短篇小说

FEW young couples in the Big-City-of-Bluff began their married existence with greater promise of happiness than did Mr. and Mrs. Claude Turpin.

Leading ladies have five husbands, paste diamonds, and figures no better than your own (madam) if they weren't padded.

At the hazard of wearying you this tale of vehe- ment emotions must be prefaced by a discourse on geometry.

MR. PENNE--Good morning, Miss Lore. Glad to see you so prompt. We should finish that June installment for the Epoch to-day.

The season of irresponsibility is at hand. Come, let us twine round our brows wreaths of poison ivy (that is for idiocy), and wander hand in hand with sociology in the summer fields.

Goodwin and the ardent patriot, Zavalla, took all the precautions that their foresight could contrive to prevent the escape of President Miraflores and his companion.

The Rubberneck Auto was about ready to start. The merry top-riders had been assigned to their seats by the gentlemanly conductor.

John De Graffenreid Atwood ate of the lotus, root, stem, and flower. The tropics gobbled him up. He plunged enthusiastically into his work, which was to try to forget Rosine.

Within a week a suitable building had been secured in the Calle Grande, and Mr. Hemstetter's stock of shoes arranged upon their shelves.

Jeff Peters was always eloquent when the ethics of his profession was under discussion.