General Books

THE VOICE IN THE FOG Out of the unromantic night, out of the somber blurring January fog, came a voice lifted in song, a soprano, rich, full and round, young, yet matured, sweet and mysterious as a night-bird's, haunting and elusive as the murmur of the sea in a shell: a lilt from La Fille de Madame Angot, a light opera long since forgotten in New York. Hillard, genuinely astonished, lowered his... more...

CHAPTER I. My father, Reginald Monfort, was an English gentleman of good family, who, on his marriage with a Jewish lady of wealth and refinement, emigrated to America, rather than subject her and himself to the commentaries of his own fastidious relatives, and the incivilities of a clique to which by allegiance of birth and breeding he unfortunately belonged. Her own family had not been less averse to... more...

In a certain quiet and sequestered nook of the retired village of London—perhaps in the neighbourhood of Berkeley Square, or at any rate somewhere near Burlington Gardens—there was once a house of entertainment called the "Bootjack Hotel." Mr. Crump, the landlord, had, in the outset of life, performed the duties of Boots in some inn even more frequented than his own, and, far from being... more...

CHAPTER I THE BLAKE FAMILY ARE DISCUSSED 'There is nothing, sir, too little for so little a creature as man. It is by studying little things that we attain the great art of having as little misery and as much happiness as possible.'—Dr. Johnson. Everyone in Rutherford knew that Mrs. Ross was ruled by her eldest daughter; it was an acknowledged fact, obvious not only to a keen-witted person... more...

Here in the garden, close to the quiet house, I sit thinking of that strange meeting in the village. A blackbird at regular intervals sings the same refrain, which is taken up by others in the distance. The lily's chalice gleams under the blazing sun; and the humbler flowers meekly droop their heads. White butterflies are everywhere, flitting restlessly hither and thither. So fierce is the... more...

ROADS OF DESTINY  I go to seek on many roadsWhat is to be.True heart and strong, with love to light—Will they not bear me in the fightTo order, shun or wield or mouldMy Destiny? Unpublished Poems of David Mignot.  The song was over. The words were David's; the air, one of the countryside. The company about the inn table applauded heartily, for the young poet paid for the wine. Only the notary,... more...

"Pshaw! pshaw! child," he would reply, "that's nothing. It does almost as well to walk on, and that's all legs are for. I'd have had forty legs shot off rather than not have helped drive out those damned British rascals." Not even for sake of Hetty's young ears could the old Squire mention the British rascals without his favorite expletive. Here, also, came in... more...

"PHILIPPA" "Her air, her manners, all who saw admired,Courteous though coy, and gentle, though retired:The joy of youth and health her eyes displayed,And ease of heart her every look conveyed."—CRABBE. The porter slammed the door with all the unnecessary vehemence usual to his class and touched his hat, a shrill whistle sounded, the great engine gave several vehement not to say... more...

OH, the Beautiful Mud! I always leave it on my boots. It is sacred to me. Because in it are the souls of lilies! The Hog should be a sacred beast. Hogs are Beautiful! They are close to the Mire! Oh, to be a Swine! What is more eloquent than a Sneeze? TheSneeze is the protest of the Free Spirit against theSmug Citizen who never exposes himself to a cold.Oh, Beautiful Sneezes! Oh, to make my life oneloud... more...

CHAPTER I I To take Mark Sabre at the age of thirty-four, and in the year 1912, and at the place Penny Green is to necessitate looking back a little towards the time of his marriage in 1904, but happens to find him in good light for observation. Encountering him hereabouts, one who had shared school days with him at his preparatory school so much as twenty-four years back would have found matter for... more...