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The Warden
The Warden, published in 1855, is the first book in Anthony Trollope's Chronicles of Barsetshire series of six novels. It was his fourth novel.The Warden concerns Mr Septimus Harding, the meek, elderly warden of Hiram's Hospital and precentor of Barchester Cathedral, in the fictional county of Barsetshire.Hiram's Hospital is an almshouse supported by a medieval charitable bequest to the Diocese of Barchester. The income maintains the almshouse itself, supports its twelve bedesmen, and, in addition, provides a comfortable abode and living for its warden. Mr Harding was appointed to this position through the patronage of his old friend the Bishop of Barchester, who is also the father of Archde...
The Mystery Girl
Quite aside from its natural characteristics, there is an atmosphere about a college town, especially a New England college town, that is unmistakable. It is not so much actively intellectual as passively aware of and satisfied with its own intellectuality. The beautiful little town of Corinth was no exception; from its tree-shaded village green to the white-columned homes on its outskirts it fairly radiated a satisfied sense of its own superiority. Not that the people were smug or self-conceited. They merely accepted the fact that the University of Corinth was among the best in the country and that all true Corinthians were both proud and worthy of it. The village itself was a gem of well-k...
Little Women
Margaret, the eldest of the four, was sixteen, and very pretty, being plump and fair, with large eyes, plenty of soft brown hair, a sweet mouth, and white hands, of which she was rather vain. Fifteen-year-old Jo was very tall, thin, and brown, and reminded one of a colt, for she never seemed to know what to do with her long limbs, which were very much in her way. She had a decided mouth, a comical nose, and sharp, gray eyes, which appeared to see everything, and were by turns fierce, funny, or thoughtful. Her long, thick hair was her one beauty, but it was usually bundled into a net, to be out of her way. Round shoulders had Jo, big hands and feet, a flyaway look to her clothes, and the unco...
The Secret Agent
Mr Verloc, going out in the morning, left his shop nominally in charge of his brother-in-law. It could be done, because there was very little business at any time, and practically none at all before the evening. Mr Verloc cared but little about his ostensible business. And, moreover, his wife was in charge of his brother-in-law. The shop was small, and so was the house. It was one of those grimy brick houses which existed in large quantities before the era of reconstruction dawned upon London. The shop was a square box of a place, with the front glazed in small panes. In the daytime the door remained closed; in the evening it stood discreetly but suspiciously ajar. The window contained photo...
Little Rivers
"There's no music like a little river's. It plays the same tune (and that's the favourite) over and over again, and yet does not weary of it like men fiddlers. It takes the mind out of doors; and though we should be grateful for good houses, there is, after all, no house like God's out-of-doors. And lastly, sir, it quiets a man down like saying his prayers."—— Robert Louis Stevenson: Prince Otto. A river is the most human and companionable of all inanimate things. It has a life, a character, a voice of its own, and is as full of good fellowship as a sugar-maple is of sap. It can talk in various tones, loud or low, and of many subjects, grave and gay. Under favourable circumstances it wil...
Wonder Tales from Many Lands
THERE was once a King who had one only son, and him he loved better than anything in the whole world—better even than his own life. The King's greatest desire was to see his son married, but though the Prince had travelled in many lands, and had seen many noble and beautiful ladies, there was not one among them all whom he wished to have for a wife. One day the King called his son to him and said, "My son, for a long time now I have hoped to see you choose a bride, but you have desired no one. Take now this silver key. Go to the top of the castle, and there you will see a steel door. This key will unlock it. Open the door and enter. Look carefully at everything in the room, and then return...
Ruins of Ancient Cities
RUINS OF ANCIENT CITIES, WITH GENERAL AND PARTICULAR ACCOUNTS OF THEIR RISE, FALL, AND PRESENT CONDITION. - BY CHARLES BUCKE This Volume contain these cities; Messene, Mycenæ, Miletus, Nauplia, Nemea, Nineveh, The Destruction of Sennacherib, Numantia, Olympia, Puteoli, Palmyra (Tadmor), Patræ, Pella, Pergamus, Persepolis, Petra (Wady Mousa), Phigalia, Platæa, Pæstum, Pompeii, Rama, Rome, Saguntum, Hannibal's Speech to His Soldiers, Sais, Samaria, Sapphura, Sardis, Seleucia, Selinus, Or Selinuntum, Sicyon, Sidon, Smyrna, Spalatro, Stratonice, Susa, Sybaris, Syene, Syracuse, Thebes, Troja, And Other Cities of the Troas, Tyre, Veii Fallen, fallen, a silent heap; their heroes all Sunk in the...
Shores of the Polar Sea
HE ARCTIC EXPEDITION of 1875 left England on 29th May, crossed the Atlantic to Davis Straits in a succession of storms, and entered the Arctic regions on 4th July. It sailed with orders to "attain the highest northern latitude, and, if possible, reach the Pole." In old times, when voyages were longer than in these days of steam, a nautical frolic on crossing "the Line" helped to break the monotony of many a tedious passage. This time-honoured custom is slowly becoming a thing of the past. When it is gone, there will be little in sea or sky to make crossing the Equator in any way remarkable. The Tropic Zones are no better defined, and one can sail into or out of them without experiencing a si...
Childhood
On the 12th of August, 18-- (just three days after my tenth birthday, when I had been given such wonderful presents), I was awakened at seven o'clock in the morning by Karl Ivanitch slapping the wall close to my head with a fly-flap made of sugar paper and a stick. He did this so roughly that he hit the image of my patron saint suspended to the oaken back of my bed, and the dead fly fell down on my curls. I peeped out from under the coverlet, steadied the still shaking image with my hand, flicked the dead fly on to the floor, and gazed at Karl Ivanitch with sleepy, wrathful eyes. He, in a parti-coloured wadded dressing- gown fastened about the waist with a wide belt of the same material, a r...
Whose Body?
Whose Body? is a 1923 novel by Dorothy L. Sayers, which introduced the character of Lord Peter Wimsey. CHAPTER I "Oh, damn!" said Lord Peter Wimsey at Piccadilly Circus. "Hi, driver!" The taxi man, irritated at receiving this appeal while negotiating the intricacies of turning into Lower Regent Street across the route of a 19 'bus, a 38-B and a bicycle, bent an unwilling ear. "I've left the catalogue behind," said Lord Peter deprecatingly, "uncommonly careless of me. D'you mind puttin' back to where we came from?" "To the Savile Club, sir?" "No—110 Piccadilly—just beyond—thank you." "Thought you was in a hurry," said the man, overcome with a sense of injury. "I'm afraid it's an awkward...
