“ Loud and clear, and close as though played under the very window of the room, came the cold, white notes of an oaten flute. Ah, too well he knew that wild, fantastic air. Who could it be but Gloom Achanna, playing upon his feadan; and what air of all airs could that be but the “Dàn-nan-Ròn”?
Was it the dead man, standing there unseen in the shadow of the Grave? Was Marcus beside him, Marcus with the knife still thrust up to the hilt, and the lung-foam upon his lips? Can the sea give up its dead? Can there be strain of any feadan that ever was made of man, there in the Silence? ”

“ All the Uist men who lived by the sea-harvest were in their boats whenever they could. The pollack, the dog-fish, the otters, and the seals, with flocks of sea-fowl beyond number, shared in the common joy. Mànus MacCodrum alone paid no heed to herring or mackerel. He was often seen striding along the shore, and more than once had been heard laughing; sometimes, too, he was come upon at low tide by the great Reef of Berneray, singing wild strange runes and songs, or crouching upon a rock and brooding dark. ”

“ Count Leo Tolstoi, born at Yasnaya Polyana, in Russia, in 1828, and dying at Astapovo in 1910, is one of the greatest and most interesting figures in all modern literature. The story of his career, with its surprising changes from the life of a nobleman to that of a peasant, from a life given over to pleasure to a life devoted to the moral uplift of a whole people, is even more astonishing than any of the stories he told in his many works of fiction. ”

“ From that point of view the man’s own soul scourged him to his death.
The whole combination of weird atmosphere, tragedy, grief, conscience, and superstition, is brought together in an artistic form that leads to a grimly startling catastrophe—the final mad fight with the seals. This is no common story of sensational event. It is a great human tragedy of grief and conscience, played to the weird music of the north as if by a Gaelic minstrel endowed with mystic powers. ”

“ I had been his friend and he told me, because it was the way things seemed to him, that I had been his teacher.
We stood on the piazzetta. I had hired a gondola with two men to row him back; the water was like beaten gold, and the horizon the softest shade of pink.
“This day I shall remember all my life,” he said, “and you in my prayers with all the world—always, always. Only I should like to tell you that that little idea of mine, which the father told me he had spoken to you about, I see now that it is too large for me. I am only a very poor monk. ”

“ In this story everything is woodsy, delicate, half-seen, as though one were treading the very edges of fairyland without knowing it. Mother-love fills the whole story and gives it a noble beauty. And yet, in a certain sense, the child, conscious of another world, is wiser than the mother. A story of this sort, dealing with the supernatural, rests the mind like sweet music. ”

“ Two bulls were fighting to the death.
With swift, stealthy movements Mànus unclothed himself. The damp had clotted the leathern thongs of his boots, and he snarled with curled lip as he tore at them. He shone white in the moonshine, but was sheltered from the sea by the ledge behind which he crouched. “What did Gloom Achanna mean by that?” he muttered savagely, as he heard the nearing air change into the “Dance of the Dead.” For a moment Mànus was a man again. He was nigh upon turning to face his foe, corpse or wraith or living body ”

“ The Dàn-Nan-Ròn is not wholly a story of mysticism built on the idea that the weird flute-“song o’ the seals” could so thrill one who, perhaps, drew his ancestry from the seals, that he would go out into the wild waters to live or die with his ancestral folk. The story suggests all that. It hints at strange descent, magic melodies, wraiths of the dead, and weird powers beyond man. This, no doubt, combined with unusual setting, frequent use of the little-understood Gaelic, weirdly musical verse, and romantic action, gives the story an unusual atmosphere of gloom and shadow. ”

“ His screams wheeled through the night like mad birds. With desperate fury he struggled to free himself. The great bull pinned him to the rock; a dozen others tore at his white flesh, till his spouting blood made the rocks scarlet in the white shine of the moon.
For a few seconds he still fought savagely, tearing with teeth and hands. Once, a red irrecognisable mass, he staggered to his knees. A wild cry burst from his lips, when from the shore-end of the reef came loud and clear the lilt of the rune of his fate. ”

