Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Battle and the Breeze by Robert Michael Ballantyne (best summer reads TXT) 📖
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"None wotsomediver," answered Ben.
Soon after that, however, the sky cleared a little, and Bill got sight of part of the constellation of the Great Bear. Although the pole-star was not visible, he guessed pretty nearly its position, and thus ascertained that the breeze came from the south-west. Trimming the lug-sail accordingly, the tars turned the prow of the little craft to the northward, and steered for the shores of old England.
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About a year after this stirring incident, a remarkably noisy party was assembled at tea in the prim little parlour of Mrs Blyth's cottage in Fairway. Besides the meek old soul herself, there were present on that occasion our old friends Ben Bolter and Tom Riggles, the latter of whom flourished a wooden stump instead of a right leg, and wore the garb of a Greenwich pensioner. His change of circumstances did not appear to have decreased his love for tobacco. Ben had obtained leave of absence from his ship for a day or two, and, after having delighted the heart of his old mother by a visit, had called at the cottage to pay his respects to his old messmate, little thinking that he would find Tom Riggles there before him. Miss Bessy Blunt was also present; and it was plain, from the expression of her speaking countenance, that she had not forgiven Ben, but tolerated him under protest. Our hero and sweet Nelly Blyth were not of the party, however, because they happened just then to prefer a quiet chat in the summer-house in the back-garden. We will not presume to detail much of the conversation that passed between them. One or two of the concluding sentences must suffice.
"Yes, Bill," said Nelly, in reply to something that her companion had whispered in her ear, "you know well enough that I am glad to-morrow is our wedding-day. I have told you so already, fifty times at least."
"Only thrice, Nell, if so often," said Bill. "Well, that _was_ the luckiest shot the Frenchmen ever fired at me; for if I hadn't had my thumb took off I couldn't have left the sarvice, d'ye see; and that would have delayed my marriage with you, Nell. But now, as the old song says--
"`No more I'll roam
Away from home,
Across the stormy sea.
I'll anchor here,
My Nelly dear,
And live for love and thee.'"
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"None wotsomediver," answered Ben.
Soon after that, however, the sky cleared a little, and Bill got sight of part of the constellation of the Great Bear. Although the pole-star was not visible, he guessed pretty nearly its position, and thus ascertained that the breeze came from the south-west. Trimming the lug-sail accordingly, the tars turned the prow of the little craft to the northward, and steered for the shores of old England.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
About a year after this stirring incident, a remarkably noisy party was assembled at tea in the prim little parlour of Mrs Blyth's cottage in Fairway. Besides the meek old soul herself, there were present on that occasion our old friends Ben Bolter and Tom Riggles, the latter of whom flourished a wooden stump instead of a right leg, and wore the garb of a Greenwich pensioner. His change of circumstances did not appear to have decreased his love for tobacco. Ben had obtained leave of absence from his ship for a day or two, and, after having delighted the heart of his old mother by a visit, had called at the cottage to pay his respects to his old messmate, little thinking that he would find Tom Riggles there before him. Miss Bessy Blunt was also present; and it was plain, from the expression of her speaking countenance, that she had not forgiven Ben, but tolerated him under protest. Our hero and sweet Nelly Blyth were not of the party, however, because they happened just then to prefer a quiet chat in the summer-house in the back-garden. We will not presume to detail much of the conversation that passed between them. One or two of the concluding sentences must suffice.
"Yes, Bill," said Nelly, in reply to something that her companion had whispered in her ear, "you know well enough that I am glad to-morrow is our wedding-day. I have told you so already, fifty times at least."
"Only thrice, Nell, if so often," said Bill. "Well, that _was_ the luckiest shot the Frenchmen ever fired at me; for if I hadn't had my thumb took off I couldn't have left the sarvice, d'ye see; and that would have delayed my marriage with you, Nell. But now, as the old song says--
"`No more I'll roam
Away from home,
Across the stormy sea.
I'll anchor here,
My Nelly dear,
And live for love and thee.'"
Imprint
Publication Date: 07-02-2010
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