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by Louisa May Alcott “Children and fools speak the truth.” I “What’s that sigh for, Polly dear?” “I’m tired, mother, tired of working and waiting.

by Lucy Maud Montgomery I knew quite well why Father sent me to Prince Edward Island to visit Aunt Philippa that summer. He told me

by Kathleen Norris In the blazing heat of a July afternoon, Mrs. Cyrus Austin Phelps, of Boston, arrived unexpectedly at the Yerba Buena rancho in

by Mark Twain The facts in the following case came to me by letter from a young lady who lives in the beautiful city of

by Guy de Maupassant The widow of Paolo Saverini lived alone with her son in a poor little house on the outskirts of Bonifacio. The

by Guy de Maupassant He was a journeyman carpenter, a good workman and a steady fellow, twenty-seven years old, but, although the eldest son, Jacques

by Edith Wharton This is the story that, in the dining-room of the old Beacon Street house (now the Aldebaran Club), Judge Anthony Bracknell, of

A Village Singer by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman A Village Singer first appeared in Harper’s New Monthly Magazine (July, 1889). The trees were in full

A Very Fine Fiddle by Kate Chopin WHEN the half dozen little ones were hungry, old Cléophas would take the fiddle from its flannel bag

by Bret Harte Mr. Jackson Potter halted before the little cottage, half shop, half hostelry, opposite the great gates of Domesday Park, where tickets of

by H.G. Wells Bru-a-a-a. I listened, not understanding. Wa-ra-ra-ra. “Good Lord!” said I, still only half awake. “What an infernal shindy!” Ra-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra Ta-ra-rra-ra. “It’s enough,”

A Vine on a House by Ambrose Bierce This work appears in Bierce’s 1913 collection of short stories, Present at a Hanging and Other Ghost

by Oliver Wendell Holmes Having just returned from a visit to this admirable Institution in company with a friend who is one of the Directors,

A Visit to Avoyelles by Kate Chopin Every one who came up from Avoyelles had the same story to tell of Mentine. Cher Maître! but

by Charles Dickens On a certain Sunday, I formed one of the congregation assembled in the chapel of a large metropolitan Workhouse. With the exception

by Willa Cather I received one morning a letter, written in pale ink on glassy, blue-lined notepaper, and bearing the postmark of a little Nebraska

by T.S. Arthur “How are you to-day, Mrs. Carleton?” asked Dr. Farleigh, as he sat down by his patient, who reclined languidly in a large

by Bret Harte “The kernel seems a little off color to-day,” said the barkeeper as he replaced the whiskey decanter, and gazed reflectively after the

by Rudyard Kipling According to the custom of Vermont, Sunday afternoon is salting-time on the farm, and, unless something very important happens, we attend to

by Richard Harding Davis When its turn came, the private secretary, somewhat apologetically, laid the letter in front of the Wisest Man in Wall Street.

by Rudyard Kipling Because to every purpose there is time and judgment, therefore the misery of man is great upon him. –Eccles. viii. 6. Fate

A Watcher by the Dead by Ambrose Bierce I In an upper room of an unoccupied dwelling in the part of San Francisco known as

by Guy de Maupassant For a long time Jacques Bourdillere had sworn that he would never marry, but he suddenly changed his mind. It happened

by Bret Harte The Widow Wade was standing at her bedroom window staring out, in that vague instinct which compels humanity in moments of doubt