The Reclaimers

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McCarter Margaret Hill. The Reclaimers

I. JERRY

I. THE HEIR APPARENT

II. UNCLE CORNIE'S THROW

III. HITCHING THE WAGON TO A STAR

IV. BETWEEN EDENS

V. NEW EDEN'S PROBLEM

VI. PARADISE LOST

II. JERRY AND JOE

VII. UNHITCHING THE WAGON FROM A STAR

VIII. IF A MAN WENT RIGHT WITH HIMSELF

IX. IF A WOMAN WENT RIGHT WITH HERSELF

X. THE SNARE OF THE FOWLER

XI. AN INTERLUDE IN "EDEN"

XII. THIS SIDE OF THE RUBICON

III. JERRY AND EUGENE – AND JOE

XIII. HOW A GOOD MOTHER LIVES ON

XIV. JIM SWAIM'S WISH

XV. DRAWING OUT LEVIATHAN WITH A HOOK

XVI. A POSTLUDE IN "EDEN"

XVII. THE FLESH-POTS OF THE WINNOWOC

XVIII. THE LORD HATH HIS WAY IN THE STORM

XIX. RECLAIMED

Отрывок из книги

Only the good little snakes were permitted to enter the "Eden" that belonged to Aunt Jerry and Uncle Cornie Darby. "Eden," it should be explained, was the country estate of Mrs. Jerusha Darby – a wealthy Philadelphian – and her husband, Cornelius Darby, a relative by marriage, so to speak, whose sole business on earth was to guard his wife's wealth for six hours of the day in the city, and to practise discus-throwing out at "Eden" for two hours every evening.

Of course these two were never familiarly "Aunt" and "Uncle" to this country neighborhood, nor to any other community. Far, oh, far from that! They were Aunt and Uncle only to Jerry Swaim, the orphaned and only child of Mrs. Darby's brother Jim, whose charming girlish presence made the whole community, wherever she might chance to be. They were cousin, however, to Eugene Wellington, a young artist of more than ordinary merit, also orphaned and alone, except for a sort of cousinship with Uncle Cornelius.

.....

"It was a desert-like scene; just yellow-gray plains, with no trees at all. And in the farther distance the richest purples and reds of a sunset sky into which the land sort of diffused. No landscape on this earth was ever so yellow-gray, or any sunset ever so like the Book of Revelation, nor any horizon-line so wide and far away. It was the hyperbole of a freakish imagination. And yet, Aunt Jerry, there was a romantic lure in the thing, somehow."

Jerry Swaim's face was grave as she gazed with wide, unseeing eyes at the vista of fresh June meadows from which the odor of red clover, pulsing in on the cool west breeze of the late afternoon, mingled with the odor of white honeysuckle that twined among the climbing rose-vines above her.

.....