Elsewhere we literary folk are apt to be such a common lot, with tendencies here and there to be a shabby lot; we arrive from all sorts of unexpected holes and corners of the earth, remote, obscure; and at the best we do so often come up out of the ground; but at Boston we were of ascertained and noted origin, and good part of us dropped from the skies. Instead of holding horses before the doors of... more...

CHAPTER I Long before men awoke to the vision of America, the Old World was the scene of many stupendous migrations. One after another, the Goths, the Huns, the Saracens, the Turks, and the Tatars, by the sheer tidal force of their numbers threatened to engulf the ancient and medieval civilization of Europe. But neither in the motives prompting them nor in the effect they produced, nor yet in the... more...

MORE THAN CONQUEROR. Is that a death-bed where the Christian lies? Yes,—but not his: 'Tis death itself there dies. Coleridge. She was not an infant—an unconscious subject of grace. But the Saviour has led through a long sickness, and through death, a daughter of nineteen years, and has made her, and those who loved and watched her, say, We are more than conquerors. To speak of Him, and not to... more...

LAY OFF, MACDUFF! Brains is great things to have, and many's the time I've wished I had a set of 'em in my head instead of just plain bone! Still they's a lot of guys which has gone through life like a yegg goes through a safe, and taken everything out of it that wasn't nailed, with nothin' in their head but hair! A college professor gets five thousand a year, a good... more...

To record the woes of authors and to discourse de libris fatalibus seems deliberately to court the displeasure of that fickle mistress who presides over the destinies of writers and their works. Fortune awaits the aspiring scribe with many wiles, and oft treats him sorely. If she enrich any, it is but to make them subject of her sport. If she raise others, it is but to pleasure herself with their... more...

CHAPTER I The Shadow of the Knickerbockers Boughton, had you bid me chantHymns to Peter Stuyvesant.Had you bid me sing of Wouter.(He! the Onion-head! the Doubter!)But to rhyme of this one-mocker,Who shall rhyme to Knickerbocker?—Austin Dobson. Before the writer, as he begins the pleasant task, is an old half-illegible map, or rather, fragment of a map. Near-by are three or four dull prints. They are... more...

A STORY FOR NORAH   This is a Tale about a tail—a tail that belonged to a little red squirrel, and his name was Nutkin. He had a brother called Twinkleberry, and a great many cousins: they lived in a wood at the edge of a lake.   In the middle of the lake there is an island covered with trees and nut bushes; and amongst those trees stands a hollow oak-tree, which is the house of an owl who is... more...

Joshua 1:1 Now it happened after the death of Moses the servant of Yahweh, that Yahweh spoke to Joshua the son of Nun, Moses' servant, saying, 1:2 Moses my servant is dead; now therefore arise, go over this Jordan, you, and all this people, to the land which I give to them, even to the children of Israel. 1:3 I have given you every place that the sole of your foot will tread on, as I told Moses.... more...

JIMMY'S CRUISE IN THE PINAFORE. HOW HE SHIPPED. A boy sat on a door-step in a despondent attitude, with his eyes fixed on a pair of very shabby shoes, and his elbows resting on his knees, as if to hide the big patches there. But it was not the fact that his toes were nearly out and his clothes dilapidated which brought the wrinkles to his forehead and the tears to his eyes, for he was used to that... more...

CHAPTER I.   At last the golden orientall gate    Of greatest heaven gan to open fayre,  And Phoebus fresh as brydegrome to his mate,    Came dauncing forth, shaking his deawie hayre,  And hurld his glistening beams through gloomy ayre. SPENSER'S FAERY QUEENE. It was a lovely morning in the autumn of the year of grace 18—. The beams of the sun had not yet fallen upon the light veil... more...