BLTC Press Titles


available for Kindle at Amazon.com


The Worm Ouroboros

E. R. Eddison


Darby O'Gill and the Little People

Hermenie Templeton Kavanagh


Leaves of Grass

Walt Whitman


The Characters of Theophrastus

Theophrastus


Why not?

by Margaret Widdemer

Excerpt:

Rosamond watched the telegraph-poles ducking past the windows, and made happy plans.

"I'll get into the summer-resort a little way from my bungalow about three," she planned. "That ought to give me time to see my nice agent. I wonder what he looks like? His telephone voice (how Uncle Alvin would have had a fit at 'phoning longdistance!)— it sounded as if he was thin and bald,

but kind-hearted. ... I don't see why an agent shouldn't be kind-hearted!" she protested mentally to an echo of what Grand-Uncle Alvin would have said at this point.

She planned to select what furniture she needed from the house she had left behind, before its tenants should come in. There was enough to spare plenty. She thought she had better see her bungalow in — literally — the concrete, before she chose what to take. There were some very good old pieces in Uncle Alvin's house, and one old coloured print of the Constitution doing something — she could hardly remember what — to the Guerriere, was worth untold gold, she remembered.

"Not foxed a bit, and mar-vellous margins!" the old gentlemen who had occasionally dropped in on her grand-uncle were wont to remark.

"Maybe I can sell it to somebody who appreciates its unfoxyness," decided Rosamond. "If it has marvellous margins and all that, it ought to buy me two or three of the kind of pictures I want myself, nice cheerful murally-looking things. If it has a good home and kind treatment with people that will appreciate it, it oughtn't to kick."

The train arrived, and she took her suit-case in one hand, and her tea-cosied elephant in the other, and sprang out.

"Thank goodness I don't live here! " she said; for the summer resort avenged itself for having to be neat and pretty over by the ocean, by being as ugly as it could where the trains came in. But her agent's sign spread near, in sight of the station — that was one comfort.

The office, when she entered, seemed to be empty except for one man. But he was tall and broad enough to make up for nearly two ordinary-sized ones, and sitting very still in a swivel-chair behind a desk.

"I've come to see the concrete six-room bungalow up on the lake, that I telephoned you about!" said Rosamond, coming in like a breath of fresh air. "Oh, what a lovely cat you have! (I'm Miss Gilbert.)"

"It is a nice cat," said the agent consideringly. He was a rather quiet-spoken person, with black thick hair and small black side-whiskers, and the general upstanding, fresh-coloured air of one of the English Squires in Grand-Uncle Alvin's Morland pictures. He smiled at her in quite a fatherly way, and she sat down and picked up the cat.

"Would you like to go and see the bungalow now?" he asked, without a bit of the preliminaries or red tape Rosamond had braced herself for.

"Oh, may I, now? " said she radiantly, all the little loosened curls around her face nodding joyously with her little jump of pleasure. Her cheeks burned rosered, as they always did when she was happy.

The agent smiled again, involuntarily.

"I shall be very glad to take you there," he said. "I can take you up in a carriage now, or, if you would rather wait a half-hour, we can go up in the motor-car."

"Oh, the motor-car, please!" said Rosamond. "And could you take a few things up in it? Is it a big car? Would you mind?"

Nobody would have minded, with Rosamond's beseeching brown eyes on theirs like a hungry collie's. The agent may have breathed a silent prayer that the " few things " wouldn't be a bedroom set or anything like that, but he only expressed aloud an ardent desire to fill the tonneau with anything Rosamond wanted.


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