A Story of the Days of Cromwell.
Story of the dogs wo war between the Cavalier and the Roundheads in England.
Crockett’s last story. A rip-roaring tale of the days of the great Oliver— days when the dogs of war were let loose in English meadows, when the unbeatable Ironsides invoked the spirit of the God of battles, and “the gallant of England struck home for the King.” Crockett draws a splendid portrait of Cromwell, and depicts the stirring scenes of the struggle between Cavalier and Roundhead, with all the skill of an experienced and accomplished literary craftsman.
Portions of this story appeared in “ The Woman at Home” under the title of “ The Woman of Fortune ”
The author was a well-known writer of the ”Kailyard” style in his day.
IT was an off day, yet Keith Harford was awake betimes in the tiny hostel on the Wengern Alp, held (as the sign stated plainly) against all comers by Johann Jossi. Keith awoke because he missed something. He turned restlessly in the little Swiss bed of five foot six inches in extreme length, over the terminal bar of which his feet projected like the “trams” of a wheelbarrow. The young man was wakeful from unaccustomed comfort. He had indeed taken his knapsack to bed with him, which, in addition to a spirit lamp and appurtenances, contained a camera built with knobs and acute angles particularly inimical to luxury. He had also entrenched himself behind half a dozen books and a field-glass covered in rusty leather.
“Witnessed to be a True Tale, so far as man may write, the Eve of Malplaquet of the year 1724, in our House of Raith.”
M. R. F. R.
Fiction by the Scottish author of “The Banner of Blue” and other novels, this one set at opening in the Meuse Valley. A captain is recalling his youth to his aide.
Novel by S. Fowler Wright.
The great doors of St. Cuthbert’s Central Prison rolled slowly back like lock-gates turning. Sullen black walls rose up into the midheavens, making another night against the stars. It was twelve o’clock on Friday night, the first of May. In an hour or two all the young lads and lassies in the countryside would be rising out of their beds, and glancing out at the graying morn, so as to be well up the Kirk-town Fell when the sun rose. There they would wash their faces in dew and plight their troth, and very likely a couple or two would exchange an innocent kiss behind the thickest of the hedgerows coming home.
S. R. (Saumel Rutherford) Crockett was a Scottish novelist who wrote over 40 works in the Kailyard School fashion, a style of writing developed in the late 1800s as a reaction against coarse representations of Scottish life. Crockett s contemporaries in the Kailyard School included J. M. Barrie, George MacDonald, and Ian Maclaren. Crockett s most popular work, The Raiders, captures the excitement and anxiety of Galloway smugglers. The Black Douglas was credited by J. R. R. Tolkien as an influence on his development of the character Sauron in his Lord of the Rings trilogy. S. R. Crockett died in France in 1914.
King Bwene of the Baradi faces a stark dilemma. A plague is devastating his people, and the only possibility of salvation is relocating his kingdom from the lowlands to a place where the disease doesn’t flourish. But when he attacks the ape-men of the plateau, suddenly the hordes of semi-humans come boiling down from the heights, overrunning his land with their superior strength and numbers. He sends emissaries to the Ho-Tus, another race of humans on the other side of the plateau, to seek their help, but they kill anyone unrelated to them. As the days grow ever darker and the prospects of his people’s survival diminish, Bwene must deal with a murderous Queen, treachery within his own ranks — and a beautiful refugee from the Ho-Tus!
Another classic fantasy by a master of the genre.
Short Story by S. Fowler Wright.
The story of an attempt to seize power in a technocratic future by a scientist armed with various brain-controlling drugs, similarly anticipates – albeit in lurid fashion – modern concerns regarding the advancement of psychotropic chemistry.
Short Story by S. Fowler Wright.
I am XP4378882. I write this with a pen, on sheets of paper in the old way, instead of speaking it into a recorder, because I want it to have a chance of survival, even though a time should come when no more of those instruments can be made or preserved; and because it is a very private thing. If this should be seen by one who could read its words, my death would be nearer even than are those of the men and women among whom I move.
I am writing on the 28th day of September, 2838, being nineteen years of age yesterday, and my friend Stella being two minutes younger than I.