Fiction Books

Karl Metzerott, shoemaker, counted himself reasonably well-to-do in the world. It was a favorite saying of his (though he was not greatly given to sayings at any time, his days being so full of doings), that his Socialist opinions were not based upon his own peculiar needs; and that, when the...

In this novel the events, such as it treats of, are vouched for by myself. There was in France, at the time covered by this novel, an immense base camp, unbelievably crowded with men whom we were engaged in getting up the line, working sometimes day and night in the effort. That immense army was...

The author of “Hilda’s Home” preaches the gospel of Freedom—equal freedom, the gospel of Liberty coupled with responsibility. With Spencer she would say, “Every one has the right to do as he pleases so long as he does not invade the equal right of others.”

Two volumes of a series of little books, corresponding, in their general style and characteristics, with the Rollo Books for boys, but designed more particularly for the other sex, have already been published, under the names of Cousin Lucy’s Conversations, and Cousin Lucy’s Stories. This, and...

No brutish face in that hairy circle looked upward; no eagle eye saw aught but the cadavre, the cave, the weapons and the surrounding forest. The great hunter was dead; the keen eyes closed, the sensitive ears deaf, the nostrils still.

It was a stifling night off the East Coast of Africa. A wind that blew from the Equator and followed a crowded ship made sleep impossible. Nightly it drove Ross and myself on deck to spend the intolerable hours in talk.

Picture a dugout in one of the front line trenches of France, damp and evil smelling, hardly deep enough to protect the inmates from a three-inch shell-burst. This hole in the ground will comfortably house four soldiers. Put seven of them with full equipment and a machine gun in it, and what...

“Cutie”, on which we collaborated and which appeared in the Times, is a satire on[Pg 8] ultra-prudish hypocritical censors and assailers of sexual candor and incisiveness in literary and pictorial work—both official and amateur apostles of so-called cleanliness and righteousness, whose...

Helen turned abruptly away, and walked slowly along Dover Street. A thousand imps were loose in her brain. Space, quiet, solitude were needed in which to quell them, to bring them under control. Almost it was as if the bottom had fallen out of the world in which she lived.

Destiny knocked at his door, but Doctor Rupert Lang was not at home. At that very moment he was talking of his destiny to Miss Eva Morrison in the glassed gallery of the Bayview Hotel, four miles out of Mobile, where they had motored for tea.