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University of Virginia Library, Text collection (176)
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101Author:  James, HenryRequires cookie*
 Title:  The Turn of the Screw  
 Published:  2000 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text 
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102Author:  Jewett, Sarah OrneRequires cookie*
 Title:  In Dark New England Days  
 Published:  1994 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text 
 Description: THE last of the neighbors was going home; officious Mrs. Peter Downs had lingered late and sought for additional housework with which to prolong her stay. She had talked incessantly, and buzzed like a busy bee as she helped to put away the best crockery after the funeral supper, while the sisters Betsey and Hannah Knowles grew every moment more forbidding and unwilling to speak. They lighted a solitary small oil lamp at last as if for Sunday evening idleness, and put it on the side table in the kitchen.
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103Author:  Jewett, Sarah OrneRequires cookie*
 Title:  "Discontent"  
 Published:  1999 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text 
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104Author:  Jewett, Sarah OrneRequires cookie*
 Title:  "Only A Doll"  
 Published:  1999 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text 
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105Author:  Joyce, JamesRequires cookie*
 Title:  Chamber Music  
 Published:  2001 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text 
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106Author:  Kipling, Rudyard, 1865-1936Requires cookie*
 Title:  American Notes  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text 
 Description: THIS is what Bret Harte has written of the great city of San Francisco, and for the past fortnight I have been wondering what made him do it.
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107Author:  Kipling, RudyardRequires cookie*
 Title:  Captains Courageous  
 Published:  2004 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text 
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108Author:  Kropotkin, PeterRequires cookie*
 Title:  Maxím Górky  
 Published:  1996 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text 
 Description: FEW writers have established their reputation so rapidly as Maxím Górky. His first sketches (1892-95), were published in an obscure provincial paper of the Caucasus, and were totally unknown to the literary world, but when a short tale of his appeared in a widely-read [illustration omitted] review, edited by Korolénko, it at once attracted general attention. The beauty of its form, its artistic finish, and the new note of strength and courage which rang through it, brought the young writer immediately into prominence. It became known that Maxím Górky was the pen-name of quite a young man, A. Pyeshkoff, who was born in 1868 in Nizhni Novgorod, a large town on the Volga; that his father was a merchant, or an artisan, his mother a remarkable peasant woman, who died soon after the birth of her son, and that the boy, orphaned when only nine, was brought up in a family of his father's relatives. The childhood of Górky must have been anything but happy, for one day he ran away and entered into service on a Volga River steamer. Later he lived and wandered on foot with the tramps in South Russia, and during these wanderings he wrote a number of short stories which were published in a newspaper of Northern Caucasia. The stories proved to be remarkably fine, and when a collection of all that he had hitherto written was published in 1900, in four small volumes, the whole of a large edition was sold in a very short time, and the name of Górky took its place—to speak of living novelists only—by the side of those of Korolénko and Tchéhoff, immediately after the name of Leo Tolstóy. In Western Europe and America his reputation was made with the same rapidity, as soon as a couple of his sketches were translated into French and German, and retranslated into English.
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109Author:  La Flesche, FrancisRequires cookie*
 Title:  The Story of a Vision  
 Published:  1996 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text 
 Description: EACH of us, as we gathered at the lodge of our story teller at dusk, picked up an armful of wood and entered. The old man who was sitting alone, his wife having gone on a visit, welcomed us with a pleasant word as we threw the wood down by the fire-place and busied ourselves rekindling the fire.
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110Author:  Lang, AndrewRequires cookie*
 Title:  Angling Sketches  
 Published:  2001 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text 
 Description: These papers do not boast of great sport. They are truthful, not like the tales some fishers tell. They should appeal to many sympathies. There is no false modesty in the confidence with which I esteem myself a duffer, at fishing. Some men are born duffers; others, unlike persons of genius, become so by an infinite capacity for not taking pains. Others, again, among whom I would rank myself, combine both these elements of incompetence. Nature, that made me enthusiastically fond of fishing, gave me thumbs for fingers, short-sighted eyes, indolence, carelessness, and a temper which (usually sweet and angelic) is goaded to madness by the laws of matter and of gravitation. For example: when another man is caught up in a branch he disengages his fly; I jerk at it till something breaks. As for carelessness, in boyhood I fished, by preference, with doubtful gut and knots ill-tied; it made the risk greater, and increased the excitement if one did hook a trout. I can't keep a fly-book. I stuff the flies into my pockets at random, or stick them into the leaves of a novel, or bestow them in the lining of my hat or the case of my rods. Never, till 1890, in all my days did I possess a landing-net. If I can drag a fish up a bank, or over the gravel, well; if not, he goes on his way rejoicing. On the Test I thought it seemly to carry a landing- net. It had a hinge, and doubled up. I put the handle through a button- hole of my coat: I saw a big fish rising, I put a dry fly over him; the idiot took it. Up stream he ran, then down stream, then he yielded to the rod and came near me. I tried to unship my landing-net from my button-hole. Vain labour! I twisted and turned the handle, it would not budge. Finally, I stooped, and attempted to ladle the trout out with the short net; but he broke the gut, and went off. A landing-net is a tedious thing to carry, so is a creel, and a creel is, to me, a superfluity. There is never anything to put in it. If I do catch a trout, I lay him under a big stone, cover him with leaves, and never find him again. I often break my top joint; so, as I never carry string, I splice it with a bit of the line, which I bite off, for I really cannot be troubled with scissors and I always lose my knife. When a phantom minnow sticks in my clothes, I snap the gut off, and put on another, so that when I reach home I look as if a shoal of fierce minnows had attacked me and hung on like leeches. When a boy, I was--once or twice--a bait-fisher, but I never carried worms in box or bag. I found them under big stones, or in the fields, wherever I had the luck. I never tie nor otherwise fasten the joints of my rod; they often slip out of the sockets and splash into the water. Mr. Hardy, however, has invented a joint-fastening which never slips. On the other hand, by letting the joint rust, you may find it difficult to take down your rod. When I see a trout rising, I always cast so as to get hung up, and I frighten him as I disengage my hook. I invariably fall in and get half-drowned when I wade, there being an insufficiency of nails in the soles of my brogues. My waders let in water, too, and when I go out to fish I usually leave either my reel, or my flies, or my rod, at home. Perhaps no other man's average of lost flies in proportion to taken trout was ever so great as mine. I lose plenty, by striking furiously, after a series of short rises, and breaking the gut, with which the fish swims away. As to dressing a fly, one would sooner think of dressing a dinner. The result of the fly-dressing would resemble a small blacking-brush, perhaps, but nothing entomological.
