The explanation is simple-the variety equals the intensity, the imaginative insight, the literary tact. It is the fate of most collections, but here there are at least a dozen, possibly even a score, with regard to which it would be quite impossible to say that this or that is the most powerful or the most beautiful. In so large a collection as forty stories one naturally expects to find some two or three of peculiar power dwarfing the rest. One of the first things that strikes the reader is the exceptional excellence of the tales. This, as the legitimate edition, should be preferred to the pirated ones by all such as care for honesty in letters.- Churchman. He has won his spurs and taken his prominent place in the arena. The time has passed to ignore or undervalue Mr. Some are tragedy, some broad comedy, some tolerably sharp satire. Here are forty of them averaging less than eight pages apiece there is not a dull one in the lot. It would be hard to find better reading.- The Saturday Review.Įvery one knows that it is not easy to write good short stories. Kipling knows and appreciates the English in India, and is a born story-teller and a man of humour into the bargain. . . There’s a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yield, My name is O’Kelly, I’ve heard the revelly, We’re marchin’ on relief over Injia’s sunny plains, To the Legion of the Lost Ones to the Cohort of the Damned, When the ’arf-made recruity goes out to the East,īy the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin’ eastward to the sea, There was a row in Silver Street that’s near to Dublin Quay, This ’appened in a battle to a batt’ry of the corps, If you’ve ever stole a pheasant-egg be’ind the keeper’s back, Wot makes the soldier’s ’eart to penk, wot makes him to perspire? I’ve a head like a concertina: I’ve a tongue like a button-stick, Smokin’ my pipe on the mountings, sniffin’ the mornin’ cool, We’ve fought with many men acrost the seas, I went into a public-’ouse to get a pint o’ beer, ‘What are the bugles blowin’ for?’ said Files-on-Parade, Now Tomlinson gave up the ghost in his house in Berkeley Square,
Now this is the tale of the Council the German Kaiser decreed, Help for a patriot distressed, a spotless spirit hurt, Winds of the World, give answer? They are whimpering to and fro-, When the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden’s green and gold, Read here: This is the story of Evarra-man-,
Seven men from all the world, back to docks again, The wreath of banquet overnight lay withered on the neck, When spring-time flushes the desert grass, Oh East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,Ībdhur Rahman, the Durani Chief, of him is the story told,
0 kommentar(er)
