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Reproduction of the original: Lucy Maud Montgomery Short Stories, 1909 to 1922 by Lucy Maud Montgomery
It was the forenoon of a hazy, breathless day, and Dan Phillips was trouting up one of the back creeks of the Carleton pond. It was somewhat cooler up the creek than out on the main body of water, for the tall birches and willows, crowding down to the brim, threw cool, green shadows across it and shut out the scorching glare, while a stray breeze now and then rippled down the wooded slopes, rustling the beech leaves with an airy, pleasant sound. Out in the pond the glassy water creamed and shimmered in the hot sun, unrippled by the faintest breath of air. Across the soft, pearly tints of the horizon blurred the smoke of the big factory chimneys that were owned by Mr. Walters, to whom the pond and adjacent property also belonged. Mr. Walters was a comparative stranger in Carleton, having but recently purchased the factories from the heirs of the previous owner; but he had been in charge long enough to establish a reputation for sternness and inflexibility in all his business dealings. One or two of his employees, who had been discharged by him on what they deemed insufficient grounds, helped to deepen the impression that he was an unjust and arbitrary man, merciless to all offenders, and intolerant of the slightest infringement of his cast-iron rules. Dan Phillips had been on the pond ever since sunrise. The trout had risen well in the early morning, but as the day wore on, growing hotter and hotter, they refused to bite, and for half an hour Dan had not caught one. He had a goodly string of them already, however, and he surveyed them with satisfaction as he rowed his leaky little skiff to the shore of the creek. "Pretty good catch," he soliloquized. "Best I've had this summer, so far. That big spotted one must weigh near a pound. He's a beauty. They're a good price over at the hotels now, too. I'll go home and get my dinner and go straight over with them. That'll leave me time for another try at them about sunset. Whew, how hot it is! I must take Ella May home a bunch of them blue flags. They're real handsome!" He tied his skiff under the crowding alders, gathered a big bunch of the purple flag lilies with their silky petals, and started homeward, whistling cheerily as he stepped briskly along the fern-carpeted wood path that wound up the hill under the beeches and firs. He was a freckled, sunburned lad of thirteen years. His neighbours all said that Danny was "as smart as a steel trap," and immediately added that they wondered where he got his smartness from—certainly not from his father! The elder Phillips had been denominated "shiftless and slack-twisted" by all who ever had any dealings with him in his unlucky, aimless life—one of those improvident, easygoing souls who sit contentedly down to breakfast with a very faint idea where their dinner is to come from. When he had died, no one had missed him, unless it were his patient, sad-eyed wife, who bravely faced her hard lot, and toiled unremittingly to keep a home for her two children—Dan and a girl two years younger, who was a helpless cripple, suffering from some form of spinal disease. Dan, who was old and steady for his years, had gone manfully to work to assist his mother. Though he had been disappointed in all his efforts to obtain steady employment, he was active and obliging, and earned many a small amount by odd jobs around the village, and by helping the Carleton farmers in planting and harvest. For the last two years, however, his most profitable source of summer income had been the trout pond. The former owner had allowed anyone who wished to fish in his pond, and Dan made a regular business of it, selling his trout at the big hotels over at Mosquito Lake. This, in spite of its unattractive name, was a popular summer resort, and Dan always found a ready market for his catch.
