Bøger af Stephen Vincent Benet

Thank you for checking out this book by Theophania Publishing. We appreciate your business and look forward to serving you soon. We have thousands of titles available, and we invite you to search for us by name, contact us via our website, or download our most recent catalogues. THE younger child sat bolt upright, her bedclothes wrapped around her. "If you're going down to look at them," she whispered accusingly, "I'm coming, too! And Alice'll catch you." "She won't catch me." Her elder sister's voice was scornful, "She's out in the pantry, helping. With the man from Gray's." "All the same, I'm coming. I want to see if it's ice cream in little molds or just the smashed kind with strawberries. And, if Alice won't catch you, she won't catch me." "It'll be molds," said the other, from the depths of experience, "Mother always has molds for the Whitehouses. And Mr. Whitehouse sort of clicks in his throat and talks about sweets to the sweet. You'd think he'd know that's dopey but he doesn't. And, anyhow, it isn't your turn." "It never is my turn," mourned her junior, tugging at the bedclothes. "All right," said the elder. "If you want to go! And make a noise. And then they hear us and somebody comes up-" "Sometimes they bring you things, when they come up," said the younger dreamily. "The man with the pink face did. And he said I was a little angel."

Thank you for checking out this book by Theophania Publishing. We appreciate your business and look forward to serving you soon. We have thousands of titles available, and we invite you to search for us by name, contact us via our website, or download our most recent catalogues. THEY came over the Pass one day in one big wagon-all ten of them-man and woman and hired girl and seven big boy children, from the nine-year-old who walked by the team to the baby in arms. Or so the story runs-it was in the early days of settlement and the town had never heard of the Sobbin' Women then. But it opened its eyes one day, and there were the Pontipees. They were there but they didn't stay long-just time enough to buy meal and get a new shoe for the lead horse. You couldn't call them unsociable, exactly-they seemed to be sociable enough among themselves. But you could tell, somehow, from the look of them, that they weren't going to settle on ground other people had cleared. They were all high-colored and dark-haired-handsome with a wilderness handsomeness-and when you got them all together, they looked more like a tribe or a nation than an ordinary family. I don't know how they gave folks that feeling, but they did. Yes, even the baby, when the town women tried to handle him. He was a fine, healthy baby, but they said it was like trying to pet a young raccoon. Well, that was all there was to it, at the start. They paid for what they bought in good money and drove on up into Sobbin' Women Valley-only it wasn't called Sobbin' Women Valley then. And pretty soon, there was smoke from a chimney there that hadn't been there before. But you know what town gossip is when it gets started. The Pontipees were willing enough to let other folks alone-in fact, that was what they wanted. But, because it was what they wanted, the town couldn't see why they wanted it. Towns get that way, sometimes.

Thank you for checking out this book by Theophania Publishing. We appreciate your business and look forward to serving you soon. We have thousands of titles available, and we invite you to search for us by name, contact us via our website, or download our most recent catalogues. . . . My friend the major's malady approaches its term-the last few days find him fearfully enfeebled. He knows that the end draws nigh; indeed he speaks of it often, with remarkable calmness. I had thought it might turn his mind toward religion, but while he has accepted the ministrations of his Church, I fear it is without the sincere repentance of a Christian. When the priest had left him, yesterday, he summoned me, remarking, "Well, all that is over with," rather more in the tone of a man who has just reserved a place in a coach than one who will shortly stand before his Maker. "It does no harm," he said, reflectively. "And, after all, it might be true. Why not?" and he chuckled in a way that repelled me. Then he asked me to read to him-not the Bible, as I had expected, but some verses of the poet Gray. He listened attentively, and when I came to the passage, "Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed," and its successor, "Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest," he asked me to repeat them. When I had done so, he said, "Yes, yes. That is true, very true. I did not think so in boyhood-I thought genius must force its own way. But your poet is right about it."

