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163 stories from 11 authors
A certain king had a beautiful garden, and in the garden stood a tree which bore golden apples.
“Holmes,” said I as I stood one morning in our bow-window looking down the street, “here is a madman coming along.
Some men are born to good luck: all they do or try to do comes right—all that falls to them is so much gain—all their geese are swans—all their cards are trumps—toss them which way you will, they will always, like poor puss, alight upon their legs, and only move on so much the faster.
There was once a very old man, whose eyes had become dim, his ears dull of hearing, his knees trembled, and when he sat at table he could hardly hold the spoon, and spilt the broth upon the table-cloth or let it run out of his mouth.
John Messner clung with mittened hand to the bucking gee-pole and held the sled in the trail.
The best soldier of our staff was Lieutenant Herman Brayle, one of the two aides-de-camp.
“Right here was where Pa ran over the skunk.” “It was further on.” “It don’t make no difference where it was,” Joe said without turning his head.
It was the green heart of the canyon, where the walls swerved back from the rigid plan and relieved their harshness of line by making a little sheltered nook and filling it to the brim with sweetness and roundness and softness.