Hope / Johnson / O'Higgins Big Book of Best Short Stories - Volume 15

1. Auflage 2020
ISBN: 978-3-96799-911-2
Verlag: Tacet Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, Band 15, 683 Seiten

Reihe: Big Book of Best Short Stories

This book contains70 short storiesfrom 10 classic, prize-winning and noteworthy authors. The stories were carefully selected by the criticAugust Nemo, in a collection that will please theliterature lovers. For more exciting titles, be sure to check out our 7 Best Short Stories and Essential Novelists collections. This book contains: W. C. Morrow: - His Unconquerable Enemy. - A Game Of Honor. - The Resurrection Of Little Wang Tai. - Two Singular Men. - The Faithful Amulet. - Over An Absinthe Bottle. - The Hero Of The Plague.Wilhelm Hauff: - The Severed Hand. - The Cold Heart. - The Little Glass Man. - The Story Of The Caliph Stork. - The Story Of Little Muck. - Nose, The Dwarf. - How The Stories Were Found.Rabindranath Tagore: - The Cabuliwallah. - The Home-Coming. - Onde There Was A King. - The Child's Return. - Master Mashai. - Subha. - The Postmaster.Owen Wister: - The Jimmyjohn Boss. - A Kinsman of Red Cloud. - Sharon's Choice. - Napoleon Shave-Tail. - Twenty Minutes for Refreshments. - The Promised Land. - Hank's Woman.Neith Boyce: - Two Women. - Sophia. - Molly. - The Blue Hood. - Love in a Dutch Garden. - Navidad. - The Mother.Mary Roberts Rinehart: - Affinities. - The Family Friend. - Clara's Little Escapade. - The Borrowed House. - Sauce For The Gander. - Twenty-Two. - Jane.John Fox Jr: - On Hell-Fer-Sartain Creek. - Through The Gap. - A Trick O' Trade. - Grayson's Baby. - Courtin' On Cutshin. - The Message In The Sand. - The Senator's Last Trade.Harvey Jerrold O'Higgins: - Silent Sam. - His Mother. - In The Matter Of Art. - Tammany's Tithes. - The Devil's Doings. - The Hired Man. - Larkin.E. Pauline Johnson: - The Shagganappi. - A Red Girl's Reasoning. - The King's Coin. - The Derelict. - Little Wolf-Willow. - Her Majesty's Guest. - The Brotherhood.Anthony Hope: - The Adventure of Lady Ursula. - AspirationsExplanations. - A Cut and a Kiss. - Promising. - Imagination. - Uncle John and the Rubies. - Lucifera.

William Chambers Morrow (7 July 1854, Selma, Alabama 1923) was an American writer, now noted mainly for his short stories of horror and suspense. Wilhelm Hauff (29 November 1802 18 November 1827) was a Württembergian poet and novelist. Rabindranath Tagore was a polymath, poet, musician, and artist from the Indian subcontinent. Owen Wister (July 14, 1860 July 21, 1938) was an American writer and historian, considered the 'father' of western fiction. Neith Boyce (March 21, 1872, Franklin, Indiana December 2, 1951, Richmond, New Hampshire) was a United States novelist, journalist, and theatre artist. Mary Roberts Rinehart (August 12, 1876 September 22, 1958) was an American writer, often called the American Agatha Christie. John Fox Jr. (December 16, 1862 July 8, 1919) was an American journalist, novelist, and short story writer. Harvey Jerrold O'Higgins (November 14, 1876 February 28, 1929) was an American novelist and journalist. Emily Pauline Johnson (10 March 1861 7 March 1913), also known by her Mohawk stage name Tekahionwake, was a Canadian poet, author and performer who was popular in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Anthony Hope (9 February 1863 8 July 1933), was an English novelist and playwright.He was a prolific writer, especially of adventure novels.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Hope, Anthony

Johnson, E. Pauline

O'Higgins, Harvey J.

Jr., John Fox

Rinehart, Mary Roberts

Boyce, Neith

Bo, Neith

Morrow, W. C.

