Our Home in the Silver West: A Story of Struggle and Adventure
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Stables Gordon. Our Home in the Silver West: A Story of Struggle and Adventure
CHAPTER I. THE HIGHLAND FEUD
CHAPTER II. OUR BOYHOOD'S LIFE
CHAPTER III. A TERRIBLE RIDE
CHAPTER IV. THE RING AND THE BOOK
CHAPTER V. A NEW HOME IN THE WEST
CHAPTER VI. THE PROMISED LAND AT LAST
CHAPTER VII. ON SHORE AT RIO
CHAPTER VIII. MONCRIEFF RELATES HIS EXPERIENCES
CHAPTER IX. SHOPPING AND SHOOTING
CHAPTER X. A JOURNEY THAT SEEMS LIKE A DREAM
CHAPTER XI. THE TRAGEDY AT THE FONDA
CHAPTER XII. ATTACK BY PAMPA INDIANS
CHAPTER XIII. THE FLIGHT AND THE CHASE
CHAPTER XIV. LIFE ON AN ARGENTINE ESTANCIA
CHAPTER XV. WE BUILD OUR HOUSE AND LAY OUT GARDENS
CHAPTER XVI. SUMMER IN THE SILVER WEST
CHAPTER XVII. THE EARTHQUAKE
CHAPTER XVIII. OUR HUNTING EXPEDITION
CHAPTER XIX. IN THE WILDERNESS
CHAPTER XX. THE MOUNTAIN CRUSOE
CHAPTER XXI. WILD ADVENTURES ON PRAIRIE AND PAMPAS
CHAPTER XXII. ADVENTURE WITH A TIGER
CHAPTER XXIII. A RIDE FOR LIFE
CHAPTER XXIV. THE ATTACK ON THE ESTANCIA
CHAPTER XXV. THE LAST ASSAULT
CHAPTER XXV. FAREWELL TO THE SILVER WEST
Отрывок из книги
On our boyhood's life – that, I mean, of my brothers and myself – I must dwell no longer than the interest of our strange story demands, for our chapters must soon be filled with the relation of events and adventures far more stirring than anything that happened at home in our day.
And yet no truer words were ever spoken than these – 'the boy is father of the man.' The glorious battle of Waterloo – Wellington himself told us – was won in the cricket field at home. And in like manner our greatest pioneers of civilisation, our most successful emigrants, men who have often literally to lash the rifle to the plough stilts, as they cultivate and reclaim the land of the savage, have been made and manufactured, so to speak, in the green valleys of old England, and on the hills and moors of bonnie Scotland.
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How I got home I never knew. I remember that evening being in our front drawing-room with what seemed a sea of anxious faces round me, some of which were bathed in tears. Then all was a long blank, interspersed with fearful dreams.
It was weeks before I recovered consciousness. I was then lying in bed. In at the open window was wafted the odour of flowers, for it was a summer's evening, and outside were the green whispering trees. Townley sat beside the bed, book in hand, and almost started when I spoke.
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