"This is a wonderful collection of authors from America and around the world. Centuries are covered, making this a great resource for English teachers and any lover of literature." — Life Community Church This treasury of one hundred tales offers students and other readers of short fiction a splendid selection of stories by masters of the form. Contributors from around the world include Edgar Allan Poe, Harriet Beecher Stowe, Guy de Maupassant, Charles Dickens, Anton Chekhov, Mark Twain, Saki, Luigi Pirandello, Kate Chopin, and Ring Lardner. The stories, which are arranged chronologically, begin with tales by Daniel Defoe ("The Apparition of Mrs. Veal," 1705), Benjamin Franklin ("Alice Addertongue," 1732), and Washington Irving ("The Devil and Tom Walker," 1824). Highlights from the nineteenth century include Ivan Turgenev's "The District Doctor" (1852), Sarah Orne Jewett's "A White Heron" (1886), Thomas Hardy's "Squire Petrick's Lady" (1891), and Rudyard Kipling's "Wee Willie Winkie" (1899). From the twentieth century come James Joyce's "Araby" (1914), Franz Kafka's "The Judgment" (1916), Virginia Woolf's "The Mark on the Wall" (1921), "The Broken Boot" (1923) by John Galsworthy, and many others. "A fabulous collections of stories sure to please any reader! The chronological layout is perfect for those looking to explore the development of stories over time and their relation to society." — Whitchurch-Stouffville Public Library
This volume gathers together all of Marcel Proust's short fiction and six tales never before translated into English.
Ranging from the 19th to the 20th centuries, this wonderfully wide-ranging and enjoyable anthology includes Tolstoy, Kipling, Chekhov, Joyce, Kafka, Pirandello, Mann, Updike, Borges, and other major writers of world literature.
Almost all the books published about me, Benito Mussolini, put squarely and logically on the first page that which may be called my birth certificate. It is usually taken from my own notes. Well, then here it is again. I was born on July 29, 1883, at Varano di Costa. This is an old hamlet. It is on a hill. The houses are of stone, and sunlight and shade give these walls and roofs a variegated color which I well remember. The hamlet, where the air is pure and the view agreeable, overlooks the village of Dovia, and Dovia is in the commune, or county, of Predappio in the northeast of Italy. It was at two o’clock Sunday afternoon when I came into the world. It was by chance the festival day of the patron saint of the old church and parish of Caminate. On the structure a ruined tower overlooks proudly and solemnly the whole plain of Forli—a plain which slopes gently down from the Apennines, with their snow-clad tops in winter, to the undulating bottoms of Ravaldino, where the mists gather in summer nights. Let me add to the atmosphere of a country dear to me by bringing again to my memory the old district of Predappio. It was a country well known in the thirteenth century, giving birth to illustrious families during the Renaissance. It is a sulphurous land. From it the ripening grapes make a strong wine of fine perfume. There are many springs of iodine waters. And on that plain and those undulating foothills and mountain spurs, the ruins of mediæval castles and towers thrust up their gray-yellow walls toward the pale blue sky in testimony of the virility of centuries now gone. Such was the land, dear to me because it was my soil. Race and soil are strong influences upon us all. As for my race—my origin—many persons have studied and analyzed its hereditary aspects. There is nothing very difficult in tracing my genealogy, because from parish records it is very easy for friendly research to discover that I came from a lineage of honest people. They tilled the soil, and because of its fertility they earned the right to their share of comfort and ease. Going further back, one finds that the Mussolini family was prominent in the city of Bologna in the thirteenth century. In 1270 Giovanni Mussolini was the leader of this warlike, aggressive commune. His partner in the rule of Bologna in the days of armored knights was Fulcieri Paolucci de Calboli, who belonged to a family from Predappio also, and even to-day that is one of the distinguished families.