Hauff, Wilhelm

Nemo, August

Leseproben

John Fox Jr. (December 16, 1862 – July 8, 1919) was an American journalist, novelist, and short story writer. Born in Stony Point, Kentucky, to John William Fox Sr. and Minerva Worth Carr, Fox studied English at Harvard University. He graduated in 1883 before becoming a reporter in New York City. After working for both New York Times and the New York Sun, he published a successful serialization of his first novel, A Mountain Europa, in Century magazine in 1892. Two moderately successful short story collections followed, as well as his first conventional novel, The Kentuckians in 1898. Fox gained a following as a war correspondent, working for Harper's Weekly in Cuba during the Spanish–American War of 1898, where he served with the "Rough Riders." Six years later he traveled to Asia to report on the Russo-Japanese War for Scribner's magazine. Though he occasionally wrote for periodicals, after 1904, Fox dedicated much of his attention to fiction. The Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come (published in 1903) and The Trail of the Lonesome Pine (published in 1908) are arguably his most well known and successful works, entering the New York Times top ten list of bestselling novels for 1903, 1904, 1908, and 1909 respectively. In The Trail of the Lonesome Pine, the character Devil Judd Tolliver was based on the real life of "Devil John" Wesley Wright, the sheriff of Wise County, Virginia. Many of his works reflected the naturalist style, his childhood in Kentucky's Bluegrass region, and his life among the coal miners of Big Stone Gap, Virginia. Many of his novels were historical romances or period dramas set in that region. John Fox Jr. died in 1919 of pneumonia in Big Stone Gap, Virginia, and was buried in the family plot in Paris, Kentucky. His marriage to Austrian opera singer Fritzi Scheff in 1908 lasted just over four years. He had no children. The John Fox Jr. House in Big Stone Gap was turned into a museum after the death of John's sister in 1970. It was listed on the National Register of Historic Places in 1974. On Hell-Fer-Sartain Creek
Thar was a dancin'-party Christmas night on "Hell fer Sartain." Jes tu'n up the fust crick beyond the bend thar, an' climb onto a stump, an' holler about ONCE, an' you'll see how the name come. Stranger, hit's HELL fer sartain! Well, Rich Harp was thar from the head-waters, an' Harve Hall toted Nance Osborn clean across the Cumberlan'. Fust one ud swing Nance, an' then t'other. Then they'd take a pull out'n the same bottle o' moonshine, an'—fust one an' then t'other—they'd swing her agin. An' Abe Shivers a-settin' thar by the fire a-bitin' his thumbs! Well, things was sorter whoopin', when somebody ups an' tells Harve that Rich had said somep'n' agin Nance an' him, an' somebody ups an' tells Rich that Harve had said somep'n' agin Nance an' HIM. In a minute, stranger, hit was like two wild-cats in thar. Folks got 'em parted, though, but thar was no more a-swingin' of Nance that night. Harve toted her back over the Cumberlan', an' Rich's kinsfolks tuk him up "Hell fer Sartain"; but Rich got loose, an' lit out lickety-split fer Nance Osborn's. He knowed Harve lived too fer over Black Mountain to go home that night, an' he rid right across the river an' up to Nance's house, an' hollered fer Harve. Harve poked his head out'n the loft—he knowed whut was wanted—an' Harve says, "Uh, come in hyeh an' go to bed. Hit's too late!" An' Rich seed him a-gapin' like a chicken, an' in he walked, stumblin' might' nigh agin the bed whar Nance was a-layin', listenin' an' not sayin' a word. Stranger, them two fellers slept together plum frien'ly, an' they et together plum frien'ly next mornin', an' they sa'ntered down to the grocery plum frien'ly. An' Rich says, "Harve," says he, "let's have a drink." "All right, Rich," says Harve. An' Rich says, "Harve," says he, "you go out'n that door an' I'll go out'n this door." "All right, Rich," says Harve, an' out they walked, steady, an' thar was two shoots shot, an' Rich an' Harve both drapped, an' in ten minutes they was stretched out on Nance's bed an' Nance was a-lopin' away fer the yarb doctor. The gal nussed 'em both plum faithful. Rich didn't hev much to say, an' Harve didn't hev much to say. Nance was sorter quiet, an' Nance's mammy, ole Nance, jes grinned. Folks come in to ax atter 'em right peart. Abe Shivers come cl'ar 'cross the river—powerful frien'ly—an' ever' time Nance ud walk out to the fence with him. One time she didn't come back, an' ole Nance fotched the boys thar dinner, an' ole Nance fotched thar supper, an' then Rich he axed whut was the matter with young Nance. An' ole Nance jes snorted. Atter a while Rich says: "Harve," says he, "who tol' you that I said that word agin you an' Nance?" "Abe Shivers," says Harve. "An' who tol' you," says