短篇小说

In a fair valley--oh, how long ago, how long ago!--

"Could you give me any information respecting such islands, if any, as the government is going to purchase?"

In the first faint gray of the dawn the stately wild turkeys would be stalking around in great flocks, and ready to be sociable and answer invitations to come and converse with other excursionists of their kind.

I do not claim that I can tell a story as it ought to be told. I only claim to know how a story ought to be told, for I have been almost daily in the company of the most expert story-tellers for many years.

It is seldom pleasant to tell on oneself, but some times it is a sort of relief to a man to make a confession.

"Bless my life! Then who the mischief are you? what the mischief are you? and how the mischief did you get here? and where in thunder did you come from?"

The following I find in a Sandwich Island paper which some friend has sent me from that tranquil far-off retreat.

DEAR CHING-FOO: We are far away at sea now; on our way to the beautiful Land of the Free and Home of the Brave. We shall soon be where all men are alike, and where sorrow is not known.

The stirring part of this celebrated colored man's life properly began with his death--that is to say, the notable features of his biography began with the first time he died.

I resume by cable-telephone where I left off yesterday. For many hours now, this vast city--along with the rest of the globe, of course--has talked of nothing but the extraordinary episode mentioned in my last report.

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

[As related to the author of this book by Mr. McWilliams, a pleasant New York gentleman whom the said author met by chance on a journey.]