[카테고리:] Source Texts

Sherwood Anderson Her name was Elsie Leander and her girlhood was spent on her father’s farm in Vermont. For several generations the Leanders had all lived on the same farm and had all married thin women, and so she was thin. The farm lay in the shadow of a mountain and the soil was not…

Sherwood Anderson We got up at four in the morning, that first day in the east. On the evening before we had climbed off a freight train at the edge of town, and with the true instinct of Kentucky boys had found our way across town and to the race track and the stables at…

Sherwood Anderson Winifred Walker understood some things clearly enough. She understood that when a man is put behind iron bars he is in prison. Marriage was marriage to her. It was that to her husband Hugh Walker, too, as he found out. Still he didn’t understand. It might have been better had he understood, then…

Sherwood Anderson The writer, an old man with a white mustache, had some difficulty in getting into bed. The windows of the house in which he lived were high and he wanted to look at the trees when he awoke in the morning. A carpenter came to fix the bed so that it would be…

Sherwood Anderson There is a story.—I cannot tell it.—I have no words. The story is almost forgotten but sometimes I remember. The story concerns three men in a house in a street. If I could say the words I would sing the story. I would whisper it into the ears of women, of mothers. I…

Sherwood Anderson He was an old man and he sat on the steps of the railroad station in a small Kentucky town. A well dressed man, some traveler from the city, approached and stood before him. The old man became self-conscious. His smile was like the smile of a very young child. His face was…

Sherwood Anderson The story came to me from a woman met on a train. The car was crowded and I took the seat beside her. There was a man in the offing who belonged with her—a slender girlish figure of a man in a heavy brown canvas coat such as teamsters wear in the winter.…

Sherwood Anderson I am writing a history of the things men do. I have written three such histories and I am but a young man. Already I have written three hundred, four hundred thousand words. My wife is somewhere in this house where for hours now I have been sitting and writing. She is a…

Lucy Maud Montgomery The land dropped abruptly down from the gate, and a thick, shrubby growth of young apple orchard almost hid the little weather-grey house from the road. This was why the young man who opened the sagging gate could not see that it was boarded up, and did not cease his cheerful whistling…

Lucy Maud Montgomery It was the first of April, and Julius Barrett, aged fourteen, perched on his father’s gatepost, watched ruefully the low descending sun, and counted that day lost. He had not succeeded in “fooling” a single person, although he had tried repeatedly. One and all, old and young, of his intended victims had…