Fiction Books

Canoes cost money; and though some canoes cost more than others, it is impossible to buy a new wooden canoe of an approved model for less than seventy-five dollars. Four canoes, at seventy-five dollars each, would cost altogether three hundred[8] dollars. As the entire amount of pocket-money in...

Et cette fois appuya le petit garçon, pour un vrai voyage! Ça ne sera plus comme à notre départ pour la campagne, qui ne nous laisse que quelques heures dans le train; on a à peine le temps de s’installer.

There is a peculiar hiss when a rifle-ball passes in close proximity to one's head, a sound that no doubt chords with some musical note, yet upon most ears the noise is apt to fall rather unpleasantly. So the trapper, though thoroughly seasoned to danger and the thousand chances and mischances of...

This was the customary tenor of my conversation with Joey as we sat before our fire of pine knots of an evening. The lad would point out to me queer kaleidoscopic creatures he saw deep in the heart of the pine fire; but his young eyes never saw the face I beheld there, and so I was obliged to...

With rifle on shoulder and knife in belt, Nat Wolfe rode along carelessly, for it was midday, and the country was open. That caution which ten years of uncivilized life had taught him never entirely slumbered, and he gave a sharp glance ahead, when, upon turning a low bluff rising out of the plain...

As the long struggle between Maori and Pakeha dragged to a close, a new interest was given to it by the perversion of numbers of Maoris of various tribes to a singular religion, styled by its founders Pai Marire—that is, 'good and peaceful.'

The town of Rosario was ahead. The cavalry expected to sup and sleep there. Chance of firing presently from the natives was pure routine. John Morning, back in the second troop, on the horse of a missing soldier, wondered if years of service and exploration would make him ever as great a...

The fog of November in its descent upon Laxton, one of London’s busiest suburbs, had effaced the whole of Beaconsfield Villas, including the Number Five on the fanlight over the door of the last house but two in the row.

Bruce Storrs stood up tall and straight on a prostrate sycamore, the sunlight gleaming upon his lithe, vigorous body, and with a quick, assured lifting of the arms plunged into the cool depths of the river. He rose and swam with long, confident strokes the length of a pool formed by the curving...

The ranch-house of Uncle Hozie Wheeler’s Flying H outfit was ablaze with light. Two lanterns were suspended on the wide veranda which almost encircled the rambling old house; lanterns were hanging from the corral fence, where already many saddle-horses and buggy teams were tied. Lanterns hung...