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Fancy’s Show-Box by Nathaniel Hawthorne A MORALITY. What is guilt? A stain upon the soul. And it is a point of vast interest whether the

by Edna Ferber Old Ben Westerveld was taking it easy. Every muscle taut, every nerve tense, his keen eyes vainly straining to pierce the blackness

by Guy de Maupassant The two friends were getting near the end of their dinner. Through the cafe windows they could see the Boulevard, crowded

by Anton Chekhov Time and again, Chekhov used his stories to attack and pillory the strict vertical nature of Russian society during his time. Here

by Guy de Maupassant I can tell you neither the name of the country, nor the name of the man. It was a long, long

by George Gissing From The House of Cobwebs and Other Stories (1906). ‘Farmiloe. Chemist by Examination.’ So did the good man proclaim himself to a

by H.H. Munro (SAKI) Rex Dillot was nearly twenty-four, almost good-looking and quite penniless. His mother was supposed to make him some sort of an

by Guy de Maupassant For a month the hot sun has been parching the fields. Nature is expanding beneath its rays; the fields are green

by Guy de Maupassant We had just left Rouen and were galloping along the road to Jumieges. The light carriage flew along across the level

by Charlotte M. Yonge 219–1642–1798 One of the noblest characters in old Roman history is the first Scipio Africanus, and his first appearance is in

by Leo Tolstoy I In Petersburg in the eighteen-forties a surprising event occurred. Anofficer of the Cuirassier Life Guards, a handsome prince who everyonepredicted would

by Rudyard Kipling And you may go into every room of the house and see everything that is there, but into the Blue Room you

Feathertop by Nathaniel Hawthorne A MORALIZED LEGEND “Dickon,” cried Mother Rigby, “a coal for my pipe!” The pipe was in the old dame’s mouth when

by Katherine Mansfield HE really was an impossible person. Too shy altogether. With absolutely nothing to say for himself. And such a weight. Once he

by Giovanni Boccaccio This story comes from Boccaccio’s The Decameron (1353). This version was translated by Mark Musa and Peter Bondanella. There was once in

by O. Henry “Press me no more Mr. Snooper,” said Gladys Vavasour-Smith. “I can never be yours.” “You have led me to believe different, Gladys,”

by H.G. Wells In truth the mastery of flying was the work of thousands of men– this man a suggestion and that an experiment, until

by H.H. Munro (SAKI) “I want to marry your daughter,” said Mark Spayley with faltering eagerness. “I am only an artist with an income of

by Jack London It was the last of Morganson’s bacon. In all his life he had never pampered his stomach. In fact, his stomach had

by W. W. Jacobs Mr. Jobson awoke with a Sundayish feeling, probably due to the fact that it was Bank Holiday. He had been aware,

by Mark Twain I had never seen him before. He brought letters of introduction from mutual friends in San Francisco, and by invitation I breakfasted

Fire Worship by Nathaniel Hawthorne It is a great revolution in social and domestic life, and no less so in the life of a secluded

by Henry van Dyke Has it ever fallen in your way to notice the quality of the greetings that belong to certain occupations? There is

by Rex Ellingwood Beach I Should you chance, in crossing a certain mountain pass in southern Catalonia, to find yourself poised above a little valley