A Son of the Middle Border (Google eBook)

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Macmillan, 1917 - Authors, American - 467 pages
8 Reviews
  

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Review: A Son of the Middle Border

User Review  - Becky - Goodreads

"Butter is not always golden nor biscuits invariably light and flaky in my farm scenes, because they're not so in real life," I explained. "I grew up on a farm and I am determined once for all to put ... Read full review

Review: A Son of the Middle Border

User Review  - Kathy - Goodreads

Easy reading history of the move into the plains states and farming there. Read full review

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Page 113 - Strike, till the last armed foe expires, Strike, for your altars and your fires, Strike, for the green graves of your sires, God, and your native land.
Page 383 - Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems, You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions of suns left,) You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books...
Page 415 - Editorials and criticisms poured into the office, all written to prove that my pictures of the middle border were utterly false. Statistics were employed to show that pianos and Brussels carpets adorned almost every Iowa farmhouse.
Page 137 - It was our brief season of imaginative life. In one day — in a part of one day — we gained a thousand new conceptions of the world and of human nature. It was an embodiment of all that was skillful and beautiful in manly action. It was a compendium of biologic research but more important still, it brought to our ears the latest band pieces and taught us the most popular songs. It furnished us with jokes. It relieved our dullness. It gave us something to talk about.
Page 147 - ... before such abundance as we then enjoyed. Deep as the breast of a man, wide as the sea, heavy-headed, supple-stocked, many-voiced, full of multitudinous, secret, whispered colloquies — a meeting place of winds and of sunlight — our fields ran to the world's end. We trembled when the storm lay hard upon the wheat, we exulted as the lilac shadows of noonday drifted over it! We went out into it at noon when all was still — so still we could hear the pulse of the transforming sap as it crept...
Page 414 - ... winter the winds sweep the snow across it ; but it does sometimes cross a rich meadow where the songs of the larks and bobolinks and blackbirds are tangled. Follow it far enough, it may lead past a bend in the river where the water laughs eternally over its shallows. Mainly it is long and wearyful, and has a dull little town at one end and a home of toil at the other.
Page 365 - All the gilding of farm life melted away. The hard and bitter realities came back upon me in a flood. Nature was as beautiful as ever. The soaring sky was filled with shining clouds, the tinkle of the bobolink's fairy bells rose from the meadow, a mystical sheen was on the odorous grass and waving grain, but no splendor of cloud, no grace of sunset could conceal the poverty of these people, on the contrary they brought out, with a more intolerable poignancy, the gracelessness of these homes, and...
Page 112 - English masters. I got my first taste of Shakespeare from the selected scenes which I read in these books. With terror as well as delight I rose to read " Lochiel's Warning," "The Battle of Waterloo" or "The Roman Captive." Marco Bozzaris and William Tell were alike glorious to me. I soon knew not only my own reader, the fourth, but all the selections in the fifth and sixth as well. I could follow almost word for word the recitations of the older pupils and at such times I forgot my squat little...
Page 414 - ... songs of the larks and bobolinks and blackbirds are tangled. Follow it far enough, it may lead past a bend in the river where the water laughs eternally over its shallows. Mainly it is long and wearyful, and has a dull little town at one end and a home of toil at the other. Like the main" travelled road of life it is traversed by many classes of people, but the poor and the weary predominate.
Page 460 - Stunned by the majesty of the vision, my mother sat in her chair, visioning it all yet comprehending little of its meaning. Her life had been spent among homely small things, and these gorgeous scenes dazzled her, overwhelmed her, letting in upon her in one mighty flood a thousand stupefying, suggestions of the art and history and poetry of the world.

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