Thank you for checking out this book by Theophania Publishing. We appreciate your business and look forward to serving you soon. We have thousands of titles available, and we invite you to search for us by name, contact us via our website, or download our most recent catalogues. AFTER the years, Tom Carroll was going back to Waynesville-to stand by a kinswoman's grave, in the country of his youth. The names of the small, familiar stations were knots on a thread that led back into the darkness of childhood. He was glad Claire had not come. She hated death and memories. She hated cramped, local trains that smelled of green plush and cinders. Most of all she would hate Waynesville, even in mid-September and the grave light of afternoon. Well, he wasn't looking forward to a pleasant time. He felt fagged and on edge already. There was work for the active partner of Norman, Buckstone, and Carroll in his brief-case, but he could not get down to the work. Instead he remembered, from childhood, the smell of dyed cloth and poignant, oppressive flowers, the black wisp tied on the knocker, the people coming to the door. The house was full of a menace-full of a secret-there were incomprehensible phrases, said in a murmur, and a man in black gloves who came, and a strangeness behind a shut door. Run out and play, run out and play; but there was no right way to play any more-even out in the yard you could smell the sweet, overpowering flowers-even out in the street you could see the people coming and coming, making that little pause as they saw the black wisp. Beautiful, they said, she looks beautiful; but the glimpse of the face was not mother, only somebody coldly asleep. Our sister has gone to dear Jesus . . . we shall meet on that beautiful shore . . .

Thank you for checking out this book by Theophania Publishing. We appreciate your business and look forward to serving you soon. We have thousands of titles available, and we invite you to search for us by name, contact us via our website, or download our most recent catalogues. I WAS a very young man in the publishing business at the time-even younger, I think, than most young men are nowadays, for this was before the war. Diana poised her bow at the sky above a Madison Square Garden that was actually on Madison Square-and some of the older men in our New York office still wore the paper sleeve-protectors and worn alpaca coats of an older day. There are young offices and old ones: brisk, shiny, bumptious new offices that positively buzz with expert inefficiency; and resigned, rather wistful little offices that have come to know they will never do well in the world. But the prevailing atmosphere of Thrushwood, Collins, and Co. was that of substantial tradition and solid worth. The faded carpet in the reception-room had been trodden by any number of famous feet-perhaps by not quite so many as I avouched to the young men of other publishers, but still the legends were there. Legends of Henry James and William Dean Howells and a young man from India named Kipling who was taken for a boy from the printer's and sent off with a flea in his ear. New authors were always greatly impressed by our atmosphere-until they looked over their contracts and discovered that even their Australian rights had, somehow or other, become the inalienable property of Thrushwood, Collins, and Co. But then they had only to see Mr. Thrushwood to be convinced that their most successful works were being published from a rigid sense of duty at a distinct financial loss.

THIS 32 PAGE ARTICLE WAS EXTRACTED FROM THE BOOK: Stories for Men: An Anthology, by Stephen Vincent Benet. To purchase the entire book, please order ISBN 141911333X.

Thank you for checking out this book by Theophania Publishing. We appreciate your business and look forward to serving you soon. We have thousands of titles available, and we invite you to search for us by name, contact us via our website, or download our most recent catalogues. "BUT, my dear," said Mrs. Culverin, with a tiny gasp, "you can't actually mean-a tail!" Mrs. Dingle nodded impressively. "Exactly. I've seen him. Twice. Paris, of course, and then, a command appearance at Rome-we were in the Royal box. He conducted-my clear, you've never heard such effects from an orchestra-and, my dear," she hesitated slightly, "he conducted with it." "How perfectly, fascinatingly too horrid for words!" said Mrs. Culverin in a dazed but greedy voice. "We must have him to dinner as soon as he comes over-he is coming over, isn't he?" "The twelfth," said Mrs. Dingle with a gleam in her eyes. "The New Symphony people have asked him to be guest-conductor for three special concerts-I do hope you can dine with us some night while he's here-he'll be very busy, of course-but he's promised to give us what time he can spare--"

This Is A New Release Of The Original 1918 Edition.

