Books with author Owen Wister

A collection of classic tales of the Old West from Owen Wister, an American writer whose stories helped establish the cowboy as the archetypical individualist hero. Includes "The Jimmyjohn Boss," "A Kinsman of Red Cloud," "Sharon's Choice," "Napoleon Shave-Tail," "Twenty Minutes for Refreshments," "The Promised Land," "Hank's Woman," and "Padre Ignazio."

Why buy our paperbacks? Standard Font size of 10 for all books High Quality Paper Fulfilled by Amazon Expedited shipping 30 Days Money Back Guarantee BEWARE of Low-quality sellers Don't buy cheap paperbacks just to save a few dollars. Most of them use low-quality papers & binding. Their pages fall off easily. Some of them even use very small font size of 6 or less to increase their profit margin. It makes their books completely unreadable. How is this book unique? Unabridged (100% Original content) Font adjustments & biography included Illustrated About The Virginian, A Horseman Of The Plains by Owen Wister The Virginian (otherwise titled The Virginian: A Horseman of the Plains) is a 1902 novel set in the Wild West by the American author Owen Wister. It describes the life of a cowboy on a cattle ranch in Wyoming and was the first true western ever written, aside from short stories and pulp dime novels. The Virginian paved the way for many more westerns by such authors as Zane Grey, Louis L'Amour, and several others.The Virginian is a ranch hand at the Sunk Creek Ranch, located outside of Medicine Bow, Wyoming. His nickname is Jeff and he is always referred to as the Virginian. He is described as a tall, dark, slim young giant, with a deep personality. At first, he is only a cowboy, but halfway through the book, he is signed on as the full-time foreman. He is the Judge's most trusted worker. Several times throughout the book, he is offered the chance to run down his enemy, Trampas, behind his back, but each time he refuses the temptation. It is made clear that he will not use his official position as foreman to crush any of his employees. One of the main plots is the Virginian's ongoing romance with the newly appointed schoolmarm of Medicine Bow, Miss Molly Stark Wood. Being from the East, she is not used to the wild West, and the Virginian is a perfect gentleman to her, intending to make her "love him before we get through."

Owen Wister was born on July 14, 1860,in Germantown, a well-known neighborhood in the northwestern part of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. His father, Owen Jones Wister, was a wealthy physician raised at Grumblethorpe in Germantown. He was a distant cousin of Sally Wister. His mother, Sarah Butler Wister, was the daughter of Fanny Kemble, a British actress, and Pierce (Mease) Butler.

The unabridged classic on MP3 audio, narrated by Anais 9000. Three playback speeds on one disk; etext edition included. Running time: 12.7 hours (slow), 11.6 hours (medium), 10.6 hours (fast). Revolving around a highly mythologized version of the Johnson County War in 1890's Wyoming, The Virginian is considered the first Western; that is, the first with the real cowboy character, in which the protagonist must defend his personal values in a violent confrontation with socially destructive forces.

When this October comes, twenty years will be sped since the author of these Western tales sat down one evening to begin his first tale of the West, and—will you forgive him a preamble of gossip, of retrospection? Time steps in between the now that is and the then that was with a vengeance; it blocks the way for us all; we cannot go back. When the old corner, the old place, the old house, wear the remembered look, beckon to the memory as if to say, No change here! then verily is the change worst, the shell most empty, the cheat well-nigh too piercing. In a certain garden I used to plunder in 1866, the smell to-day of warm, dusty strawberries.... But did we admit to our companionship ghosts only, what would living be? I continue to eat strawberries. As for smells, they’re worse than old melodies, I think. Lately I was the sport of one. My train was trundling over the plains—a true train of the past, half freight, half passenger, cars of an obsolete build, big smoke-stack on the archaic engine, stops for meals, inveterate news-boy with bad candy, bad novels, bad bananas—a dear old horrible train, when magic was suddenly wrought. It came in through the open window, its wand touched me, and the evoked spirits rose. With closed eyes I saw them once more, standing there out in the alkali, the antelope by scores and hundreds, only a little way off, a sort of color between cinnamon and amber in the morning sun, transparent and phantom-like, with pale legs. Only a little way off. Eyes closed, I watched them, as in 1885 with open ones I beheld them first from the train. Now they were running; I saw the bobbing dots of their white receding rears, and through me passed the ghost of that first thrill at first seeing antelope yesterday—it seemed yesterday: only a little way off. I opened my eyes; there was the train as it ought to look, there were the plains, the alkali, the dry gullies, the mounds, the flats, the enormous sunlight, the virgin air like the first five measures of Lohengrin—but where were the antelope? So natural did everything continue to look, surely they must be just over that next rise! No; over the one beyond that? No; only a little, little way off, but gone for evermore! And magic smote me once again through the window. Thousands of cattle were there, with horsemen. Were they not there? Not over the next rise? No; gone for evermore. What was this magic that came in through the window? The smell of the sage-brush. After several years it was greeting me again. All day long it breathed a welcome and a sigh, as if the desert whispered: Yes, I look as if I were here; but I am a ghost, too, there’s no coming back. All day long the whiffs of sage-brush conjured old sights before me, till my heart ran over with homesickness for what was no more, and the desert seemed to whisper: It’s not I you’re seeking, you’re straining your eyes to see yourself,—you as you were in your early twenties, with your illusion that I, the happy hunting-ground of your young irresponsibility, was going to be permanent. You must shut your eyes to see yourself and me and the antelope as we all used to be. Why, if Adam and Eve had evaded the angel and got back into the garden, do you think they would have found it the same after Cain and Abel? Thus moralized the desert, and I thought, How many things we have to shut our eyes to see!