“ Gulliver the Great is told in an interestingly suggestive manner, every part of the story being rich with hints on which our imaginations build. The pleasant calm of the setting adds much to the effect. The man’s character is emphasized from the start, making the story he tells have full meaning. The story is dramatic, but its power rests far more on sympathy than on events. The art of the story is in the clever way in which the almost human soul of the dog is revealed, acting upon the soul of the man. ”

“ We can not analyze the finer quality, but we can, at least, tell some of the characteristics that make short stories good.
As Poe said, the best short story is short enough to be read at a sitting, so that it produces a single effect. It includes nothing that does not lead to that effect, and it produces the effect as inevitably as an arrow flies to its mark. The ending is necessary, the one solution to which everything has moved from the beginning. In some way the story is close to life, and is so realistically told that the reader is drawn into its magic, and half believes it real. ”

“ The “Dàn-nan-Ròn!” The Roin! the Seals! Ah, what was he doing there, on the bitter-weary land! Out there was the sea. Safe would he be in the green waves.
With a leap he was on the ground. Seizing a huge stone, he hurled it through the window. Then, laughing and screaming, he fled towards the Great Reef, along whose sides the ebb-tide gurgled and sobbed, with glistening white foam.
He ceased screaming or laughing as he heard the “Dàn-nan-Ròn” behind him, faint, but following; sure, following. Bending low, he raced towards the rock-ledges from which ran the reef. ”

“ There was no sleeping in the daytime on the planter’s clearing: the wages were too high to risk. Deesa sat on Moti Guj’s neck and gave him orders, while Moti Guj rooted up the stumps—for he owned a magnificent pair of tusks; or pulled at the end of a rope—for he had a magnificent pair of shoulders, while Deesa kicked him behind the ears and said he was the king of elephants. At evening time Moti Guj would wash down his three hundred pounds’ weight of green food with a quart of arrack, and Deesa would take a share and sing songs between Moti Guj’s legs till it was time to go to bed. ”

“ And they labored exceedingly, like giants,—neglecting only rest and sleep and the comforts of life; toiling both night and day in obedience to Kouan-Yu, and striving in all things to do the behest of the Son of Heaven.
But when the metal had been cast, and the earthen mould separated from the glowing casting, it was discovered that, despite their great labor and ceaseless care, the result was void of worth; for the metals had rebelled one against the other,—the gold had scorned alliance with the brass, the silver would not mingle with the molten iron. ”

“ It must be continually happening,” said Steingall.
“I know one extraordinary instance,” said Peters, who up to the present, secure in his climax, had waited with a professional smile until the big guns had been silenced. “In fact, the most extraordinary instance of this sort I have ever heard.”
“Peters, you little rascal,” said Quinny with a sidelong glance, “I perceive you have quietly been letting us dress the stage for you.”
“It is not a story that will please every one,” said Peters, to whet their appetite. ”

“ The author makes the story notably strong and tender. Without formal introduction he presents the realistic picture of the fever ship,—the inexplicable monotony, the dream-world, the child-likeness of the wounded man’s life. Old scenes and faces come before the wounded soldier in tantalizing dreams. Little by little the author draws us closer into sympathy with the central figure. He makes us share in the man’s intensity of feeling. We feel the force of the strong episode of the somewhat unfeeling nurse, and become indignant in the man’s behalf. ”

“ Each wave that stirs the sea-weed is like a closing door;
’Tis closing doors they hear at last who hear no more—no more,
My Grief,
No more! Yes, his quick ears had caught the inland strain of a voice he knew. Soft and white as the moonshine came Anne’s singing as she passed along the corrie leading to the haven. 261In vain his travelling gaze sought her; she was still in the shadow, and, besides, a slow drifting cloud obscured the moonlight. When he looked back again a stifled exclamation came from his lips. There was not a sign of Gloom Achanna. ”

