Diana's Short Stories

Gode?"
"Oui, monsieur; ver like Fontaine qui bouille.  Oui."
"Drink, man, drink!  Don't fear it: it's the pure juice.  Smell the flavour; taste the bouquet.  What wine the Yankees will one day squeeze out of these New Mexican grapes!"

 

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With a quick involuntary turn she looked at Marsh, fearing his mockery of her, "quoting the  Paradiso  , about Vermont farmers!" as though he could know, for all those sharp eyes of his, what was going on hidden in her mind!
All this came and went in an instant, for she now saw that one big, shining petal was slowly, slowly, but quite visibly uncurling at the tip. 

 

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Possibly some chemical experiment was afoot; possibly   Well, it was no business of mine to speculate upon why he wanted it.  I must get it.  There was nearly an hour before I should catch the train at Victoria.  I took a taxi, and having ascertained the address from the telephone book, I made for the Oxygen Tube Supply Company in Oxford Street.

 

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Not only was he getting on in business, not only did he give half his evenings to the study of the chemistry of pottery and the other half to various secretaryships in connection with the Wesleyan Methodist Chapel and Sunday school, not only did he save money, not only was he a comfort to his stepmother and a sort of uncle to Sidney, not only was he an early riser, a total abstainer, a non smoker, and a good listener.

 

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 I'll guarantee it put a mark on him.  It scarred us all. It'll amuse me to dine him and Val together, and make them talk shop, our own old shop, and see what the war's done for each of us: three retired veterans, that's what we shall be, putting our legs under the same mahogany: three old comrades in arms." He gave his strange, jarring laugh. "Wonder which of us is scarred deepest?"

 

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"S. M.," said Chet, slowly. "Who can they stand for?"
"Sam somebody, I suppose," replied Paul. "I reckon there are a good many folks in Idaho with the initials S. M."
"That is true, too, but it's not likely many of them are mean enough to turn horse thieves."

 

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In winter its bleakness and bareness add to the chill of the rigorous Iowa temperature, and in summer the sap oozing through the boards is disagreeably suggestive of perspiration.  The waiting room itself is "cleaned" every day, and yet the same dust lies in the corners where it has lain for lo, these many years.  And as for the cobwebs, their chief distinction lies in their ripe old age.  

 

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Only, in the Kentucky mountains, there were more slaveholders than elsewhere in the mountains in the South. These, naturally, fought for their slaves, and the division thus made the war personal and terrible between the slaveholders who dared to stay at home, and the Union, "Home Guards" who organized to drive them away. 

 

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"I'd rather hear the muskets speak than you."
For reply he took a folded paper from his pocket and spread and held it so that I might read. It was a letter from my Lord Cornwallis, directing Captain Falconnet to send his prisoner, Captain John Ireton, sometime lieutenant in the Royal Scots Blues, under guard to his Lordship's headquarters in South Carolina.

 

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But Fanny has no words. Something heavy in her heart, something vague and heavy in her thought  these are all that Fanny has. Let the policewoman's records show. Three years ago Fanny came to Chicago from a place called Plano. Red cheeked and black haired, vivid eyed and like an ear of ripe corn dropped in the middle of State and Madison streets, Fanny came to the city.

 

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