I have always maintained, and asserted time to time, that woman is no mystery; that man can foretell, construe, subdue, comprehend, and interpret her. That she is a mystery has been foisted by herself upon credulous mankind. Whether I am right or wrong we shall see. As “Harper’s Drawer” used to say in bygone years: “The following good story is told of Miss ⸻, Mr. ⸻, Mr. ⸻, and Mr. ⸻.”
We shall have to omit “Bishop X” and “the Rev. ⸻,” for they do not belong.
diff --git a/src/epub/text/chapter-14.xhtml b/src/epub/text/best-seller.xhtml similarity index 99% rename from src/epub/text/chapter-14.xhtml rename to src/epub/text/best-seller.xhtml index 6cbb074..d647dbc 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/chapter-14.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/best-seller.xhtml @@ -6,7 +6,7 @@ -One day last summer I went to Pittsburgh—well, I had to go there on business.
diff --git a/src/epub/text/chapter-7.xhtml b/src/epub/text/buried-treasure.xhtml similarity index 99% rename from src/epub/text/chapter-7.xhtml rename to src/epub/text/buried-treasure.xhtml index 9f98e44..2ba0556 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/chapter-7.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/buried-treasure.xhtml @@ -6,7 +6,7 @@ -There are many kinds of fools. Now, will everybody please sit still until they are called upon specifically to rise?
I had been every kind of fool except one. I had expended my patrimony, pretended my matrimony, played poker, lawn-tennis, and bucket-shops—parted soon with my money in many ways. But there remained one rule of the wearer of cap and bells that I had not played. That was the Seeker after Buried Treasure. To few does the delectable furor come. But of all the would-be followers in the hoof-prints of King Midas none has found a pursuit so rich in pleasurable promise.
diff --git a/src/epub/text/chapter-9.xhtml b/src/epub/text/he-also-serves.xhtml similarity index 99% rename from src/epub/text/chapter-9.xhtml rename to src/epub/text/he-also-serves.xhtml index 89f49a6..1b79d63 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/chapter-9.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/he-also-serves.xhtml @@ -6,7 +6,7 @@ -If I could have a thousand years—just one little thousand years—more of life, I might, in that time, draw near enough to true Romance to touch the hem of her robe.
Up from ships men come, and from waste places and forest and road and garret and cellar to maunder to me in strangely distributed words of the things they have seen and considered. The recording of their tales is no more than a matter of ears and fingers. There are only two fates I dread—deafness and writer’s cramp. The hand is yet steady; let the ear bear the blame if these printed words be not in the order they were delivered to me by Hunky Magee, true camp-follower of fortune.
diff --git a/src/epub/text/chapter-12.xhtml b/src/epub/text/no-story.xhtml similarity index 99% rename from src/epub/text/chapter-12.xhtml rename to src/epub/text/no-story.xhtml index 3b9ce58..172ad70 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/chapter-12.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/no-story.xhtml @@ -6,7 +6,7 @@ -To avoid having this book hurled into corner of the room by the suspicious reader, I will assert in time that this is not a newspaper story. You will encounter no shirt-sleeved, omniscient city editor, no prodigy “cub” reporter just off the farm, no scoop, no story—no anything.
But if you will concede me the setting of the first scene in the reporters’ room of the Morning Beacon, I will repay the favor by keeping strictly my promises set forth above.
diff --git a/src/epub/text/chapter-15.xhtml b/src/epub/text/rus-in-urbe.xhtml similarity index 99% rename from src/epub/text/chapter-15.xhtml rename to src/epub/text/rus-in-urbe.xhtml index 6b57554..77094d7 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/chapter-15.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/rus-in-urbe.xhtml @@ -1,13 +1,13 @@ -Considering men in relation to money, there are three kinds whom I dislike: men who have more money than they can spend; men who have more money than they do spend; and men who spend more money than they have. Of the three varieties, I believe I have the least liking for the first. But, as a man, I liked Spencer Grenville North pretty well, although he had something like two or ten or thirty millions—I’ve forgotten exactly how many.
I did not leave town that summer. I usually went down to a village on the south shore of Long Island. The place was surrounded by duck-farms, and the ducks and dogs and whippoorwills and rusty windmills made so much noise that I could sleep as peacefully as if I were in my own flat six doors from the elevated railroad in New York. But that summer I did not go. Remember that. One of my friends asked me why I did not. I replied:
“Because, old man, New York is the finest summer resort in the world.” You have heard that phrase before. But that is what I told him.
diff --git a/src/epub/text/chapter-4.xhtml b/src/epub/text/schools-and-schools.xhtml similarity index 99% rename from src/epub/text/chapter-4.xhtml rename to src/epub/text/schools-and-schools.xhtml index 2950338..54aae2b 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/chapter-4.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/schools-and-schools.xhtml @@ -6,7 +6,7 @@ -Old Jerome Warren lived in a hundred-thousand-dollar house at 35 East Fifty-Soforth Street. He was a downtown broker, so rich that he could afford to walk—for his health—a few blocks in the direction of his office every morning, and then call a cab.
diff --git a/src/epub/text/chapter-6.xhtml b/src/epub/text/supply-and-demand.xhtml similarity index 99% rename from src/epub/text/chapter-6.xhtml rename to src/epub/text/supply-and-demand.xhtml index 218441f..9238596 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/chapter-6.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/supply-and-demand.xhtml @@ -6,7 +6,7 @@ -Finch keeps a hats-cleaned-by-electricity-while-you-wait establishment, nine feet by twelve, in Third Avenue. Once a customer, you are always his. I do not know his secret process, but every four days your hat needs to be cleaned again.
