What people are saying - Write a review
We haven't found any reviews in the usual places.
action American short story artist Bibber Blazed-Trail Stories Brer Bret Harte Cable's calities camp Canby character characteristic climate color Creole Daddy Jake deal depicted Edgar Allan Poe Editor Edward Stewart White England environment faithful farm farmer fiction field Foreman Freeman furnishes girl Hamlin Garland Hawthorne Hawthorne's Henry human humor impression influence James Lane Allen Joel Chandler Harris Kentucky King Solomon literary lives locality logs lumber Madame Delphine Main-Travelled Roads master Miss Jewett Mississippi valley native nature negro novel Old South Orleans passion Paul Laurence Dunbar peculiar picture picturesque play plot point of view portrayed Puritan Rappaccini's Daughter reader Richard Darrel Sarah Orne Jewett says scene setting short story short-story writer slave social soul Southern spirit Story in English Tennessee Mountains theme tion touch town tragedy typical Uncle Remus village Virginia vivid West woman women York
Page 14 - A skilful literary artist has constructed a tale. If wise, he has not fashioned his thoughts to accommodate his incidents; but having conceived, with deliberate care, a certain unique or single effect to be wrought out, he then invents such incidents — he then combines such events that may best aid him in establishing this preconceived effect.
Page 100 - The assemblage numbered about a hundred men. One or two of these were actual fugitives from justice, some were criminal, and all were reckless. Physically, they exhibited no indication of their past lives and character. The greatest scamp had a Raphael face, with a profusion of...
Page 31 - ... an inveterate love of allegory, which is apt to invest his plots and characters with the aspect of scenery and people in the clouds and to steal away the human warmth out of his conceptions. His fictions are sometimes historical, sometimes of the present day, and sometimes, so far as can be discovered, have little or no reference either to time or space. In any case, he generally contents himself with a very slight embroidery of outward manners, — the faintest possible counterfeit of real life,...
Page 42 - What is it?" "What are them men diggin' over there in the field for?" There was a sudden dropping and enlarging of the lower part of the old man's face, as if some heavy weight had settled therein; he shut his mouth tight, and went on harnessing the great bay mare. He hustled the collar on to her neck with a jerk. "Father!
Page 121 - The words-of-three-letters lesson in the old blue spelling book begins with Piggy's biography. He was fat; he had the soul of a rat, the habits of a bat, and the magnanimity of a cat. ... He wore expensive clothes, and was a connoisseur in starvation. He could look at a shopgirl and tell you to an hour how long it had been since she had eaten anything more nourishing than marshmallows and tea.
Page 101 - ... valley, saw the outcasts divide their slowly decreasing store of provisions for the morning meal. It was one of the peculiarities of that mountain climate that its rays diffused a kindly warmth over the wintry landscape, as if in regretful commiseration of the past. But it revealed drift on drift of snow piled high around the hut, — a hopeless, uncharted, trackless sea of white lying below the rocky shores to which the castaways still clung.
Page 122 - they are the men who hired working-girls, and paid 'em five or six dollars a week to live on. Are you one of the bunch? " "Not on your immortality,
Page 56 - The two men stood there, face to face, hands clasped, the one fair-skinned, full-lipped, handsome in his neat suit ; the other tragic, sombre in his softened mood, his large, long, rugged Scotch face bronzed with sun and scarred with wrinkles that had histories, like sabre-cuts on a veteran, the record of his battles.
Page 151 - All movement ceases, the sky clears, the heavens are as brass; the slightest whisper seems sacrilege, and man becomes timid, affrighted at the sound of his own voice. Sole speck of life journeying across the ghostly wastes of a dead world, he trembles at his audacity, realizes that his is a maggot's life, nothing more. Strange thoughts arise unsummoned, and the mystery of all things strives for utterance.
Page 33 - In those days we had no magazines and daily papers, each reeling off a serial story. Once a week, "The Columbian Sentinel" came from Boston with its slender stock of news and editorial; but all the multiform devices — pictorial, narrative, and poetical — which keep the mind of the present generation ablaze with excitement, had not then even an existence. There was no theatre, no opera; there were in Oldtown no parties or balls, except...