Literary Collections
- American
- Ancient, Classical & Medieval 14
- Asian 1
- Australian & Oceanian 1
- Canadian 55
- Continental European 121
- English, Irish, Scottish, Welsh 179
- Essays 160
- General 24
- Letters 46
- Middle Eastern 1
American Books
Sort by:
by:
Bret Harte
CHAPTER I.A CLOUD ON THE MOUNTAIN.They lived on the verge of a vast stony level, upheaved so far above the surrounding country that its vague outlines, viewed from the nearest valley, seemed a mere cloud-streak resting upon the lesser hills. The rush and roar of the turbulent river that washed its eastern base were lost at that height; the winds that strove with the giant pines that half way climbed...
more...
by:
Bret Harte
JEFF BRIGGS'S LOVE STORY.I.It was raining and blowing at Eldridge's Crossing. From the stately pine-trees on the hill-tops, which were dignifiedly protesting through their rigid spines upward, to the hysterical willows in the hollow, that had whipped themselves into a maudlin fury, there was a general tumult. When the wind lulled, the rain kept up the distraction, firing long volleys across...
more...
by:
Amelie Rives
A BROTHER TO DRAGONS. I. In the year of grace, 1586, on the last day of the month of May, to all who may chance to read this narrative, these: I will first be at the pains of stating that had it not been for Marian I had never indited these or any other papers, true or false. Secondly, that the facts herein set down be true facts; none the less true that they are strange. I will furthermore explain...
more...
by:
Bret Harte
JIMMY'S BIG BROTHER FROM CALIFORNIA As night crept up from the valley that stormy afternoon, Sawyer's Ledge was at first quite blotted out by wind and rain, but presently reappeared in little nebulous star-like points along the mountain side, as the straggling cabins of the settlement were one by one lit up by the miners returning from tunnel and claim. These stars were of varying brilliancy...
more...
My name is Hugh Paret. I was a corporation lawyer, but by no means a typical one, the choice of my profession being merely incidental, and due, as will be seen, to the accident of environment. The book I am about to write might aptly be called The Autobiography of a Romanticist. In that sense, if in no other, I have been a typical American, regarding my country as the happy hunting-ground of...
more...
by:
Bret Harte
I first knew her as the Queen of the Pirate Isle. To the best of my recollection she had no reasonable right to that title. She was only nine years old, inclined to plumpness and good humor, deprecated violence, and had never been to sea. Need it be added that she did NOT live in an island and that her name was Polly? Perhaps I ought to explain that she had already known other experiences of a purely...
more...
by:
Bret Harte
PART I—WEST. The sun was rising in the foot-hills. But for an hour the black mass of Sierra eastward of Angel's had been outlined with fire, and the conventional morning had come two hours before with the down coach from Placerville. The dry, cold, dewless California night still lingered in the long canyons and folded skirts of Table Mountain. Even on the mountain road the air was still sharp,...
more...
by:
Angelo Hall
Dead Men Tell No Tales In the cemetery on the hill near the quiet village of Reedsville, Pennsylvania, you may find this inscription:WILLIAM F. CUMMINSson of Col. William & Martha Cumminswho was killed by highwaymen nearNevada City, CaliforniaSeptember 1, 1879aged 45 yrs. and 8 monthsBe ye therefore also readyFor the Son of Man comethAt an hour when ye think not. It is a beautiful spot, on the road...
more...
As the name of our city grew to be more and more a byword for sudden and fabulous wealth, not only were the Huns and the Slavs, the Czechs and the Greeks drawn to us, but it became the fashion for distinguished Englishmen and Frenchmen and sometimes Germans and Italians to pay us a visit when they made the grand tour of America. They had been told that they must not miss us; scarcely a week went by in...
more...
CHAPTER I. THE rain had poured in torrents all day, and now, for the third time since morning, I came home, wet, uncomfortable and weary. I half dreaded to look at the slate, lest some urgent call should stare me in the face. "It must indeed be a case of life and death, that takes me out again to-night," said I, as my good wife met me in the entry, and with light hands, made active by love,...
more...