Books with author Samuel Hopkins

THE pippin of a story never ripened into print. Young Mr. Robson’s formal report of the meeting, a staid bit of journalism, appeared in full. But not a word of that brilliant pen-picture which he had so affectionately worked out. With a flaccid hope that there might have been a mistake somewhere, its author perused the columns of The Record a second time. Nothing! Perhaps, whispered hope, they had held it over. Being of the “sketch” order, it was good at any time. Daring greatly, he invaded the editorial sanctum where the proof-hooks hang. On the second he found his work of art. Upon the margin was rubber-stamped a single word: “Killed.”

The Health Master, by Samuel Hopkins AdamsINTRODUCTORY NOTE To dogmatise on questions of medical practice is to invite controversy and tempt disaster. The highest wisdom of to-day may be completely refuted by to-morrow’s discovery. Therefore, for the simple principles of disease prevention and health protection which I have put into the mouth of my Health Master, I make no claim of finality. In support of them I maintain only that they represent the progressive specialized thought of modern medical science. So far as is practicable I have avoided questions upon which there is serious difference of belief among the authorities. Where it has been necessary to touch upon these, as, for example, in the chapter on methods of isolation in contagious diseases, a question which arises sooner or later in every household, I have advocated those measures which have the support of the best rational probability and statistical support. Not only has the book been prepared in consultation with the recognized authorities on public health and preventive medicine, but every chapter has been submitted to the expert criticism of specialists upon the particular subject treated. My own ideas and theories I have advanced only in such passages as deal with the relation of the physician and of the citizen to the social and ethical phases of public health. To the large number of medical scientists, both public and private, whose generous aid and counsel have made my work possible, I gratefully acknowledge my debt. My thanks are due also for permission to reprint, to the Delineator, in which most of the chapters have appeared serially; to Collier’s Weekly, and to the Ladies’ Home Journal. The Author.

Our Square and the People in It by Samuel Hopkins AdamsOUR Square lies broad and green and busy, in the forgotten depths of the great city. By day it is bright with the laughter of children and shrill with the bickering of neighbors. By night the voice of the spellbinder is strident on its corners, but from the remoter benches float murmurs where the young couples sit, and sighs where the old folk relax their weariness. New York knows little of Our Square, submerged as we are in a circle of slums. Yet for us, as for more Elysian fields, the crocus springs in the happy grass, the flash and song of the birds stir our trees, and Romance fans us with the wind of its imperishable wing.The first robin was singing in our one lone lilac when the Bonnie Lassie came out of the Somewhere Else into Our Square and possessed herself of the ground floor of our smallest house, the nestly little dwelling with the quaint old door and the broad, friendly vestibule, next but one to the Greek church. Before she had been there a month she had established eminent domain over all of us. Even MacLachan, the dour tailor on the corner, used to burst into song when she passed. It was he who dubbed her the Bonnie Lassie, and as it was the first decent word he'd spoken of living being within the memory of Our Square, the name stuck. Apart from that, it was eminently appropriate. She was a small girl who might have been perhaps twenty-three or twenty-four if she hadn't (more probably) been twenty, and looked a good deal like a thoughtful kitten when she wasn't twinkling at or with somebody. When she twinkled—and she did it with eyes, voice, heart, and soul all at once—the cart-peddlers stopped business to look and listen. You can't go further than that, not in Our Square at least.How long Cyrus the Gaunt had been there before she discovered him is a matter of conjecture. He slipped in from the Outer Darkness quite unobtrusively and sat about looking thoughtful and lonely. He was exaggeratedly long and loose and mussed-up and melancholy-looking, and first attracted local attention on a bench which several other people wanted more than he did. So he got up and gave it to them. Later, when the huskiest of them met him and explained, by way of putting him in his proper place, what would have happened to him if he hadn't been so obliging, Cyrus absent-mindedly said, "Oh, yes," threw the belligerent one into our fountain, held him under water quite as long as was safe, dragged him out, hauled him over to Schwartz's, and bought him a drink. Thereafter Cyrus was still considered an outlander, but nobody actively objected to his sitting around Our Square, looking as melancholy and queer as he chose. Nobody, that is, until the Bonnie Lassie took him in hand.Nothing could have been more correct than their first meeting, sanctioned as it was by the majesty of the law. Terry the Cop, who presides over the destinies of Our Square, led the Bonnie Lassie to Cyrus's bench and said; "Miss, this is the young feller you asked me about. Make you two acquainted."Thereupon the young man got up and said, "How-d'ye-do?" wonderingly, and the young woman nodded and said, "How-d'ye-do?" non-committally, and the young policeman strolled away, serene in the consciousness of a social duty well performed.

Dust jacket notes: "In 1876 Fred Harvey opened a lunch room in the little red-painted depot at Topeka. Thus began the far-flung chain of 'eating houses' which followed the young and growing Santa Fe Railroad from the Kansas prairies to the California coast. In those days there were few young women in the Southwestern frontier towns who fulfilled Mr. Harvey's high requirements for waitresses, so he imported his own choices from the cities and farms of the East and Middle West. Some of these girls were destined to become the founders of social, political and financial dynasties that are strongly influential in many Southwestern communities today! All of this, of course, is wonderful background material for an author of Samuel Hopkins Adams' talents, and from it he has spun a yarn that will delight thousands of readers. It all happens in the early 1890's, around the Harvey House in a typical Southwestern desert town which the author calls Sandrock. Cricket, Deb and Hazel are the three Harvey Girls who help 'feed the trains' and who bring to Sandrock a bit of culture - and a lot of romance. Their conflict with the girls from the Alhambra Dance Hall on the other side of the tracks involves the entire town before the exciting climax is reached."

Bored socialite Polly Brewster has cajoled her father into renting a villa in a politically unstable but beautiful Central American nation, Caracuña. Her intent: to get away from three suitors whose persistence she finds annoying. One of the three is so intent on marriage that he follows her South. It is while trying to avoid him that she encounters an American unlike any other man she has ever known. Perkins is a naturalist, a "beetle man," who looks something like a beetle himself in his overlarge, patched clothing and thick dark glasses. A semi-recluse, he avoids the company of his fellow expatriates, searching the forest and beach for specimens during the day and living in a hilltop compound, which may or may not also house a young woman. Intrigued, Polly wonders if it is possible to uncover all the secrets he seems so determined to hide.(Excerpt from Goodreads)