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111Author:  Lang, AndrewRequires cookie*
 Title:  In the Wrong Paradise and Other Stories.  
 Published:  2005 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text 
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112Author:  Lewis, M. G. (Matthew Gregory), 1775-1818Requires cookie*
 Title:  Journal of a Residence among the Negroes in the West Indies  
 Published:  1999 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text 
 Description: 1815. NOVEMBER 8. (Wednesday.)
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113Author:  Lewis, M. G. (Matthew Gregory), 1775-1818Requires cookie*
 Title:  The Monk: A Romance  
 Published:  2001 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text 
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114Author:  Lewis, M. G. (Matthew Gregory), 1775-1818Requires cookie*
 Title:  The Monk: A Romance  
 Published:  2001 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text 
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115Author:  Lewis, M. G. (Matthew Gregory), 1775-1818Requires cookie*
 Title:  The Monk: A Romance  
 Published:  2001 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text 
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116Author:  Locke, William JohnRequires cookie*
 Title:  The Fortunate Youth  
 Published:  1998 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text 
 Description: PAUL KEGWORTHY lived with his mother, Mrs. Button, his stepfather, Mr. Button, and six little Buttons, his half brothers and sisters. His was not an ideal home; it consisted in a bedroom, a kitchen and a scullery in a grimy little house in a grimy street made up of rows of exactly similar grimy little houses, and forming one of a hundred similar streets in a northern manufacturing town. Mr. and Mrs. Button worked in a factory and took in as lodgers grimy single men who also worked in factories. They were not a model couple; they were rather, in fact, the scandal of Budge Street, which did not itself enjoy, in Bludston, a reputation for holiness. Neither was good to look upon. Mr. Button, who was Lancashire bred and born, divided the yearnings of his spirit between strong drink and dog-fights. Mrs. Button, a viperous Londoner, yearned for noise. When Mr. Button came home drunk he punched his wife about the head and kicked her about the body, while they both exhausted the vocabulary of vituperation of North and South, to the horror and edification of the neighbourhood. When Mr. Button was sober Mrs. Button chastised little Paul. She would have done so when Mr. Button was drunk, but she had not the time. The periods, therefore, of his mother's martyrdom were those of Paul's enfranchisement. If he saw his stepfather come down the street with steady gait, he fled in terror; if he saw him reeling homeward he lingered about with light and joyous heart.
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117Author:  Long, John Luther, 1861-1927Requires cookie*
 Title:  Purple-Eyes  
 Published:  2000 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text 
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118Author:  Marquis, DonRequires cookie*
 Title:  Danny's Own Story  
 Published:  1996 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text 
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119Author:  Melville, Herman, 1819-1891Requires cookie*
 Title:  I and My Chimney  
 Published:  1997 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text 
 Description: I AND my chimney, two grey-headed old smokers, reside in the country. We are, I may say, old settlers here; particularly my old chimney, which settles more and more every day.
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120Author:  Mitchell, S. WeirRequires cookie*
 Title:  The Autobiography of a Quack  
 Published:  1996 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text 
 Description: AT this present moment of time I am what the doctors call an interesting case, and am to be found in bed No. 10, Ward 11, Massachusetts General Hospital. I am told that I have what is called Addison's disease, and that it is this pleasing malady which causes me to be covered with large blotches of a dark mulatto tint. However, it is a rather grim subject to joke about, because, if I believed the doctor who comes around every day, and thumps me, and listens to my chest with as much pleasure as if I were music all through—I say, if I really believed him, I should suppose I was going to die. The fact is, I don't believe him at all. Some of these days I shall take a turn and get about again; but meanwhile it is rather dull for a stirring, active person like me to have to lie still and watch myself getting big brown and yellow spots all over me, like a map that has taken to growing.
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