Other editions of book Day And Night Stories

Day And Night Stories contains The tryst, The touch of Pan, The wings of Horus, Initiation, A desert episode, The other wing, The occupant of the room, Cain's atonement, An Egyptian hornet, By water, H. S. H., A bit of wood, A victim of higher space, Transition, and The tradition. Algernon Henry Blackwood, CBE was a British short story writer and novelist, who possessed an expertise in writing ghost stories in its categorical history. He was also a journalist and a broadcasting writer. S. T. Joshi described that “his work is more consistently meritorious than any weird writer's except Dunsany's” and that his short story which is Incredible Adventures “may be the premier weird collection of this or any other century”. Blackwood was born in Shooter's Hill and moved at Crayford Manor House, Crayford and went schooling at Wellington College. His father was an executive at the Post Office who, as conceded by Peter Penzoldt, “though not devoid of genuine good-heartedness, had appallingly narrow religious ideas‘’. Blackwood had worked in different fields, as a dairy farmer in Canada, where he also worked in a hotel for six months, as a newspaper anchor in New York City, bartender, model, journalist for the New York Times, private clerk, businessman, and violin teacher. He was a casual essay writer for distinct publications. He wrote supernatural stories in his later days. He was a prolific writer, and wrote about ten short story collections and advertise them on radio and television. He also wrote fourteen novels, numbers of children's books, and many plays, produced but not printed. He was fond of nature and the extremes, and most of his works are stirred through these. Since he was a fan of the supernatural, he joined The Ghost Club. He never married because his friends said he was an introvert but a perky man.

Excerpt from Day and Night StoriesThere was confusion in his mind, however, and in his heart: a struggling complex Of emotions that made it difficult to know exactly what he did feel. The dominant clue concealed itself. Feelings shifted. A single, clear determinant did not offer. He was an honest fellow.I can't quite make it out, he said. What is it I really feel? And why? His motive seemed confused. To keep the flame alight for ten long buffeting years was no small achievement; better men had succumbed in half the time. Yet something in him still held fast to the girl as with a band of steel that would not let her go entirely. Occasionally there came strong reversions, when he ached with longing, yearning, hope; when he loved her again; remembered passionately each detail of the far-oe court ship days in the forbidden rectory garden beyond the small, white garden gate. Or was it merely the image and the memory he loved again? He hardly knew himself. He could not tell. That again puzzled him. It was the wrong word surely. He still wrote the promised letter, however; it was so easy; those short sentences could not betray the dead or dying fires. One day, besides, he would return and claim her. He meant to keep his word.And he had kept it. Here he was, this calm Septem ber afternoon, within three miles of the village where he first had kissed her, where the marvel Of first love had come to both; three short miles between him and the little white garden gate of which at this very moment she was intently thinking, and behind which some fifty min utes later she would be standing, waiting for him.About the PublisherForgotten Books publishes hundreds of thousands of rare and classic books. Find more at www.forgottenbooks.comThis book is a reproduction of an important historical work. Forgotten Books uses state-of-the-art technology to digitally reconstruct the work, preserving the original format whilst repairing imperfections present in the aged copy. In rare cases, an imperfection in the original, such as a blemish or missing page, may be replicated in our edition. We do, however, repair the vast majority of imperfections successfully; any imperfections that remain are intentionally left to preserve the state of such historical works.

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Je suis la première au rendez-vous. Je vous attends.” As he got out of the train at the little wayside station he remembered the conversation as if it had been yesterday, instead of fifteen years ago—and his heart went thumping against his ribs so violently that he almost heard it. The original thrill came over him again with all its infinite yearning. He felt it as he had felt it then—not with that tragic lessening the interval had brought to each repetition of its memory. Here, in the familiar scenery of its birth, he realised with mingled pain and wonder that the subsequent years had not destroyed, but only dimmed it. The forgotten rapture flamed back with all the fierce beauty of its genesis, desire at white heat. And the shock of the abrupt discovery shattered time. Fifteen years became a negligible moment; the crowded experiences that had intervened seemed but a dream. The farewell scene, the conversation on the steamer’s deck, were clear as of the day before. He saw the hand holding her big hat that fluttered in the wind, saw the flowers on the dress where the long coat was blown open a moment, recalled the face of a hurrying steward who had jostled them; he even heard the voices—his own and hers: “Yes,” she said simply; “I promise you. You have my word. I’ll wait——” “Till I come back to find you,” he interrupted.

“Je suis la première au rendez-vous. Je vous attends.” As he got out of the train at the little wayside station he remembered the conversation as if it had been yesterday, instead of fifteen years ago—and his heart went thumping against his ribs so violently that he almost heard it. The original thrill came over him again with all its infinite yearning. He felt it as he had felt it then—not with that tragic lessening the interval had brought to each repetition of its memory. Here, in the familiar scenery of its birth, he realised with mingled pain and wonder that the subsequent years had not destroyed, but only dimmed it. The forgotten rapture flamed back with all the fierce beauty of its genesis, desire at white heat. And the shock of the abrupt discovery shattered time. Fifteen years became a negligible moment; the crowded experiences that had intervened seemed but a dream. The farewell scene, the conversation on the steamer’s deck, were clear as of the day before. He saw the hand holding her big hat that fluttered in the wind, saw the flowers on the dress where the long coat was blown open a moment, recalled the face of a hurrying steward who had jostled them; he even heard the voices—his own and hers: [2] “Yes,” she said simply; “I promise you. You have my word. I’ll wait——” “Till I come back to find you,”

