rd Neff dropped a thin bundle of currency into the $100 bill drawer of the flat-top desk and kicked the drawer shut with a dusty boot. He flicked the drip from his hooked nose, which was chronically irritated by the wheat dust of the warehouse, then he wiped his fingers down the leg of his soiled denims. Across the 12 X 12, windowless room John stirred awake from the noise and began nosing in the... more...

FOREWORD In publishing these collected articles in book form (the result of my visits to Flanders, the battlefields of France and divers of the great munition centres), some of which have already appeared in the press both in England and America, I do so with a certain amount of diffidence, because of their so many imperfections and of their inadequacy of expression. But what man, especially in these... more...

Voltaire's Chateau, at Ferney. Voltaire is the bronze and plaster poet of France. Cheek by jowl with Rosseau, (their squabbles are forgotten in the roll of fame), you see him perched on mantel, bracket, ecritoire, and bookcase: in short, their effigies are as common as the plaster figures of Shakspeare and Milton are in England. How far the rising generation of France may profit by their household... more...

CHAPTER I BOYHOOD IN IRELAND The world in which I first found myself was a world of hungry people. My earliest sufferings were the sufferings of hunger—physical hunger. It was not an unusual sight to see the children of our neighbourhood scratching the offal in the dunghills and the gutterways for scraps of meat, vegetables, and refuse. Many times I have done it myself. My father was a shoemaker; but... more...

THESE are troubled times. As the echoes of the war die away the sound of a new conflict rises on our ears. All the world is filled with industrial unrest. Strike follows upon strike. A world that has known five years of fighting has lost its taste for the honest drudgery of work. Cincinnatus will not back to his plow, or, at the best, stands sullenly between his plow-handles arguing for a higher wage.... more...

Preface. The Fifth Form at Saint Dominic’s is a story of public-school life, and was written for the Boy’s Own Paper, in the Fourth Volume of which it appeared. The numbers containing it are now either entirely out of print or difficult to obtain; and many and urgent have been the requests—from boys themselves, as well as from parents, head masters, and others—for its re-issue as a book. Of the... more...

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ROB'S NAVY. BY W. O. STODDARD. The tide was just out on the Staten Island shore, and the water in the little cove below Mr. Drake's residence was as smooth as a pan of milk with the cream on. Nothing in the shape of a ship ought to have tipped over in such water as that. So Rob Drake had thought, but every time he shoved his new ship away from the flat rock at the head of the cove, over she... more...

HOW TO THROW OFF AN ARTICLE. "Do you really write?" said Sylvia, gazing at me large-eyed with wonder. I admitted as much. "And do they print it just as you write it?" "Well, their hired grammarians make a few trifling alterations to justify their existence." "And do they pay you quite a lot?" "Sixpence a word." "Oo! How wonderful!" "But not for every... more...

Donald Morrison, whose wife has lately been called away, dying in his Highland Manse, his Children left destitute, are taken care of by their old nurse.—She conveys them to a sea-side town, where she takes up her abode with them in a small attic, and labours for their maintenance, while she places the two boys, Donald and David, at school.—Her anxiety about the education of Margaret. In his... more...