The Beginning of Wisdom is a collection of essays by Stephen Vincent Benet, an American writer known for his historical fiction and poetry. The book is divided into five sections, each containing essays on different topics such as literature, history, and politics. In the first section, Benet discusses the nature of wisdom and how it is acquired. He explores the idea that wisdom is not just knowledge, but also a deep understanding of the world and the human experience. The second section focuses on literature, with essays on authors such as Shakespeare, Dickens, and Twain. Benet examines their works and discusses their impact on literature and society. The third section delves into history, with essays on topics such as the American Revolution, the Civil War, and World War I. Benet provides insights into these events and their significance in shaping the world we live in today. The fourth section is dedicated to politics, with essays on democracy, communism, and fascism. Benet examines these political systems and their strengths and weaknesses. The final section is a collection of miscellaneous essays on various topics such as religion, education, and the arts. Overall, The Beginning of Wisdom is a thought-provoking collection of essays that offers insights into a wide range of topics. Benet's writing is engaging and accessible, making this book a great read for anyone interested in literature, history, or politics.1921. Stephen Vincent Benet, poet, novelist, and short-story writer. His Pulitzer Prize-winning poem John Brown's Body is still considered the quintessential American war poem. The autobiographical The Beginning of Wisdom is his first novel. Partial Contents: Prologue to Phillip; Parabalou!; Frankie and Johnny were Lovers; Cold Mountains; Amateur Theatricals; The Tinsel Heaven-A Dream; Terra Firma; and The Fear of the Lord.This scarce antiquarian book is a facsimile reprint of the old original and may contain some imperfections such as library marks and notations. Because we believe this work is culturally important, we have made it available as part of our commitment for protecting, preserving, and promoting the world's literature in affordable, high quality, modern editions, that are true to their original work.

Thank you for checking out this book by Theophania Publishing. We appreciate your business and look forward to serving you soon. We have thousands of titles available, and we invite you to search for us by name, contact us via our website, or download our most recent catalogues. The man who expected to be shot lay with his eyes open, staring at the upper left-hand corner of his cell. He was fairly well over his last beating, and they might come for him any time now. There was a yellow stain in the cell corner near the ceiling; he had liked it at first, then disliked it; now he was coming back to liking it again. He could see it more clearly with his glasses on, but he only put on his glasses for special occasions now-the first thing in the morning, and when they brought the food in, and for interviews with the General. The lenses of the glasses had been cracked in a beating some months before, and it strained his eyes to wear them too long. Fortunately, in his present life he had very few occasions demanding clear vision. But, nevertheless, the accident to his glasses worried him, as it worries all near-sighted people. You put your glasses on the first thing in the morning and the world leaps into proportion; if it does not do so, something is wrong with the world.

Pulitzer Prize-winning author Stephen Vincent Benét was one of America's greatest storytellers, most famous for his witty and moving tribute to American history, The Devil and Daniel Webster, where a trial for a man's soul becomes a trial of America itself, of all that is best and worst in a great and tumultuous new country. In addition, this collection includes six more of Benét's best short stories, which in a similar vein, depict compelling and diverse elements in America's great social tapestry, with memorable and often amusing characters: a man whose toothache leads him to encounter Paul Revere on the eve of the American Revolution; a Jewish immigrant who discovers a new experience of life as a trader on the American frontier; a woman brought from Africa as a slave who teaches her grandson the price of freedom; an old confederate colonel, hateful and unwilling to accept the loss of his old world; and an adventurous young man who discovers the folly in all walks of human life. The stories included are: The Devil and Daniel Webster Jacob and the Indians A Tooth for Paul Revere Freedom's a Hard-Bought Thing O'Halloran's Luck The Die-Hard Johnny Pye and the Fool-Killer

This scarce antiquarian book is a facsimile reprint of the original. Due to its age, it may contain imperfections such as marks, notations, marginalia and flawed pages. Because we believe this work is culturally important, we have made it available as part of our commitment for protecting, preserving, and promoting the world's literature in affordable, high quality, modern editions that are true to the original work.

