Books with author Carolyn Wells

“I think Labour Day is an awfully funny holiday,” remarked Patty. “It doesn’t seem to mean anything. It doesn’t commemorate anybody’s birth or death or heroism.”“It’s like Bank Holiday in England,” said her father. “Merely to give the poor, tired business man a rest.”“Well, you don’t specially need one, Daddy; you’ve recreated a lot this summer; and it’s done you good,—you’re looking fine.”“Isn’t he?” said Nan, smiling at the finely tanned face of her husband.The Fairfields were down at “The Pebbles,” their summer home at the seashore, and Patty, who had spent much of the season in New England, had come down for a fortnight with her parents. Labour Day was early this year and the warm September sun was more like that of midsummer.The place was looking lovely, and Patty herself made a pretty picture, as she lounged in a big couch hammock on the wide veranda. She had on a white summer frock and a silk sweater of an exquisite shade of salmon pink. Her silk stockings were of the same shade, and her white pumps were immaculate.Mr. Fairfield looked at the dainty feet, hanging over the edge of the hammock, and said, teasingly, “I’ve heard, Patty, that there are only two kinds of women: those who have small feet, and those who wear white shoes.”Patty surveyed the feet in question. “You can’t start anything, Dad,” she said; “as a matter of fact, there’s only one kind of women today for they all wear white shoes. And my feets are small for my age. I wear fours and that’s not much for a great, big girl like me.”“’Deed it isn’t, Patty,” said Nan; “your feet are very slender and pretty; and your white shoes are always white, which is not a universal condition, by any means.”

The Vanishing of Betty Varian by Carolyn WellsIt is, of course, possible, perhaps even probable, that somewhere on this green earth there may be finer golf links or a more attractive clubhouse than those at Headland Harbor, but never hope to wring such an admission from any one of the summer colony who spend their mid-year at that particular portion of the Maine coast.Far up above the York cliffs are more great crags and among the steepest and wildest of these localities, a few venturesome spirits saw fit to pitch their tents.Others joined them from time to time until now, the summer population occupied nearly a hundred cottages and bungalows and there was, moreover, a fair sized and fairly appointed inn.Many of the regulars were artists, of one sort or another, but also came the less talented in search of good fishing or merely good idling. And they found it, for the majority of the householders were people of brains as well as talent and by some mysterious management the tone of the social side of things was kept pretty much as it should be.Wealth counted for what it was worth, and no more. Genius counted in the same way, and was never overrated. Good nature and an amusing personality were perhaps the best assets one could bring to the conservative little community, and most of the shining lights possessed those in abundance.To many, the word harbor connotes a peaceful, serene bit of blue water, sheltered from rough winds and basking in the sunlight.This is far from a description of Headland Harbor, whose rocky shores and deep black waters were usually wind-swept and often storm-swept to a wild picturesqueness beloved of the picture painters.

“Oh, Doctor Masterson,” she cried, “come in quickly, and see what the matter is with Uncle Robert! He looks so strange, and I’m afraid he’s…”She seemed suddenly to realize our presence, or perhaps she noticed the staring face of the elevator boy, for she left unfinished whatever she had been about to say, and, still clutching the doctor’s coat, urged him toward her own door.I did not presume to speak to Miss Pembroke, but I could not resist an impulse that made me say to the doctor: “If I can be of any assistance, pray call upon me.”There was no time for response, I was not even sure the doctor heard me…but I turned back with Laura into our own apartment.“Something has happened,” I said to her, “and I think I’ll wait a bit.”“Do,” said my sister. “It may be we can be of assistance to that poor girl. If her uncle has a serious attack of any kind she will certainly want help.”I looked at Laura with admiring affection, I saw at once she had realized Miss Pembroke was in serious trouble of some sort, and her true womanly heart went out to the girl, forgetting entirely her previous dislike and suspicion. Almost immediately our door-bell rang, and, feeling sure it was a summons in response to my offer, I opened the door myself. Sure enough, there stood the elderly doctor, looking very much perturbed.“You kindly offered your assistance, sir,” he said, “or I should not intrude. I want immediate help. Mr. Pembroke is dead, Miss Pembroke has fainted, and their servant is so nearly in hysterics she is of no use whatever.”We are pleased to present this easier-to-read, specially formatted Classic Mystery Story for your Reading Pleasure.Riley’s Bookshelf has partnered with Kick at Darkness. It is a non-profit organization working to raise awareness and helping survivors heal from sexual assault, domestic violence and other sexual crimes. With the purchase of each book you buy one handmade crocheted scarf will be donated to Kick at Darkness. For more information please visit www.KickatDarkness.comBe sure to look for more great stories at www.RileysBookshelf.com