“Je suis la première au rendez-vous. Je vous attends.” As he got out of the train at the little wayside station he remembered the conversation as if it had been yesterday, instead of fifteen years ago—and his heart went thumping against his ribs so violently that he almost heard it. The original thrill came over him again with all its infinite yearning. He felt it as he had felt it then—not with that tragic lessening the interval had brought to each repetition of its memory. Here, in the familiar scenery of its birth, he realised with mingled pain and wonder that the subsequent years had not destroyed, but only dimmed it. The forgotten rapture flamed back with all the fierce beauty of its genesis, desire at white heat. And the shock of the abrupt discovery shattered time. Fifteen years became a negligible moment; the crowded experiences that had intervened seemed but a dream. The farewell scene, the conversation on the steamer’s deck, were clear as of the day before. He saw the hand holding her big hat that fluttered in the wind, saw the flowers on the dress where the long coat was blown open a moment, recalled the face of a hurrying steward who had jostled them; he even heard the voices—his own and hers: “Yes,” she said simply; “I promise you. You have my word. I’ll wait——” “Till I come back to find you,” he interrupted.

Je suis la première au rendez-vous. Je vous attends.” As he got out of the train at the little wayside station he remembered the conversation as if it had been yesterday, instead of fifteen years ago—and his heart went thumping against his ribs so violently that he almost heard it. The original thrill came over him again with all its infinite yearning. He felt it as he had felt it then—not with that tragic lessening the interval had brought to each repetition of its memory. Here, in the familiar scenery of its birth, he realised with mingled pain and wonder that the subsequent years had not destroyed, but only dimmed it. The forgotten rapture flamed back with all the fierce beauty of its genesis, desire at white heat. And the shock of the abrupt discovery shattered time. Fifteen years became a negligible moment; the crowded experiences that had intervened seemed but a dream. The farewell scene, the conversation on the steamer’s deck, were clear as of the day before. He saw the hand holding her big hat that fluttered in the wind, saw the flowers on the dress where the long coat was blown open a moment, recalled the face of a hurrying steward who had jostled them; he even heard the voices—his own and hers: “Yes,” she said simply; “I promise you. You have my word. I’ll wait——” “Till I come back to find you,” he interrupted

“Je suis la première au rendez-vous. Je vous attends.”As he got out of the train at the little wayside station he remembered the conversation as if it had been yesterday, instead of fifteen years ago—and his heart went thumping against his ribs so violently that he almost heard it. The original thrill came over him again with all its infinite yearning. He felt it as he had felt it then—not with that tragic lessening the interval had brought to each repetition of its memory. Here, in the familiar scenery of its birth, he realised with mingled pain and wonder that the subsequent years had not destroyed, but only dimmed it. The forgotten rapture flamed back with all the fierce beauty of its genesis, desire at white heat. And the shock of the abrupt discovery shattered time. Fifteen years became a negligible moment; the crowded experiences that had intervened seemed but a dream. The farewell scene, the conversation on the steamer’s deck, were clear as of the day before. He saw the hand holding her big hat that fluttered in the wind, saw the flowers on the dress where the long coat was blown open a moment, recalled the face of a hurrying steward who had jostled them; he even heard the voices—his own and hers:[2] “Yes,” she said simply; “I promise you. You have my word. I’ll wait——”“Till I come back to find you,” he interrupted.Steadfastly she repeated his actual words, then added: “Here; at home—that is.”“I’ll come to the garden gate as usual,” he told her, trying to smile. “I’ll knock. You’ll open the gate—as usual—and come out to me.”These words, too, she attempted to repeat, but her voice failed, her eyes filled suddenly with tears; she looked into his face and nodded. It was just then that her little hand went up to hold the hat on—he saw the very gesture still. He remembered that he was vehemently tempted to tear his ticket up there and then, to go ashore with her, to stay in England, to brave all opposition—when the siren roared its third horrible warning ... and the ship put out to sea.

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Je suis la première au rendez-vous. Je vous attends.” As he got out of the train at the little wayside station he remembered the conversation as if it had been yesterday, instead of fifteen years ago—and his heart went thumping against his ribs so violently that he almost heard it. The original thrill came over him again with all its infinite yearning. He felt it as he had felt it then—not with that tragic lessening the interval had brought to each repetition of its memory. Here, in the familiar scenery of its birth, he realised with mingled pain and wonder that the subsequent years had not destroyed, but only dimmed it. The forgotten rapture flamed back with all the fierce beauty of its genesis, desire at white heat. And the shock of the abrupt discovery shattered time. Fifteen years became a negligible moment; the crowded experiences that had intervened seemed but a dream. The farewell scene, the conversation on the steamer’s deck, were clear as of the day before. He saw the hand holding her big hat that fluttered in the wind, saw the flowers on the dress where the long coat was blown open a moment, recalled the face of a hurrying steward who had jostled them; he even heard the voices—his own and hers: “Yes,” she said simply; “I promise you. You have my word. I’ll wait——” “Till I come back to find you,” he interrupted.

Fifteen short stories by , CBE (1869 – 1951), an English short story writer and novelist, one of the most prolific writers of ghost stories in the history of the genre. He was also a journalist and a broadcasting narrator. S. T. Joshi has stated that "his work is more consistently meritorious than any weird writer's except Dunsany's..."Day and Night Stories features:The TrystThe Touch Of PanThe Wings Of HorusInitiationA Desert EpisodeThe Other WingThe Occupant Of The RoomCain’s AtonementAn Egyptian HornetBy WaterH. S. H.A Bit Of WoodA Victim Of Higher SpaceTransitionandThe Tradition