“ The best story has an underlying idea,—not necessarily a moral,—a thought or theme, very often concerned with ideals of conduct, that can be expressed in a sentence.
Closely associated with everything is an indefinable something, that rises from the story somewhat as the odor of sandalwood rises from an oriental box, a sort of fragrance, or charm, a deeply appealing characteristic that we call “atmosphere.”
Some stories may emphasize one point, and others another,—the plot, the characters, the setting, the theme, or the atmosphere. As they vary thus they reveal new lights, colors, and effects. ”

“ At heart, in plain fact, the story is psychological. A man on whose soul hangs the memory of a crime, maddened by grief at the death of a fervently loved wife, tormented in his evil hour by a deadly human foe who subtly, with compelling music, plays upon his superstitions, plunges, in the violence of his madness, into the sea. ”

“ Moti Guj—Mutineer is a story of life in India, of elephants and mahouts and strange events. It has all the atmosphere of India, given by half-humorous realistic touches that transport us from the land of everyday. It is a story of animal life, told with an intimate knowledge that shows close familiarity with “elephanthood.” Beyond that, it has what every story must have,—close relation to human character as we see it in any land at any time. Even the elephant is made to act and to think as if he were a human being. ”

“ All at once a breeze sprang up from the sea; the small, feathery islands seemed to shake and quiver, and, like leaves driven before a gale, those flocks of colored butterflies, the fishing-boats, ran in before the storm. Far away to our left stood the ancient tower of Altinum, with the island of Burano a bright pink beneath the towering clouds. To our right, and much nearer, was a small cypress-covered islet. One large umbrella-pine hung close to the sea, and behind it rose the tower of the convent church. The two gondoliers consulted together in hoarse cries and decided to make for it. ”

“ At last came the awful day when the third and last effort to cast the great bell was to be made; and Ko-Ngai, together with her waiting-woman, accompanied her father to the foundry, and they took their places upon a platform over-looking the toiling of the moulders and the lava of liquefied metal. All the workmen wrought their tasks in silence; there was no sound heard but the muttering of the fires. ”

“ He smiled as if that age-long, simple service of poverty were a light matter, an excuse, perhaps, in the eyes of the citizen of a larger world for their having nothing to show. Only the citizen, as he looked at Brother Leo, had a sudden doubt as to the size of the world outside. ”

“ Kildair’s clever expedient of throwing the room into darkness made detection impossible? Was it a woman who lacked the necessary courage to continue, or was it a man who repented his first impulse? Is a man or is a woman the greater natural criminal?”
“A woman took it, of course,” said Rankin.
“On the contrary, it was a man,” said Steingall, “for the second action was more difficult than the first.”
“A man, certainly,” said De Gollyer. ”

“ Equally rare is a story told so effectively, with just the proper combination of realism and romance, with quick touches of comedy and of tragedy, with a closeness to life that is indisputable, and a romance that is unusual. In its every part the story is a masterpiece of construction. ”

“ As I drove home to my house in Kensington I thought over it all, from the extraordinary story of the red-headed copier of the “Encyclopædia” down to the visit to Saxe-Coburg Square, and the ominous words with which he had parted from me. What was this nocturnal expedition, and why should I go armed? Where were we going, and what were we to do? I had the hint from Holmes that this smooth-faced pawnbroker’s assistant was a formidable man—a man who might play a deep game. ”

“ Every story was written (1) because its author had a story to tell, (2) because he had a definite aim in telling the story, (3) because he felt that by certain methods of form and style he could interest and delight his readers. The magician opens his box, and holds the ring of spectators enthralled. Here is no place for study. One must simply stand in the circle, and look, and wonder, enjoy to his utmost, and applaud the entertainer when he makes his final bow. But the spectator is always privileged to look, not only idly but also as sharply as he pleases. ”

“ But Joan was a long time gone. The dome of pines took on an uncanny stillness; the moving patches of sun seemed furtive and unnatural; the ferns swayed without noise. In the midst of it, patient and nervous, sat Joyce, watching always that spot in the bushes where a blue overall and a brown head had disappeared. The undernote of alarm which stirred her senses died down; a child finds it hard to spin out a mood; she simply sat, half-dreaming in the peace of the morning, half-watching the wood. ”