داستان های انگلیسی

by Harriet Beecher Stowe And so I am to write a story–but of what, and where? Shall it be radiant with the sky of Italy?

by O. Henry When the forefinger of twilight begins to smudge the clear-drawn lines of the Big City there is inaugurated an hour devoted to

by Harriet Beecher Stowe Harriet Beecher Stowe’s adaptation for children, Uncle Tom’s Cabin, Young Folks’ Edition was published in 1913. Her original landmark book, Uncle

by Lucy Maud Montgomery Luis Egidio Meléndez, Still Life Luis Egidio Meléndez, Still Life Prissy Baker was in Oscar Miller’s store New Year’s morning, buying

by Charlotte M. Yonge 1564. Prince Andrej Kourbsky was one of the chief boyards or nobles at the Court of Ivan, the first Grand Prince

by Charles W. Chesnutt I Uncle Wellington Braboy was so deeply absorbed in thought as he walked slowly homeward from the weekly meeting of the

by Bret Harte The assistant editor of the San Francisco “Daily Informer” was going home. So much of his time was spent in the office

by Jack London “CAN any man–a gentleman, I mean–call a woman a pig?” The little man flung this challenge forth to the whole group, then

by Arnold Bennett I It was one of those swift and violent marriages which occur when the interested parties are so severely wounded by the

by H.G. Wells “What if I die under it?” The thought recurred again and again, as I walked home from Haddon’s. It was a purely

by Sherwood Anderson Mary Cochran went out of the rooms where she lived with her father, Doctor Lester Cochran, at seven o’clock on a Sunday

by Hans Christian Andersen THE region round the little town of Kjøge is very bleak and cold. The town lies on the sea shore, which

by T.S. Arthur Two men were walking along a public thoroughfare in New York. One of them was a young merchant–the other a man past

by Edna Ferber When you are twenty you do not patronize sunsets unless you are unhappy, in love, or both. Tessie Golden was both. Six

Uprooted by Anton Chekhov I WAS on my way back from evening service. The clock in the belfry of the Svyatogorsky Monastery pealed out its

by Franz Kafka Translation by Ian Johnston If some frail tubercular lady circus rider were to be driven in circles around and around the arena

by Stephen Crane “What will we do now?” said the adjutant, troubled and excited. “Bury him,” said Timothy Lean. The two officers looked down close

by Elia W. Peattie “GO West?” sighed Kate. “Why, yes! I’d like to go West.” She looked at the babies, who were playing on the

by Guy de Maupassant I About half-past five one afternoon at the end of June when the sun was shining warm and bright into the