Books published by publisher D Appleton and Company

Example in this ebookTHE PROJECTMr. James Nesbit, merchant of Philadelphia, stood leaning against the long, polished desk at the farther end of which two clerks were hard at work copying entries into a ponderous ledger. On Mr. Nesbit’s face there was a look of preoccupation. He drew a deep breath, rapped nervously with his finger on the desk, and, reaching behind his ear, under the folds of his heavy white wig, threw down a large quill pen. Then, taking a big silver snuff-box out of his pocket, he helped himself neatly to a pinch of snuff. Having done this he waited anxiously, as if the expected sneeze might jar his mind into better working order. It seemed to answer, for, after a preliminary rumbling gasp and an explosion, he blew his nose violently, and turning addressed one of the clerks.“If Mr. Conyngham comes during the next few minutes, tell him I shall be at ‘The Old Clock’ coffee-house”, he said.With that he took down a great cloak from one of the wooden pegs that lined the wall and stepped to the door. It was raining torrents, and the gutters were running full. With an agility that was surprising in so heavy a man and one of his years, he gathered the cloak about him, and picking up his heels ran swiftly around the corner. Just as he turned he collided with another man much younger and slightly smaller, who was hurrying in the opposite direction. They grasped each other in order to keep their feet, and at once burst into laughter.“Well met, indeed, David!” cried Mr. Nesbit, even before he had uttered a word of apology, “but you’ve well-nigh knocked the breath out of me.”“And me also,” responded the smaller man. “You charged around the corner like a squadron of horse. Why such a hurry, sir?”“A short explanation,” was the answer, “’tis past my meal hour, and I had waited for you till I could stand it no longer. Years ago, methinks, I must have swallowed a wolf, and at feeding hours he’s wont to grow rapacious and must be satisfied. Come, here we are at ‘The Old Clock.’ In with us out of the rain and we’ll satisfy the ravenous one.”As he was speaking Mr. Nesbit almost pushed his friend ahead of him through a doorway and entered the grill-room of the tavern. A mingled odor of roast beef, ale, and tobacco smoke saluted their nostrils, and the proprietor, his wide waistcoat covered by a gleaming new apron, greeted them cheerfully.“A wet day, gentlemen,” he observed, “but good weather for the farmers.”“And for ducks and geese and all such,” interjected Mr. Nesbit, “but I would have you observe, Mr. Turner, that I am a dry-goods merchant and wish the bad weather would confine itself to the country.”As he spoke he took off his heavy cloak with one hand, and relieved his friend of one almost as large, from which the water was dripping on to the sanded floor. Giving instructions to the landlord that they should both be hung by the fire where they might dry, he turned and glanced about the room, nodding to two or three men who sat at a table in the corner.“No one but our friends here to-day,” he remarked; “we won’t join them, however. Let us sit apart, for there is much I would discuss with thee.”“And there is much I have to say also,” returned the other, “that is not for the general ear. Is the post in?”“Late on account of the roads, I take it,” was the response, “but there will be important news from Boston and New York, I warrant you. But now to feed the wolf! A most inconvenient beast at times, but most easily placated. Ah! there’s a cut of beef for you, and now some of your best mulled ale, Mr. Turner, and thanks to you.”As if he saw that it was useless to begin any conversation until Mr. Nesbit’s personal menagerie was quieted, the smaller man said nothing, and for some minutes the two ate in silence. At last, with a sigh of pleasurable relief, James Nesbit pushed himself back from the table and set down the empty tankard with a bang.To be continue in this eboo

As I pause in my work to pass in review the events of three thousand years, which I have tried to narrate in this little book, I probably anticipate my readers in wondering at the audacity, not to say presumption, which moved me to this undertaking. It came about quite naturally, to be sure, as the result of an interest awakened many years ago in a nation which had sent to America such discoverers as Columbus and Vespucci, such soldiers as Cortes and Pizarro, De Soto, and Ponce de Leon. At first I became curious to visit the scenes of their adventures, then to journey through the country whence they had come; and the result has been that I have devoted a portion of my life to a study of both people and country.I do not, of course, assume that an interest in a subject should warrant one in writing about it, be he never so well equipped for the purpose; but with me, the seeing gives birth to a desire to convey to others the pleasure I feel, or the lesson I may derive, from the object under contemplation. Thus, while I never intended more than to make a few forays into the historic fields of Spain, when I visited that country ten years ago, it has eventuated that instead of skirmishing with the outposts, I have attacked the very citadel. That I have come off unscathed, and with spoil of some sort, is self-evident; but whether it might not have been to my readers’ profit if I had not done so, is a question for them to decide. I feel it to be, indeed, as true to-day as it was a score of years ago that (in the words of a standard encyclopædia) “there is no good general history of Spain!”Without attempting to extenuate any possible errors, yet I would call attention to the fact that it is extremely difficult to clothe in picturesque language (and at the same time be faithful to the verities of history) the details of a story extending over so vast a range, and bring that story within the compass of a single volume.The best histories are those which treat of single episodes or periods, such as Prescott’s Ferdinand and Isabella, Irving’s Conquest of Spain, Spanish Voyages, and Conquest of Granada. To these, in truth, I would refer my young readers for a more extended acquaintance with Spain and her fascinating history. In those charming narratives the dry bones of fact are clothed in graceful drapery, and the reader moves and acts with their heroes, kings, and queens, in most distinguished company.I do not like to allude to the recent events in Spanish history, by which our own country was forced into collision with Spain; and I will dismiss the subject merely with the statement that it has been my endeavour to present an accurate account of the unfortunate war, in which I have had the benefit of supervision by competent authorities.To them, and to the silent companions off my voyages and excursions, drawn from the musty shelves of the library, and frequently exposed to peril “by flood and field,” I would herewith express my heartfelt thanks.

Abbie Deal, the matriarch of a pioneer Nebraska family, has died at the beginning of A White Bird Flying, leaving her china and heavy furniture to others and to her granddaughter Laura the secret of her dream of finer things. Grandma Deal's literary aspirations had been thwarted by the hard circumstances of her life, but Laura vows that nothing, no one, will deter her from a successful writing career. Childhood passes, and the more she repeats her vow the more life intervenes.

As Joseph was a-walking,He heard an angel sing,"This night shall be the birthnightOf Christ our heavenly King."His birth-bed shall be neitherIn housen nor in hall,Nor in the place of paradise,But in the oxen's stall."He neither shall be rockèdIn silver nor in gold,But in the wooden mangerThat lieth in the mold."He neither shall be washenWith white wine nor with red,But with the fair spring waterThat on you shall be shed.

Opening on the French Riviera among a motley community of American expatriates, The Mother's Recompense tells the story of Kate Clephane and her reluctant return to New York society after being exiled years before for abandoning her husband and infant daughter. Oddly enough, Kate has been summoned back by that same daughter, Anne, now fully grown and intent on marrying Chris Fenno, a war hero, dilettante, and social opportunist. Chris's questionable intentions toward her daughter are, however, the least of Kate's worries since she was once, and still is, deeply in love with him. Kate's moral quandary and the ensuing drama evoke comparison with Oedipus and Hamlet and lead to an ending that startled the mores of the day.