On the 6th December, 1856, I embarked, with my wife, on board the Royal Mail Screw Steamer “Ireland,” for the Cape of Good Hope, en route to Mozambique, to which place I had been appointed as Her Majesty’s Consul. Externally, the “Ireland” was what sailors call a very “tidy craft.” She was about 1,000 tons burthen; long, low, and rakish; having three masts and one funnel, and what is called a stump bowsprit. As she was fitted with a screw propeller, she was devoid of those great protuberances called paddle-boxes, which in a steamer so materially (to my eye) destroy the symmetry of the hull of the vessel, which, in this case, was built of iron, and painted entirely black. Flying at the mizen peak was the well known ensign of Old England, the field of which appeared to me unusually disfigured by the talismanic letters, W.S.L., in a glaring yellow colour, begrimed by soot. On asking the meaning of those letters, I was told that they were the initials of an M. P., who had not only sufficient interest to obtain the contract for carrying the mail in a line of very slow steamers, but who was held in such dread by a venerable body of old gentlemen sitting behind the sign of the “Sea Horses,” in Whitehall, known as the Board of Admiralty, that the M. P., W.S.L., was permitted to place the initials of his name on the national ensign, without being subjected to the usual fines and penalties inflicted on those similarly offending. Others told me that W.S.L. stood for the “worst steam line,” but this I looked upon as the invention of some disappointed mail contractor. Such was the “Ireland” externally; and, as she was at anchor in the beautiful little west-country harbour of Dartmouth, which boasted W.S.L. for its representative in the House of Commons, the saucy craft might well say, “I am monarch of all I survey.” Arriving alongside of the “Ireland,” about one hour before her advertised time of sailing, in a small steamer full of fellow passengers, which had brought us some miles down the little river Dart, we imagined that there would be every accommodation for our reception; but, on the contrary, we found that we were not supposed to come near her for some imaginary time, which they on board could not name to us. All that we learned was, that the numerous barges then alongside of her, full of coals, had to be cleared of their cargoes before the passengers were allowed on board. To our repeated applications to be permitted alongside, we were told to return to the shore; and as it was raining very heavily, the man who was steering the small steamer, put her helm up and made for the land; however, this being done without the consent of the passengers, they soon took matters into their own hands, and compelled the small craft to dash alongside, causing considerable damage to the coal-barges. Exposed to a volley of abuse, some of the most adventurous of the gentlemen scrambled on board, and we were actually compelled to appeal to the commander of the vessel before we could get the ladies on the deck of the “Ireland.” It appears that we had unfortunately arrived alongside of the vessel at the cabin dinner-hour, and were exposed to all this inconvenience at the whim of the chief officer and the head steward; the former of whom wished to clear the coal-barges, and the latter to save himself the trouble of laying a few more plates on the table. No sooner were we on board of this passenger ship than we found ourselves rudely pushed about, and, after having been driven round the wet deck with pigs, sheep, and poultry, with considerable difficulty we threaded our way through hampers, water-casks, coals, &c., to the cabin saloon. This was an elegant apartment, decorated with gold and green, having at the further end a grate and marble mantel-piece; but as the chimney led to the screw propeller, of course, the first time a fire was lighted, the saloon and cabins were deserted in consequence of the smoke, which made one almost fancy that the ship was on fire; so it turned out to be for ornament and not for use. Observing the state of confusion in which everything was on board this first-class passenger ship—being an old traveller—as soon as the ladies were placed in shelter from the rain, which was coming down in a most pitiless manner, I returned to the deck to look after my luggage, when I found that the chief officer had ordered the small steamer to return to the shore with the luggage of all those passengers who had succeeded in reaching the deck of the “Ireland,” contrary to his wishes. This officer, who was promised a command in the W.S.L. Line of Steamers on his return to England, took upon himself to mark the passengers who had so offended him, and during the passage he had to be admonished by the commander for his marked rudeness to some of the ladies, as well as the gentlemen who had acted contrary to his wishes on the occasion referred to. On an application being made to the commander, the small steamer was ordered alongside, and we recovered our luggage.
Evoking the Jazz-Age world that would later appear in his masterpiece, The Great Gatsby, this essential Fitzgerald collection contains some of the writer’s most famous and celebrated stories. In “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button,” an extraordinary child is born an old man, growing younger as the world ages around him. “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz,” a fable of excess and greed, shows two boarding school classmates mired in deception as they make their fortune in gemstones. And in the classic novella “May Day,” debutantes dance the night away as war veterans and socialists clash in the streets of New York. Opening the book is a playful and irreverent set of notes from the author, documenting the real-life pressures and experiences that shaped these stories, from his years at Princeton to his cravings for luxury to the May Day Riots of 1919. Taken as a whole, this collection brings to vivid life the dazzling excesses, stunning contrasts, and simmering unrest of a glittering era. Its 1922 publication furthered Fitzgerald's reputation as a master storyteller, and its legacy staked his place as the spokesman of an age.