Example in this ebookITHE VAN NORMANSThe old Van Norman mansion was the finest house in Mapleton. Well back from the road, it sat proudly among its finely kept lawns and gardens, as if with a dignified sense of its own importance, and its white, Colonial columns gleamed through the trees, like sentinels guarding the entrance to the stately hall.All Mapleton was proud of the picturesque old place, and it was shown to visiting strangers with the same pride that the native villagers pointed out the Memorial Library and the new church.More than a half-century old, the patrician white house seemed to glance coldly on the upstart cottages, whose inadequate pillars supported beetling second stories, and whose spacious, filigreed verandas left wofully small area for rooms inside the house.The Van Norman mansion was not like that. It was a long rectangle, and each of its four stories was a series of commodious, well-shaped apartments.And its owner, the beautiful Madeleine Van Norman, was the most envied as well as the most admired young woman in the town.Magnificent Madeleine, as she was sometimes called, was of the haughty, imperious type which inspires admiration and respect rather than love. An orphan and an heiress, she had lived all of her twenty-two years of life in the old house, and since the death of her uncle, two years before, had continued as mistress of the place, ably assisted by a pleasant, motherly chaperon, a clever social secretary, and a corps of capable servants.The mansion itself and an income amply sufficient to maintain it were already legally her own, but by the terms of her uncle’s will she was soon to come into possession of the bulk of the great fortune he had left.Madeleine was the only living descendant of old Richard Van Norman, save for one distant cousin, a young man of a scapegrace and ne’er-do-weel sort, who of late years had lived abroad.This young man’s early life had been spent in Mapleton, but, his fiery temper having brought about a serious quarrel with his uncle, he had wisely concluded to take himself out of the way.And yet Tom Willard was not of a quarrelsome disposition. His bad temper was of the impulsive sort, roused suddenly, and as quickly suppressed. Nor was it often in evidence. Good-natured, easy-going Tom would put up with his uncle’s criticism and fault-finding for weeks at a time, and then, perhaps goaded beyond endurance, he would fly into a rage and express himself in fluent if rather vigorous English.For Richard Van Norman had been by no means an easy man to live with. And it was Tom’s general amiability that had made him the usual scapegoat for his uncle’s ill temper. Miss Madeleine would have none of it. Quite as dictatorial as the old man himself she allowed no interference with her own plans and no criticism of her own actions.This had proved the right way to manage Mr. Van Norman, and he had always acceded to Madeleine’s requests or submitted to her decrees without objection, though there had never been any demonstration of affection between the two.But demonstration was quite foreign to the nature of both uncle and niece, and in truth they were really fond of each other in their quiet, reserved way. Tom Willard was different. His affection was of the honest and outspoken sort, and he made friends easily, though he often lost them with equal rapidity.On account, then, of his devotion to Madeleine, and his enmity toward young Tom Willard, Richard Van Norman had willed the old place to his niece, and had further directed that the whole of his large fortune should be unrestrictedly bestowed upon her on her wedding-day, or on her twenty-third birthday, should she reach that age unmarried. In event of her death before her marriage, and also before her twenty-third birthday, the whole estate would go to Tom Willard.To be continue in this ebook...

Eight Girls and a Dog is a book about eight girls who are members of the Blue Ribbon Cooking Club. Timmy Loo is their dog, who's always looking for a little scrap of food. The girls decide it's time for a vacation and they all pack up and go to a summer house near Uncle and Aunt. They have many adventures there as they cook and take care of themselves.

This book is an illustrated version of the original Raspberry Jam, by Carolyn Wells. “Clearly the lad was embarrassed, probably at the unaccustomed luxury of his surroundings and the presence of so many high-bred strangers. For Terence, or Fibsy, as he was nicknamed, was a child of the streets, and though a clever assistant to Fleming Stone in his career, the boy seldom accompanied his employer to the homes of the aristocracy. When he did do so, he was seized with a shyness that was by no means evident when he was in his more congenial surroundings.He glanced bashfully at Eunice, attracted by her beauty, but afraid to look at her attentively. He gazed at Mason Elliott with a more frank curiosity; and then he cast a furtive look at Aunt Abby, who was herself smiling at him.”

Unlike some other reproductions of classic texts (1) We have not used OCR(Optical Character Recognition), as this leads to bad quality books with introduced typos. (2) In books where there are images such as portraits, maps, sketches etc We have endeavoured to keep the quality of these images, so they represent accurately the original artefact. Although occasionally there may be certain imperfections with these old texts, we feel they deserve to be made available for future generations to enjoy.

This book is an illustrated version of the original Patty's Butterfly Days by Carolyn Wells. “That night, when Patty was alone in her own room, she threw herself into a rocking chair, and rocked violently, as was her habit, when she had anything to bother her. She looked about at the pretty room, furnished with all her dear and cherished belongings."To go away from all this," she thought, "and be mewed up in a little bare room, with a few sticks of horrid old furniture, and nowhere to put things away decently!"She glanced at her room wardrobes and numerous chiffoniers and dressing-tables.”

Over the hills and far away there was once a quaint little old town which was safely beyond the reach of the long, grasping arms of any of the great cities.The little town nestled up against the side of a big, kind hill, at the top of which was a beautiful old country-place, called Primrose Hall.The house was a great white colonial affair that had belonged to the Flint family for generations; and at present was occupied only by two elderly maiden ladies who admirably fitted their names of Priscilla and Dorinda.

The Staying Guest by Carolyn WellsOver the hills and far away there was once a quaint little old town which was safely beyond the reach of the long, grasping arms of any of the great cities.The little town nestled up against the side of a big, kind hill, at the top of which was a beautiful old country-place, called Primrose Hall.The house was a great white colonial affair that had belonged to the Flint family for generations; and at present was occupied only by two elderly maiden ladies who admirably fitted their names of Priscilla and Dorinda.Now of course you know, without being told, what a lady named Priscilla Flint would look like. Tall, straight, thin, stiff, formal, prim, smug, demure, with a stately, old-fashioned dignity and refinement. And Miss Dorinda Flint was like unto her, except that she was a little taller, straighter, thinner, stiffer, and a trifle more stately and old-fashioned. And these ladies, whene’er they took their walks abroad, or drives either, for that matter, wore stiff, prim black silk dresses, and black lace mitts, and little point-lace collars pinned with big gold brooches; and they always carried tiny, black, ruffled parasols that tipped on their handles to any desired angle.With such mistresses as these, it is easy to see why Primrose Hall was the stiffest, primmest place in the whole world.