Finch is a leathern, sallow, slow-footed man, between twenty and forty. You would say he had been brought up a bushelman in Essex Street. When business is slack he likes to talk, so I had my hat cleaned even oftener than it deserved, hoping Finch might let me into some of the secrets of the sweatshops.
diff --git a/src/epub/text/chapter-11.xhtml b/src/epub/text/the-head-hunter.xhtml similarity index 99% rename from src/epub/text/chapter-11.xhtml rename to src/epub/text/the-head-hunter.xhtml index d0452dd..7b3847e 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/chapter-11.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/the-head-hunter.xhtml @@ -6,7 +6,7 @@ -When the war between Spain and George Dewey was over, I went to the Philippine Islands. There I remained as bush-whacker correspondent for my paper until its managing editor notified me that an eight-hundred-word cablegram describing the grief of a pet carabao over the death of an infant Moro was not considered by the office to be war news. So I resigned, and came home.
On board the trading-vessel that brought me back I pondered much upon the strange things I had sensed in the weird archipelago of the yellow-brown people. The manœuvres and skirmishings of the petty war interested me not: I was spellbound by the outlandish and unreadable countenance of that race that had turned its expressionless gaze upon us out of an unguessable past.
diff --git a/src/epub/text/chapter-3.xhtml b/src/epub/text/the-hiding-of-black-bill.xhtml similarity index 99% rename from src/epub/text/chapter-3.xhtml rename to src/epub/text/the-hiding-of-black-bill.xhtml index 6552dd7..92c6644 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/chapter-3.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/the-hiding-of-black-bill.xhtml @@ -6,7 +6,7 @@ -A lank, strong, red-faced man with a Wellington beak and small, fiery eyes tempered by flaxen lashes, sat on the station platform at Los Pinos swinging his legs to and fro. At his side sat another man, fat, melancholy, and seedy, who seemed to be his friend. They had the appearance of men to whom life had appeared as a reversible coat—seamy on both sides.
“Ain’t seen you in about four years, Ham,” said the seedy man. “Which way you been travelling?”
diff --git a/src/epub/text/chapter-13.xhtml b/src/epub/text/the-higher-pragmatism.xhtml similarity index 99% rename from src/epub/text/chapter-13.xhtml rename to src/epub/text/the-higher-pragmatism.xhtml index 811dd12..12bbc03 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/chapter-13.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/the-higher-pragmatism.xhtml @@ -6,7 +6,7 @@ -Where to go for wisdom has become a question of serious import. The ancients are discredited; Plato is boiler-plate; Aristotle is tottering; Marcus Aurelius is reeling; Æsop has been copyrighted by Indiana; Solomon is too solemn; you couldn’t get anything out of Epictetus with a pick.
diff --git a/src/epub/text/chapter-10.xhtml b/src/epub/text/the-moment-of-victory.xhtml similarity index 99% rename from src/epub/text/chapter-10.xhtml rename to src/epub/text/the-moment-of-victory.xhtml index 6561b16..a96e1db 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/chapter-10.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/the-moment-of-victory.xhtml @@ -6,7 +6,7 @@ -Ben Granger is a war veteran aged twenty-nine—which should enable you to guess the war. He is also principal merchant and postmaster of Cadiz, a little town over which the breezes from the Gulf of Mexico perpetually blow.
Ben helped to hurl the Don from his stronghold in the Greater Antilles; and then, hiking across half the world, he marched as a corporal-usher up and down the blazing tropic aisles of the open-air college in which the Filipino was schooled. Now, with his bayonet beaten into a cheese-slicer, he rallies his corporal’s guard of cronies in the shade of his well-whittled porch, instead of in the matted jungles of Mindanao. Always have his interest and choice been for deeds rather than for words; but the consideration and digestion of motives is not beyond him, as this story, which is his, will attest.
diff --git a/src/epub/text/chapter-1.xhtml b/src/epub/text/the-rose-of-dixie.xhtml similarity index 98% rename from src/epub/text/chapter-1.xhtml rename to src/epub/text/the-rose-of-dixie.xhtml index fee5c5a..5f8bf82 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/chapter-1.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/the-rose-of-dixie.xhtml @@ -6,7 +6,7 @@ -When The Rose of Dixie magazine was started by a stock company in Toombs City, Georgia, there was never but one candidate for its chief editorial position in the minds of its owners. Col. Aquila Telfair was the man for the place. By all the rights of learning, family, reputation, and Southern traditions, he was its foreordained, fit, and logical editor. So, a committee of the patriotic Georgia citizens who had subscribed the founding fund of $100,000 called upon Colonel Telfair at his residence, Cedar Heights, fearful lest the enterprise and the South should suffer by his possible refusal.
