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Alger's writings happened to correspond with America's Gilded Age, a time of increasing prosperity in a nation rebuilding from the Civil War.This is another fine work by Alger in the vein of 'rags to riches' tales.
Alger's writings happened to correspond with America's Gilded Age, a time of increasing prosperity in a nation rebuilding from the Civil War.This is another fine work by Alger in the vein of 'rags to riches' tales.
Just on the edge of the prairie, in western Iowa, some thirty years since, stood a cabin covering quite a little ground, but only one story high. It was humble enough as a home, but not more so than the early homes of some who have become great.
Let us enter.
The furniture was scanty, being limited to articles of prime necessity. There was a stove, a table, three chairs, a row of shelves containing a few articles of crockery and tinware, and a bed in the far corner of the room, on which rested a man. He had a ragged gray beard and hair, and a face long and thin, with preternaturally black eyes.
It was evident that he was sick unto death. His parchment-colored skin was indented with wrinkles; from time to time he coughed so violently as to rack his slight frame, and his hand, thin and wrinkled, as it rested on the quilt that covered him, shook as with palsy.
It was hard to tell how old the man was. He looked over seventy, but there were indications that he had aged prematurely.
There was one other person in the room, one whose appearance contrasted strongly with that of the old man. It was a boy of sixteen, a boy with dark brown hair, ruddy cheeks, hazel eyes, an attractive yet firm and resolute face, and an appearance of manliness and self-reliance. He was well dressed, and, though the tenant of such an humble home, would have passed muster upon the streets of a city.
"How do you feel, Uncle Peter?" he asked, as he stood by the bedside.
"I shall never feel any better, Ernest," said the old man, in a hollow voice.
"Don't say that, uncle," rejoined Ernest in a tone of concern.
There seemed little to connect him, in his strong, attractive boyhood, with the frail old man, but they had lived together for five years, and habit was powerful.
"Yes, Ernest, I shall never rise from this bed."
"Isn't there anything I can get for you, uncle?"
"Is there is there anything left in the bottle?" asked Peter, wistfully.
Ernest walked to the shelf that held the dishes, and took from a corner a large black bottle. It seemed light and might be empty. He turned out the contents into a glass, but there was only a tablespoonful of whisky left.
"It is almost all gone, Uncle Peter; will you have this much?"
"Yes," answered the old man, tremulously.
Ernest lifted the invalid into a sitting posture, and then put the glass to his mouth.
He drained it, and gave a sigh of satisfaction.
"It is good," he said briefly.
"I wish there were more."
"It goes to the right spot. It puts strength into me."
"Shall I go to the village and buy more?"
"I--I don't know--"
"I can get back very soon."
"Very well--go then, like a good boy."
"I shall have to trouble you for some money, Uncle Peter."
"Go to the trunk. You will find some."
There was a small hair trunk, in another corner. Ernest knew that this was meant, and he knelt down before it and lifted the lid.
There was a small wooden box at the left-hand side. Opening this, Ernest discovered three five-dollar gold pieces. Usually his uncle had gone to the trunk for money, but the boy knew where it was kept.
"There are but three gold pieces, uncle," he announced, looking towards the bed.
"Take one of them, Ernest."
"I wonder if that is all the money he has left?" thought Ernest.
He rose from his kneeling position and went to the door.
"I won't be gone long, uncle," he said. He followed a path which led from the door in an easterly direction to the village. It was over a mile away, and consisted only of a few scattering houses, a blacksmith's shop, and a store.
It was to the store that Ernest bent his steps. It was a one-story structure, as were most of the buildings in the village. There was a sign over the door which read:
JOE MARKS.
Groceries and Family Supplies.
Joe stood behind the counter; there were two other men in the store, one tall, gaunt, of the average Western type, with a broad-brimmed, soft felt hat on his head, and in the costume of a hunter; he looked rough, but honest and reliable, and that was more than could be said of the other. He may best be described as a tramp, a man who looked averse to labor of any kind, a man without a settled business or home, who picked up a living as he could, caring less for food than for drink, and whose mottled face indicated frequent potations of whisky.
Ernest looked at this man as he entered. He didn't remember to have met him before, nor was there anything to attract him in his appearance.
"How are you, Ernest?" said Joe Marks, cordially. "How's Uncle Peter?"
"He's pretty bad, Joe. He thinks he's going to die."
"Not so bad as that, surely."
"Yes, I guess he's right. He's very weak."
"Well, well, he's a good age. How old is he?"
"I don't know. He never told me."
"He's well on to seventy, I'm thinking. But what can I do for you?"
"You may fill this bottle, Joe; Uncle Peter is so weak he thinks it will put new life in him."
"So it will, Ernest; there's nothing like good whisky to make an old man strong, or a young man, for that matter."
It may be easy to see that Joe did not believe in total abstinence.
"I don't drink, myself!" said Ernest, replying to the last part of Joe's remark.
"There's nothing like whisky," remarked the tramp in a hoarse voice.
"You've drunk your share, I'm thinking," said Luke Robbins, the tall hunter.
"Not yet," returned the tramp. "I haven't had my share yet. There's lots of people that has drunk more'n me."
"Why haven't you drunk your share? You hadn't no objections, I reckon."
"I hadn't the money," said the tramp, sadly. "I've never had much money. I ain't lucky."
"If you had had more money, you'd maybe not be living now. You'd have drunk yourself to death."
"If I ever do commit suicide, that's the way I'd like to die," said the tramp.
Joe filled the bottle from a keg behind the counter and handed it to Ernest. The aroma of the whisky was diffused about the store, and the tramp sniffed it in eagerly. It stimulated his desire to indulge his craving for drink. As Ernest, with the bottle in his hand, prepared to leave, the tramp addressed him.
