Gene Stratton-Porter - The Greatest Works of Gene Stratton-Porter

Gene Stratton-Porter

Freckles, A Girl of the Limberlost, Laddie, At the Foot of the Rainbow, The Harvester, Michael O'Halloran, A Daughter of the Land, The White Flag…

Books

OK Publishing, 2020

musaicumbooks@okpublishing.infoTous droits réservés.

EAN 4064066397395

Freckles

A Girl Of The Limberlost

Laddie

The Harvester

Michael O'Halloran

A Daughter of the Land

At the Foot of the Rainbow

Her Father's Daughter

The White Flag

The Song of the Cardinal

The Fire Bird

Table of Contents

CHARACTERS

CHAPTER I Wherein Great Risks Are Taken and the Limberlost Guard Is Hired

CHAPTER II Wherein Freckles Proves His Mettle and Finds Friends

CHAPTER III Wherein a Feather Falls and a Soul Is Born

CHAPTER IV Wherein Freckles Faces Trouble Bravely and Opens the Way for New Experiences

CHAPTER V Wherein an Angel Materializes and a Man Worships

CHAPTER VI Wherein a Fight Occurs and Women Shoot Straight

CHAPTER VII Wherein Freckles Wins Honor and Finds a Footprint on the Trail

CHAPTER VIII Wherein Freckles Meets a Man of Affairs and Loses Nothing by the Encounter

CHAPTER IX Wherein the Limberlost Falls upon Mrs. Duncan and Freckles Comes to the Rescue

CHAPTER X Wherein Freckles Strives Mightily and the Swamp Angel Rewards Him

CHAPTER XI Wherein the Butterflies Go on a Spree and Freckles Informs the Bird Woman

CHAPTER XII Wherein Black Jack Captures Freckles and the Angel Captures Jack

CHAPTER XIII Wherein the Angel Releases Freckles, and the Curse of Black Jack Falls upon Her

CHAPTER XIV Wherein Freckles Nurses a Heartache and Black Jack Drops Out

CHAPTER XV Wherein Freckles and the Angel Try Taking a Picture, and Little Chicken Furnishes the Subject

CHAPTER XVI Wherein the Angel Locates a Rare Tree and Dines with the Gang

CHAPTER XVII Wherein Freckles Offers His Life for His Love and Gets a Broken Body

CHAPTER XVIII Wherein Freckles refuses Love Without Knowledge of Honorable Birth, and the Angel Goes in Quest of it

CHAPTER XIX Wherein Freckles Finds His Birthright and the Angel Loses Her Heart

CHAPTER XX Wherein Freckles returns to the Limberlost, and Lord O'More Sails for Ireland Without Him

To all good Irishmen in general

and one CHARLES DARWIN PORTER

in particular

Table of Contents

FRECKLES, a plucky waif who guards the Limberlost timber leases and dreams of Angels.

THE SWAMP ANGEL, in whom Freckles' sweetest dream materializes.

MCLEAN, a member of a Grand Rapids lumber company, who befriends Freckles.

MRS. DUNCAN, who gives mother-love and a home to Freckles.

DUNCAN, head teamster of McLean's timber gang.

THE BIRD WOMAN, who is collecting camera studies of birds for a book.

LORD AND LADY O'MORE, who come from Ireland in quest of a lost relative.

THE MAN OF AFFAIRS, brusque of manner, but big of heart.

WESSNER, a Dutch timber-thief who wants rascality made easy.

BLACK JACK, a villain to whom thought of repentance comes too late.

SEARS, camp cook.

Table of Contents

Freckles came down the corduroy that crosses the lower end of the Limberlost. At a glance he might have been mistaken for a tramp, but he was truly seeking work. He was intensely eager to belong somewhere and to be attached to almost any enterprise that would furnish him food and clothing.

Long before he came in sight of the camp of the Grand Rapids Lumber Company, he could hear the cheery voices of the men, the neighing of the horses, and could scent the tempting odors of cooking food. A feeling of homeless friendlessness swept over him in a sickening wave. Without stopping to think, he turned into the newly made road and followed it to the camp, where the gang was making ready for supper and bed.

The scene was intensely attractive. The thickness of the swamp made a dark, massive background below, while above towered gigantic trees. The men were calling jovially back and forth as they unharnessed tired horses that fell into attitudes of rest and crunched, in deep content, the grain given them. Duncan, the brawny Scotch head-teamster, lovingly wiped the flanks of his big bays with handfuls of pawpaw leaves, as he softly whistled, “O wha will be my dearie, O!” and a cricket beneath the leaves at his feet accompanied him. The green wood fire hissed and crackled merrily. Wreathing tongues of flame wrapped around the big black kettles, and when the cook lifted the lids to plunge in his testing-fork, gusts of savory odors escaped.

Freckles approached him.

“I want to speak with the Boss,” he said.

The cook glanced at him and answered carelessly: “He can't use you.”

The color flooded Freckles' face, but he said simply: “If you will be having the goodness to point him out, we will give him a chance to do his own talking.”

With a shrug of astonishment, the cook led the way to a rough board table where a broad, square-shouldered man was bending over some account-books.

“Mr. McLean, here's another man wanting to be taken on the gang, I suppose,” he said.

“All right,” came the cheery answer. “I never needed a good man more than I do just now.”

The manager turned a page and carefully began a new line.

“No use of your bothering with this fellow,” volunteered the cook. “He hasn't but one hand.”

The flush on Freckles' face burned deeper. His lips thinned to a mere line. He lifted his shoulders, took a step forward, and thrust out his right arm, from which the sleeve dangled empty at the wrist.

“That will do, Sears,” came the voice of the Boss sharply. “I will interview my man when I finish this report.”

He turned to his work, while the cook hurried to the fires. Freckles stood one instant as he had braced himself to meet the eyes of the manager; then his arm dropped and a wave of whiteness swept him. The Boss had not even turned his head. He had used the possessive. When he said “my man,” the hungry heart of Freckles went reaching toward him.

The boy drew a quivering breath. Then he whipped off his old hat and beat the dust from it carefully. With his left hand he caught the right sleeve, wiped his sweaty face, and tried to straighten his hair with his fingers. He broke a spray of ironwort beside him and used the purple bloom to beat the dust from his shoulders and limbs. The Boss, busy over his report, was, nevertheless, vaguely alive to the toilet being made behind him, and scored one for the man.

McLean was a Scotchman. It was his habit to work slowly and methodically. The men of his camps never had known him to be in a hurry or to lose his temper. Discipline was inflexible, but the Boss was always kind. His habits were simple. He shared camp life with his gangs. The only visible signs of wealth consisted of a big, shimmering diamond stone of ice and fire that glittered and burned on one of his fingers, and the dainty, beautiful thoroughbred mare he rode between camps and across the country on business.

No man of McLean's gangs could honestly say that he ever had been overdriven or underpaid. The Boss never had exacted any deference from his men, yet so intense was his personality that no man of them ever had attempted a familiarity. They all knew him to be a thorough gentleman, and that in the great timber city several millions stood to his credit.