This Is A New Release Of The Original 1921 Edition.

Thank you for checking out this book by Theophania Publishing. We appreciate your business and look forward to serving you soon. We have thousands of titles available, and we invite you to search for us by name, contact us via our website, or download our most recent catalogues. The north and the west and the south are good hunting ground, but it is forbidden to go east. It is forbidden to go to any of the Dead Places except to search for metal and then he who touches the metal must be a priest or the son of a priest. Afterwards, both the man and the metal must be purified. These are the rules and the laws; they are well made. It is forbidden to cross the great river and look upon the place that was the Place of the Gods-this is most strictly forbidden. We do not even say its name though we know its name. It is there that spirits live, and demons-it is there that there are the ashes of the Great Burning. These things are forbidden- they have been forbidden since the beginning of time.

This is a new release of the original 1935 edition.

THE brig was already a white-sailed toy on blue waters. Soon enough she would be hull down on the horizon, then nothing at all. No man among her crew would ever set foot again willingly on the island where that crew had marooned its captain. And Vasco Gomez, lost and alone on a pin-point of earth set down among waves that seemed to come from the other end of the world, stretched out his arms and laughed loudly for the first time since they had set him ashore.He was known as a clever man and a lucky captain in every waterside tavern where the freebooters gathered. But this marooning of himself on a lost and uncharted island was the cleverest and luckiest exploit in a career that had held little mercy and no noteworthy failures.It had not been an easy task. No, even for Vasco Gomez, it had not been easy. His own name for good fortune had worked against him, as had the quite justifiable fear his reputation inspired in the most hard-bitten of free companions. It had taken untiring craft and skill to bring even a crew of wolves to the point of mutiny against Vasco Gomez. And even greater art to see to it that these wolves, once roused, should maroon a living man where he wished to be, and not merely cast a hacked body overside.

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Heavens and Earth, A Book of Poems by Stephen Vincent Benét. This book is a reproduction of the original book published in 1920 and may have some imperfections such as marks or hand-written notes.

This scarce antiquarian book is a facsimile reprint of the original. Due to its age, it may contain imperfections such as marks, notations, marginalia and flawed pages. Because we believe this work is culturally important, we have made it available as part of our commitment for protecting, preserving, and promoting the world's literature in affordable, high quality, modern editions that are true to the original work.

Thank you for checking out this book by Theophania Publishing. We appreciate your business and look forward to serving you soon. We have thousands of titles available, and we invite you to search for us by name, contact us via our website, or download our most recent catalogues. WHEN the spring was in its mid-term and the apple trees entirely white they would walk down by the river, talking as they went, their voices hardly distinguishable from the voices of birds or waters. Their love had begun with the winter; they were both in their first youth. Those who watched them made various prophecies-none of which was fulfilled-laughed, criticized, or were sentimental according to the turn of their minds. But these two were ignorant of the watching and, if they had heard the prophecies, they would hardly have understood them. Between them and the world was a wall of glass-between them and time was a wall of glass-they were not conscious of being either young or old. The weather passed over them as over a field or a stream-it was there but they took no account of it. There was love and being alive, there was the beating of the heart, apart or together. This had been, this would be, this was-it was impossible to conceive of a world created otherwise. He knew the shape of her face, in dreams and out of them; she could shut her eyes, alone, and feel his hands on her shoulders. So it went, so they spoke and answered, so they walked by the river. Later on, once or twice, they tried to remember what they had said-a great deal of nonsense?-but the words were already gone. They could hear the river running; he could remember a skein of hair; she, a blue shirt open at the throat and an eager face. Then, after a while, these two were not often remembered.