Books with author Mary L. Molesworth

The way was long. Lay of the Last Minstrel. Little Leonore pressed her face against the window of the railway carriage and tried hard to see out. But it was no use. It all looked so dark and black, all the darker and blacker for the glimmer of the rain-drops trickling down thickly outside, and reflecting the feeble light of the lamp in the roof of the compartment. Leonore sighed deeply. She was very tired, more tired than she knew, for she did not feel sleepy, or as if she would give anything to be undressed and go to bed. On the contrary, she wished with all her heart that it was daylight, and that it would leave off raining, and that she could get out of the stuffy old railway train, and go for a good run. It had been raining for so long, and they had been such a lot of hours shut in and bum-bumming along in this dreary way—it even seemed to her now and then as if she had always been sitting in her corner like this, and that it had always been night and always raining outside. 'I don't believe I'm going to be happy at all at Alten,' she said to herself. 'I'm sure it's going to be horrid. It's always the way if people tell you anything's going to be lovely and nice, it's sure to be dull, and—just horrid.'

CHAPTER IMADAM WRENNO,' said Alix, 'that's not a good plan at all. It's perfectly stupid. If you've no better ideas than that, Rafe, we needn't talk about it any more.'Rafe looked and felt very snubbed indeed.He was ten, she was nine. But she generally took the lead ; not always, as I daresay you will see when you hear more about them, but gejierally. They were a nice little pair, and they were constantly together, at lessons, at play,Bat everything. This was a convenient arrangement, for they were a good deal younger than the other brothers and sisters of the family, and what Rafe would have been without Alix, or Alix without Rafe, it would be difficult to imagine. But there is not much use in thinking over about might-have-beens, or would-have-beens, unless to make us more thankful for what is. So it is enough to say that as things really were, they were very happy children.Still they had their troubles, and it was one of these they were discussing this lovely spring morning, when they were sitting under their favourite tree —a magnificent ilex in the garden, at one corner of the great lawn which was one of the beauties of their home.It was a lovely day, clear and bright and joyous, full of its own delights, and yet almost fuller of the summer ones to come ! This is, I suppose, the real secret of the charm of spring-time—the promise and hope it tells of. Everything seemed bursting with good news, the birds most of all perhaps, though the smiling faces of the early flowers, and the tender whispers of the gentle wind through the branches, were not behindhand. But the children's faces were clouded.This was their trouble. They could not get any one to tell them any more stories ! They had read all their books through, over and over again, and besides, books aren't quite as nice as ' told' stories. At least not when they have to be shared by two. Rafe and Alix had tried several plans—reading aloud did not answer very well, and looking over the pages was worse. They never managed to keep quite together, and then the one who got down to the last line first was sure to fidget or to try in some way to hurry up the other, which was apt to lead to unpleasant results. And besides this, at present there was no question ofstory-books, for, as I said, the children had read all they possessed really too often.Hitherto perhaps they had been a little spoilt about having stories told to them. Papa, who was an old soldier, had a good many tales of adventure; mamma had some lovely ones about * when she was a little girl.' And the big brothers and sisters were very kind too, especially if Rafe or Alix, or both, as sometimes was the case, happened to be ill. But their stories were mostly out of books; now and then indeed they would unluckily turn out to be already known to the children, and though they did not altogether object to them on this account—I have noticed that children rather enjoy a book story retold by voice—it was not always so pleasant for Ena or Jean, or Eric when he was at home from college. For Rafe and Alix were so exceedingly particular.'No,' one of them would say, just when Eric had got to the most thrillingMADAM WREN spart of a robber story, 'the entrance to the inner cave was at the left side of the big one;' or if Jean was describing her heroine's dress, ' It wasn't green—I'm sure it was blue—blue with tiny rosebuds on,' so that sometimes Jean would reply, * Really, children, if you interrupt so I can't go on,' or Eric would go off with a grunt and tell them to provide stories for themselves.This had happened the evening before, and this it was which put the idea into Rafe's mind which Alix snubbed so.'Suppose,' he said, 'that we make stories for each other—you for me, Alix, and I for you ? 'It sounded rather nice, but it did not find favour in her eyes at all.' I know exactly what they'd be,' she said; 'just mixings up of all our other ones. It might do to amuse stranger chil

This book is part of the TREDITION CLASSICS series. The creators of this series are united by passion for literature and driven by the intention of making all public domain books available in printed format again - worldwide. At tredition we believe that a great book never goes out of style. Several mostly non-profit literature projects provide content to tredition. To support their good work, tredition donates a portion of the proceeds from each sold copy. As a reader of a TREDITION CLASSICS book, you support our mission to save many of the amazing works of world literature from oblivion.

"Fairies Afield" by Mrs. Molesworth. Published by Good Press. Good Press publishes a wide range of titles that encompasses every genre. From well-known classics & literary fiction and non-fiction to forgotten−or yet undiscovered gems−of world literature, we issue the books that need to be read. Each Good Press edition has been meticulously edited and formatted to boost readability for all e-readers and devices. Our goal is to produce eBooks that are user-friendly and accessible to everyone in a high-quality digital format.

A small child and a cuckoo for a cuckoo clock become unlikely friends, when at night the clock transports her to magical places. "Stopped!" says Miss Tabitha, throwing up her hands. "Impossible!" "I mean cuckoo has stopped," the girl says. "The clock is going on, but the cuckoo isn't telling the hours." "What can we do?" says Miss Tabitha. "Should we send for the watch-maker?" But Miss Grizzel shakes her head, and says, "That would be worse than useless, Tabitha. Were we to search the world over, we would find no one to put it right. Fifty years and more, that clock has never missed an hour! We are getting old, Tabitha -- and maybe our day is nearly over!"

It is quite a journey from Jeanne's bedroom down the long corridor, to the place fascinating to her since her babyhood: the room hung with tapestry -- very old, and in some parts faded, but still distinct.Jeanne sees something strange in one tapestry, of a garden. Didn't those peacocks move, ever so slightly? Then Dudu, the family's raven, is at the window -- but she just saw that decrepit old bird down on the terrace. Dudu cannot fly that fast!Now she hears wonderful news -- her cousin Hugh is coming to stay. He will be like a little brother -- and he will sleep in the tapestry room . . .

This work has been selected by scholars as being culturally important and is part of the knowledge base of civilization as we know it.This work is in the public domain in the United States of America, and possibly other nations. Within the United States, you may freely copy and distribute this work, as no entity (individual or corporate) has a copyright on the body of the work.Scholars believe, and we concur, that this work is important enough to be preserved, reproduced, and made generally available to the public. To ensure a quality reading experience, this work has been proofread and republished using a format that seamlessly blends the original graphical elements with text in an easy-to-read typeface.We appreciate your support of the preservation process, and thank you for being an important part of keeping this knowledge alive and relevant.

This book is part of the TREDITION CLASSICS series. The creators of this series are united by passion for literature and driven by the intention of making all public domain books available in printed format again - worldwide. At tredition we believe that a great book never goes out of style. Several mostly non-profit literature projects provide content to tredition. To support their good work, tredition donates a portion of the proceeds from each sold copy. As a reader of a TREDITION CLASSICS book, you support our mission to save many of the amazing works of world literature from oblivion.