The colonel received them in his great library, where he spent most of his days. The library had descended to him from his father. It contained ten thousand volumes, some of which had been published as late as the year 1861. When the deputation arrived, Colonel Telfair was seated at his massive white-pine centre-table, reading Burton’s “Anatomy of Melancholy.” He arose and shook hands punctiliously with each member of the committee. If you were familiar with The Rose of Dixie you will remember the colonel’s portrait, which appeared in it from time to time. You could not forget the long, carefully brushed white hair; the hooked, high-bridged nose, slightly twisted to the left; the keen eyes under the still black eyebrows; the classic mouth beneath the drooping white mustache, slightly frazzled at the ends.
@@ -131,13 +131,11 @@Colonel Telfair and the magazine promoter shook hands.
Returning a fortnight later, Thacker dropped off a very rocky Pullman at Toombs City. He found the January number of the magazine made up and the forms closed.
The vacant space that had been yawning for type was filled by an article that was headed thus:
-second message to congressWritten for
-second message to congress
+Written for
BYA Member of the Well-knownBULLOCH FAMILY, OF GEORGIAT. Roosevelt
-BY A Member of the Well-known BULLOCH FAMILY, OF GEORGIA
+T. Roosevelt
The (so-called) Vallambrosa Apartment-House is not an apartment-house. It is composed of two old-fashioned, brownstone-front residences welded into one. The parlor floor of one side is gay with the wraps and head-gear of a modiste; the other is lugubrious with the sophistical promises and grisly display of a painless dentist. You may have a room there for two dollars a week or you may have one for twenty dollars. Among the Vallambrosa’s roomers are stenographers, musicians, brokers, shop-girls, space-rate writers, art students, wire-tappers, and other people who lean far over the banister-rail when the door-bell rings.
This treatise shall have to do with but two of the Vallambrosians—though meaning no disrespect to the others.
diff --git a/src/epub/text/chapter-5.xhtml b/src/epub/text/thimble-thimble.xhtml similarity index 99% rename from src/epub/text/chapter-5.xhtml rename to src/epub/text/thimble-thimble.xhtml index 4811d44..3a5e621 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/chapter-5.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/thimble-thimble.xhtml @@ -6,7 +6,7 @@ -These are the directions for finding the office of Carteret & Carteret, Mill Supplies and Leather Belting:
You follow the Broadway trail down until you pass the Crosstown Line, the Bread Line, and the Dead Line, and come to the Big Cañons of the Moneygrubber Tribe. Then you turn to the left, to the right, dodge a push-cart and the tongue of a two-ton four-horse dray and hop, skip, and jump to a granite ledge on the side of a twenty-one-story synthetic mountain of stone and iron. In the twelfth story is the office of Carteret & Carteret. The factory where they make the mill supplies and leather belting is in Brooklyn. Those commodities—to say nothing of Brooklyn—not being of interest to you, let us hold the incidents within the confines of a one-act, one-scene play, thereby lessening the toil of the reader and the expenditure of the publisher. So, if you have the courage to face four pages of type and Carteret & Carteret’s office boy, Percival, you shall sit on a varnished chair in the inner office and peep at the little comedy of the Old Nigger Man, the Hunting-Case Watch, and the Open-Faced Question—mostly borrowed from the late Mr. Frank Stockton, as you will conclude.
diff --git a/src/epub/text/chapter-8.xhtml b/src/epub/text/to-him-who-waits.xhtml similarity index 99% rename from src/epub/text/chapter-8.xhtml rename to src/epub/text/to-him-who-waits.xhtml index 83e5228..0347f36 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/chapter-8.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/to-him-who-waits.xhtml @@ -6,7 +6,7 @@ -The Hermit of the Hudson was hustling about his cave with unusual animation.
The cave was on or in the top of a little spur of the Catskills that had strayed down to the river’s edge, and, not having a ferry ticket, had to stop there. The bijou mountains were densely wooded and were infested by ferocious squirrels and woodpeckers that forever menaced the summer transients. Like a badly sewn strip of white braid, a macadamized road ran between the green skirt of the hills and the foamy lace of the river’s edge. A dim path wound from the comfortable road up a rocky height to the hermit’s cave. One mile upstream was the Viewpoint Inn, to which summer folk from the city came; leaving cool, electric-fanned apartments that they might be driven about in burning sunshine, shrieking, in gasoline launches, by spindle-legged Modreds bearing the blankest of shields.
diff --git a/src/epub/toc.xhtml b/src/epub/toc.xhtml index 182cc26..e12f829 100644 --- a/src/epub/toc.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/toc.xhtml @@ -14,7 +14,88 @@ Imprint