Harve, "that I said that word agin Nance an' YOU?" "Abe Shivers," says Rich. An' both says, "Well, damn me!" An' Rich tu'ned right over an' begun pullin' straws out'n the bed. He got two out, an' he bit one off, an' he says: "Harve," says he, "I reckon we better draw fer him. The shortes' gits him." An' they drawed. Well, nobody ever knowed which got the shortes' straw, stranger, but— Thar'll be a dancin'-party comin' Christmas night on "Hell fer Sartain." Rich Harp 'll be thar from the head-waters. Harve Hall's a-goin' to tote the Widder Shivers clean across the Cumberlan'. Fust one 'll swing Nance, an' then t'other. Then they'll take a pull out'n the same bottle o' moonshine, an'—fust one an' then t'other—they'll swing her agin, jes the same. ABE won't be thar. He's a-settin' by a bigger fire, I reckon (ef he ain't in it), a-bitin' his thumbs! Through The Gap
When thistles go adrift, the sun sets down the valley between the hills; when snow comes, it goes down behind the Cumberland and streams through a great fissure that people call the Gap. Then the last light drenches the parson's cottage under Imboden Hill, and leaves an after-glow of glory on a majestic heap that lies against the east. Sometimes it spans the Gap with a rainbow. Strange people and strange tales come through this Gap from the Kentucky hills. Through it came these two, late one day—a man and a woman—afoot. I met them at the foot-bridge over Roaring Fork. "Is thar a preacher anywhar aroun' hyeh?" he asked. I pointed to the cottage under Imboden Hill. The girl flushed slightly and turned her head away with a rather unhappy smile. Without a word, the mountaineer led the way towards town. A moment more and a half-breed Malungian passed me on the bridge and followed them. At dusk the next day I saw the mountaineer chopping wood at a shanty under a clump of rhododendron on the river-bank. The girl was cooking supper inside. The day following he was at work on the railroad, and on Sunday, after church, I saw the parson. The two had not been to him. Only that afternoon the mountaineer was on the bridge with another woman, hideously rouged and with scarlet ribbons fluttering from her bonnet. Passing on by the shanty, I saw the Malungian talking to the girl. She apparently paid no heed to him until, just as he was moving away, he said something mockingly, and with a nod of his head back towards the bridge. She did not look up even then, but her face got hard and white, and, looking back from the road, I saw her slipping through the bushes into the dry bed of the creek, to make sure that what the half-breed told her was true. The two men were working side by side on the railroad when I saw them again, but on the first pay-day the doctor was called to attend the Malungian, whose head was split open with a shovel. I was one of two who went out to arrest his assailant, and I had no need to ask who he was. The mountaineer was a devil, the foreman said, and I had to club him with a pistol-butt before he would give in. He said he would get even with me; but they all say that, and I paid no attention to the threat. For a week he was kept in the calaboose, and when I passed the shanty just after he was sent to the county-seat for trial, I found it empty. The Malungian, too, was gone. Within a fortnight the mountaineer was in the door of the shanty again. Having no accuser, he had been discharged. He went back to his work, and if he opened his lips I never knew. Every day I saw him at work, and he never failed to give me a surly look. Every dusk I saw him in his door-way, waiting, and I could guess for what. It was easy to believe that the stern purpose in his face would make its way through space and draw her to him again. And she did come back one day. I had just limped down the mountain with a sprained ankle. A crowd of women was gathered at the edge of the woods, looking with all their eyes to the shanty on the river-bank. The girl stood in the door-way. The mountaineer was coming back from work with his face down. "He hain't seed her yit," said one. "He's goin' to kill her shore. I tol' her he would. She said she reckoned he would, but she didn't keer." For a moment I was paralyzed by the tragedy at hand. She was in the door looking at him when he raised his head. For one moment he stood still, staring, and then he started towards her with a quickened step. I started too, then, every step a torture, and as I limped ahead she made a gesture of terror and backed into the room before him. The door closed, and I listened for a pistol-shot and a scream. It must have been done with a knife, I thought, and quietly, for when I was within ten paces of the cabin he opened the door again. His face was very white; he held one hand behind him, and he was nervously fumbling at his chill with the other. As he stepped towards...