Papers from Overlook-House

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Beasley Frederic W.. Papers from Overlook-House

INTRODUCTORY LETTER

CHAPTER I. ARRIVAL AT THE VILLAGE

CHAPTER II. THE WELCOME AT OVERLOOK-HOUSE

CHAPTER III. THE CHRISTMAS LOG IN THE KITCHEN

CHAPTER IV. HOW THE OVERLOOK PAPERS CAME TO BE WRITTEN

I. DR. BENSON, OR THE LIVING MAN EMBALMED FOR TWENTY YEARS

II. THE GHOST AT FORD INN – NESHAMONY

III. MY FIRST ATTEMPT AT BIOGRAPHY; – OR, LITERATURE FOR A FAIR WIDOW

IV. KATYDIDS: – A NEW CHAPTER IN NATURAL HISTORY

V. THE IMAGE-MAKER

VI. THE CLOUDS

VII. THE PROTECTOR DYING

VIII. THE INDIAN DREAM-CELL

IX. WILD FLOWERS GATHERED FOR MY WIFE

X. RIVERSDALE

XI. DR. SAMUEL STANHOPE SMITH AND THE HAUNTED HOUSE

XII. MRS. DIGBY'S ECONOMY.1

XIII. TO MY WIFE

XIV. FADING AWAY

Отрывок из книги

I stepped from the stage-sleigh, in the village of Overlook, at the post-office: for there the driver stopped to leave his mail-bag. That important article, which, as a boy, I used to regard with undefined dread, for I associated it with a poor wretch, who was hung for laying villanous hands upon one, in a desolate road, was the old-fashioned leather sack, full of iron rivets.

Perhaps at the time when this writing may reach the press, such a contrivance may have become antiquated; and therefore I had better add to my description, that a weighty chain passed through iron rings, to secure the opening; and finally, there was the brass padlock, at which the Indian gazed with such contempt, when he said, "Brass lock upon leather! that makes my knife laugh." I stepped from the heavy stage-sleigh into the one sent for me by Judge Almore, and it was like passing from a heavy craft on the waters, into one of lesser make, and lighter burden. John Frake, the farmer at Overlook Manor, had driven over for me. His horses seemed exhilarated by the bells, and we dashed forward in splendid style. John Frake was a character; a real man in energy, work, and talk; frank, and good-hearted.

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"Bless your heart, sir, long indeed. But he's a good man. There's few that don't say so – well, thank God, it is those kind of people that don't. When he speaks and acts, you feel that our Lord has taught him his religion – just as we know it is Sunday, when we wake and hear the church-bells ringing, and all the sun-light seems full of the sweet sound, and all the sound as if it had gone through the bright sun. I do love Sunday."

Here we were close to the house. "Come and see me," he said, "down at my house there. It is not as big as the judge's, but then there is room in it for a hearty welcome. I will give you a glass of good cider, or two, or three, for that matter. As for wine, I never keep any. It seems to me to be poor stuff, as if it was trying to be brandy, and couldn't." The mission of the sleigh was now over. I and my trunks were at the porch of the house. So the worthy farmer and I parted for the present.

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