"Say, young feller, ain't you goin' to shout?"
"What do you mean?"
"Ain't you goin' to treat me and this gentleman?" indicating Luke Robbins.
"No," answered Ernest, shortly. "I don't buy it as drink, but as medicine."
"I need medicine," urged the tramp, with a smile.
"I don't," said the hunter. "Don't you bother about us, my boy. If we want whisky we can buy it ourselves."
"I can't," whined the tramp. "If I had as much money as you,"--for he had noticed that Ernest had changed a gold piece--"I'd be happy, but I'm out of luck."
Ernest paid no attention to his words, but left the store, and struck the path homeward.
"Who's that boy?" asked the tramp.
"It's Ernest Ray."
"Where'd he get that gold?"
"He lives with his uncle, a mile from the village."
"Is his uncle rich?"
"Folks think so. They call him a miser."
"Is he goin' to die?"
"That's what the boy says."
"And the boy'll get all his money?"
"It's likely."
"I'd like to be his guardian."
Joe and Luke Robbins laughed. "You'd make a pretty guardian," said Luke.
"I won't get it," said the tramp, mournfully. "I never had no luck."
Slow and Sure: The Story of Paul Hoffman the Young Street-Merchant by Jr. Horatio Alger
The class of boys described in the present volume was called into existence only a few years since, but they are already so numerous that one can scarcely ride down town by any conveyance without having one for a fellow-passenger. Most of them reside with their parents and have comfortable homes, but a few, like the hero of this story, are wholly dependent on their own exertions for a livelihood.
A youth of sturdy qualities elects to follow the calling of a deckhand on a Hudson River steamboat...
Alger describes young men in the city trying to get a head as newsboys, match boys, pedlars, street musicians, and many others. Through luck and hard work, sixteen-year-old Ohio farm boy Nat finds surprising success in nineteenth-century New York City.
This book is written in the typical Alger style. Herbert is a poor boy who sets out, with the help of his great uncle, to clear his father's name of a crime he did not commit...
This scarce antiquarian book is a facsimile reprint of the original. Due to its age, it may contain imperfections such as marks, notations, marginalia and flawed pages. Because we believe this work is culturally important, we have made it available as part of our commitment for protecting, preserving, and promoting the world's literature in affordable, high quality, modern editions that are true to the original work.
Scarlett was left betrayed and broken beyond repair when her best friend Megan set her up with the male escort who stole her virginity...Or at least, that's what she thought he was. There was something odd about the strong and strikingly beautiful man that she spent a night with. Despite the pure hatred she felt for him, the deals he ended up offering wasn't one she could refuse. Scarlett always thought she'd marry her soulmate but turns out, that won't be the case for her. But could her mysterious husband make his way through her broken heart and fix it? It's hard to imagine but love has funny ways to manifest in places where it's least expected....
The whispers said that out of bitter jealousy, Hadley shoved Eric's beloved down the stairs, robbing the unborn child of life. To avenge, Eric forced Hadley abroad and completely cut her off. Years later, she reemerged, and they felt like strangers. When they met again, she was the nightclub's star, with men ready to pay fortunes just to glimpse her elusive performance. Unable to contain himself, Eric blocked her path, asking, "Is this truly how you earn a living now? Why not come back to me?" Hadley's lips curved faintly. "If you’re eager to see me, you’d better join the queue, darling."
Lyric had spent her life being hated. Bullied for her scarred face and hated by everyone-including her own mate-she was always told she was ugly. Her mate only kept her around to gain territory, and the moment he got what he wanted, he rejected her, leaving her broken and alone. Then, she met him. The first man to call her beautiful. The first man to show her what it felt like to be loved. It was only one night, but it changed everything. For Lyric, he was a saint, a savior. For him, she was the only woman that had ever made him cum in bed-a problem he had been battling for years. Lyric thought her life would finally be different, but like everyone else in her life, he lied. And when she found out who he really was, she realized he wasn't just dangerous-he was the kind of man you don't escape from. Lyric wanted to run. She wanted freedom. But she desired to navigate her way and take back her respect, to rise above the ashes. Eventually, she was forced into a dark world she didn't wish to get involved with.
Kaelyn devoted three years tending to her husband after a terrible accident. But once he was fully recovered, he cast her aside and brought his first love back from abroad. Devastated, Kaelyn decided on a divorce as people mocked her for being discarded. She went on to reinvent herself, becoming a highly sought-after doctor, a champion racer, and an internationally renowned architectural designer. Even then, the traitors sneered in disdain, believing Kaelyn would never find someone. But then the ex-husband’s uncle, a powerful warlord, returned with his army to ask for Kaelyn’s hand in marriage.
Sawyer, the world's top arms dealer, stunned everyone by falling for Maren—the worthless girl no one respected. People scoffed. Why chase a useless pretty face? But when powerful elites began gathering around her, jaws dropped. "She's not even married to him yet—already cashing in on his power?" they assumed. Curious eyes dug into Maren's past... only to find she was a scientific genius, a world-renowned medical expert, and heiress to a mafia empire. Later, Sawyer posted online. "My wife treats me like the enemy. Any advice?"
"Please believe me. I didn't do anything!" Thalassa Thompson cried helplessly. "Take her away." Kris Miller, her husband, said coldly. He didn't care as she was humiliated for the whole world to see. What would you if the love of your life and the woman you considered your best friend betrayed you in the worse way possible? For Thalassa, the answer was only one; she's going to come back stronger and better and bring everyone who made her suffer to their knees. Let the games begin! ***** "I hate you." Kris gritted out, glaring into her eyes. Thalassa laughed. "Mr Miller, if you hate me so much, then why is your dick so hard?"
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