CHAPTER I Elijah Rasba lived alone in a log cabin on Temple Run. He was a long, lank, blue-eyed young man, with curly brown hair and a pale, almost livid complexion. His eye-brows were heavy and dark brown, and the blue steel of his gaze was fixed unwaveringly upon any object that it distinguished. Two generations before, Old Abe Rasba had built a church on a little brook, a tributary of Jackson River,... more...

CHAPTER I. THE ANGLO-SAXON HALL. It was the evening of Thursday, the fifth of October, in year of grace one thousand and sixty and six. The setting sun was slowly sinking towards a dense bank of clouds, but as yet he gladdened the woods and hills around the old hall of Aescendune with his departing light. The watchman on the tower gazed upon a fair scene outspread before him; at his feet rolled the... more...

CHAPTER I THE RIVER OF AN UNWRITTEN EPIC IT was Carlyle—was it not?—who said that all great works produce an unpleasant impression on first acquaintance. It is so with the Missouri River. Carlyle was not, I think, speaking of rivers; but he was speaking of masterpieces—and so am I. It makes little difference to me whether or not an epic goes at a hexameter gallop through the ages, or whether it... more...

PREFACE. At a Conference of some friends interested in the subject of Ritual, held on January 17, 1880, the following propositions were, amongst others, agreed to: I. That the evil of unnecessary Diversity in Ritual, as practised in various Churches aiming at the maintenance of Catholic doctrine and usage in the Church of England, is real and great. II. That an effort to moderate it should be... more...

PART FIRST The Mississippi was flaunting itself in the face of opposition along its southern banks. It had carried much before it in its downward path ere it reached New Orleans. A plantation here, a low-lying settlement there, a cotton-field in bloom under its brim, had challenged its waters and been taken in, and there was desolation in its wake. In certain weak places above and below the city, gangs... more...

CHAPTER I.Far on th' horizon's verge appears a speck—A spot—a mast—a sail—an armed deck!Their little bark her men of watch descry,And ampler canvas woos the wind from high.Lord Byron. On a bright day in the summer of 1643, a light pleasure-boat shot gaily across the harbor of Boston, laden with a merry party, whose cheerful voices were long heard, mingling with the ripple of the... more...

Confession There is a woman in the state of Nevada to whom I once lied continuously, consistently, and shamelessly, for the matter of a couple of hours. I don't want to apologize to her. Far be it from me. But I do want to explain. Unfortunately, I do not know her name, much less her present address. If her eyes should chance upon these lines, I hope she will write to me. It was in Reno, Nevada,... more...

PART ONE - PROPINQUITY   "A singer, eh?… Well, well! but when he sings  Take jealous heed lest idiosyncrasies  Entinge and taint too deep his melodies;  See that his lute has no discordant strings  To harrow us; and let his vaporings  Be all of virtue and its victories,  And of man's best and noblest qualities,  And scenery, and flowers, and similar things.... more...

The loft of the feed-house, with its stacked grainsacks, was a B-72, a fort, a foxhole—any number of things, depending on Phildee's moods. Today it was a jumping-off place. Phildee slipped out of his dormitory and ran across the yard to the feed-house. He dropped the big wooden latch behind him, and climbed up the ladder to the loft, depending on the slight strength of his young arms more... more...

THE ESTRANGER In the effort to dull the edge of his mental anguish by physical exhaustion Catullus had walked far out from the town, through vineyards and fruit-orchards displaying their autumnal stores and clamorous with eager companies of pickers and vintagers. On coming back to the eastern gate he found himself reluctant to pass from the heedless activities of the fields to the bustle of the town... more...