home and began teasing me to change to Jacobus. At first I would not give up to... more...

CHAPTER I. Some ten years before the revolt of our American colonies, there was situate in one of our midland counties, on the borders of an extensive forest, an ancient hall that belonged to the Herberts, but which, though ever well preserved, had not until that period been visited by any member of the family, since the exile of the Stuarts. It was an edifice of considerable size, built of grey stone, much covered with ivy, and placed upon the... more...

CHAPTER I. THE VOYAGE. An enthusiastic desire of visiting the Old World haunted me from early childhood. I cherished a presentiment, amounting almost to belief, that I should one day behold the scenes, among which my fancy had so long wandered. The want of means was for a time a serious check to my anticipations; but I could not content myself to wait until I had slowly accumulated so large a sum as tourists usually spend on their travels. It... more...

Vignettes. I. If writing Journals were my task, From cottagers to kings— A little book I'd only ask, And fill it full of wings!   Each pair should represent a day: On some the sun should rise, While others bent their mournful way Through cold and cloudy skies.   And here I would the light'ning bring With threatening, forked glare; And there the hallowed rainbow fling Across the troubled air.   Some... more...

THE BEGINNING Kenneth Gwynne was five years old when his father ran away withRachel Carter, a widow. This was in the spring of 1812, and inthe fall his mother died. His grandparents brought him up to hateRachel Carter, an evil woman. She was his mother's friend and she had slain her with the viper's tooth. From the day that his questioning intelligence seized upon the truth that had been so carefully withheld from him by his broken-hearted... more...

CHAPTER I We are not aware that the infancy of Vivian Grey was distinguished by any extraordinary incident. The solicitude of the most affectionate of mothers, and the care of the most attentive of nurses, did their best to injure an excellent constitution. But Vivian was an only child, and these exertions were therefore excusable. For the first five years of his life, with his curly locks and his fancy dress, he was the pride of his own and the... more...

FOREWORD. In the first rare spring of song,In my heart's young hours,In my youth 't was thus I sang,Choosing 'mid the flowers:— "Fair the Dandelion is,But for me too lowly;And the winsome VioletIs, forsooth, too holy.'But the Touchmenot?' Go to!What! a face that's speckledLike a common milking-maid's,Whom the sun hath freckled.Then the Wild-Rose is a flirt;And the trillium Lily,In her spotless gown, 's a prude,Sanctified and silly.By... more...

DEFINITIONS. WORRY. A state of undue solicitude. HYPOCHONDRIA. A morbid mental condition characterized by undue solicitude regarding the health, and undue attention to matters thereto pertaining. OBSESSION. An unduly insistent and compulsive thought, habit of mind, or tendency to action. DOUBTING FOLLY (Folie du doute.) A state of mind characterized by a tendency unduly to question, argue and speculate upon ordinary matters. NEURASTHENIA. A... more...

Unhallowed Ground The Witching Hill Estate Office was as new as the Queen Anne houses it had to let, and about as worthy of its name. It was just a wooden box with a veneer of rough-cast and a corrugated iron lid. Inside there was a vast of varnish on three of the walls; but the one opposite my counter consisted of plate-glass worth the rest of the structure put together. It afforded a fine prospect of Witching Hill Road, from the level crossing... more...

A VOICE ON THE WIND She walks with the wind on the windy heightWhen the rocks are loud and the waves are white,And all night long she calls through the night,"O, my children, come home!"Her bleak gown, torn as a tattered cloud,Tosses around her like a shroud,While over the deep her voice rings loud,—"O, my children, come home, come home!O, my children, come home!" Who is she who wanders alone,When the wind drives sheer and the rain is... more...