"Please, sir, is this Plumfield?" asked a ragged boy of the man who opened the great gate at which the omnibus left him.

"Yes. Who sent you?"

"Mr. Laurence. I have got a letter for the lady."

"All right; go up to the house, and give it to her; she'll see to you, little chap."

Harald Fairhair was king of Norway when this tale begins. There
was a chief in the kingdom in those days and his name was Cormac;
one of the Vik-folk by kindred, a great man of high birth. He
was the mightiest of champions, and had been with King Harald in
many battles.

He had a son called Ogmund, a very hopeful lad; big and sturdy
even as a child; who when he was grown of age and come to his
full strength, took to sea-roving in summer and served in the
king's household in winter. So he earned for himself a good name
and great riches.

Buck did not read the newspapers, or he would have
known that trouble was brewing, not alone for himself, But for
every tidewater dog, strong of muscle and with warm,
long hair, from Puget Sound to San Diego. Because men,
groping in the Arctic darkness, had found a yellow metal, and
because steamship and transportation companies were booming the
find, thousands of men were rushing into the Northland.
These men wanted dogs, and the dogs they wanted were heavy
dogs, with strong muscles by which to toil, and furry coats
to protect them from the frost.

The Masque of the Red Death
Message found in a Bottle
The Premature Burial
The Raven
The Sphinx
The Tell-Tale Heart
The Cask of Amontillado
The Complete Collection of Poems
The Conversation of Eiros and Charmion
The Fall of the House of Usher
 

The Masque of the Red Death
Edgar Allan Poe
 

IT is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.
 

However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered as the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters.
 

``My dear Mr. Bennet,'' said his lady to him one day, ``have you heard that Netherfield Park is let at last?''
 

Mr. Bennet replied that he had not.
 

``But it is,'' returned she; ``for Mrs. Long has just been here, and she told me all about it.''
 

Mr. Bennet made no answer.
 

Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very little to distress or vex her.
 

She was the youngest of the two daughters of a most affectionate, indulgent father; and had, in consequence of her sister's marriage, been mistress of his house from a very early period. Her mother had died too long ago for her to have more than an indistinct remembrance of her caresses; and her place had been supplied by an excellent woman as governess, who had fallen little short of a mother in affection.