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A big variety of genres offers in worldlibraryebook.com. Today we will discuss romance as one of the types books, which are very popular and interesting first of all for girls. They like to dream about their romantic future rendezvous, about kisses under the stars and many flowers. Girls are gentle, soft and sweet. In their minds everything is perfect. The ocean, white sand, burning sun….He and she are enjoying each other.
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What is Romance?


Reading books RomanceReading books romantic stories you will plunge into the world of feelings and love. Most of the time the story ends happily. Very interesting and informative to read books historical romance novels to feel the atmosphere of that time.
In this genre the characters can be both real historical figures and the author's imagination. Thanks to such historical romantic novels, you can see another era through the eyes of eyewitnesses.
Critics will say that romance is too predictable. That if you know how it ends, there’s no point in reading it. Sorry, but no. It’s okay to choose between genres to get what you need from your books. But in romance the happy ending is a feature.It’s so romantic to describe the scene when you have found your True Love like in “fairytale love story.”




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Read books online » Romance » A Love Story, by a Bushman by - (classic literature books TXT) 📖
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strength of the wrestler, and with the round crunching folds

of the boa, the trees they were gradually to supplant and destroy.

 

Suddenly, the quick finger of the black pointed to an object close beside

the punt. A bill, as of a bird, and apparently of the duck tribe,

protruded above the surface of the water. For an instant, small, black,

piercing eyes peered towards them: but as the quadruped, for such it was,

prepared to dive in affright, the unerring shot of a rifle splashed the

water on the cheek of the stranger—the body rolled slowly over—the legs

stiffened—a sluggish stream of dark blood tainted the surrounding

wave—and the ferryman, extending his careless hand, threw the victim to

his companion, at the same time addressing a few words to her in their

native language.

 

The guest had little difficulty, in recognising the uncouth form of the

ornithorhynchus, or water-mole; but he turned with yet more eagerness,

towards the spot, whence that shot had proceeded. On the summit of the

steep bank, leaning on his rifle, stood Sir Henry Delmé.

 

His form was still commanding—there was something in the air with which

the cap was worn—and in the strap round his Swiss blouse—that bespoke

the soldier and the gentleman: but his face was sadly attenuated—the

lower jaw appeared to have fallen in—and his hair was very grey.

 

He received his guest with a cordial and sincere welcome. While the latter

delivered his packet the native who had warped the punt over, came up

with the dead platypus,

 

“Well, Boomeroo! is it a female?”

 

“No, massa! full grown—with large spur!”

 

Sir Henry saw that his guest was puzzled by this dialogue, and

good-naturedly showed him the distinguishing characteristic of the male

ornithorhynchus—the spur on the hinder foot, which is hollow, and

transmits an envenomed liquid, secreted by a gland on the inner surface of

the thigh.

 

In November, of the year preceding, a burrow of the animal had been

opened on the bank of the river, which contained the dam, and three

live young ones;—there were many points, yet to be determined relative

to its interior organization; and it was on this account, that Sir

Henry was anxious to obtain a female specimen at this particular

period. As he spoke, Delmé introduced the stranger to his study, which

might more aptly be styled a museum;—applied some spirits of wine to

the platypus, and placing it under a bell-glass for the morrow’s

examination, left him turning over his collection of birds, while he

perused his valued home letters.

 

It was with unmixed pleasure, knowing as he did his melancholy history,

that the stranger found Sir Henry Delmé engaged in pursuits, which it was

evident he was following up with no common enthusiasm. In truth, a mere

accidental circumstance,—the difficulty of obtaining a vessel at one of

the Indian Islands for any port,—had at first brought him to Australia, a

country regarding which he had felt little curiosity. The strange

varieties, however, of its animal kingdom, had interested him;—he was

struck with the rapid strides that that country has made in half a

century—and he continued from month to month to occupy the house where

his friend had now found him.

 

To the stranger’s eye, the eye of a novice, the well arranged specimens of

birds of the most beautiful plumage—of animals, chiefly marsupial, of the

most singular developement—of glittering insects—and of deep coloured

shells; were attractive wonders enough; but from the skeletons beside

these, it was quite clear, that Delmé had acquired considerable knowledge

as to the internal construction of the animals themselves—that he had

studied the subsisting relations, between the mechanism and the

movements—the structure, and its varied functions.

 

After dinner, Sir Henry Delmé, who appeared to think that the bearer of

his despatches had conferred on him a lasting favour, threw off his

habitual reserve, and delighted and interested him with his tales of

foreign travel.

 

As the night wore on, the conversation reverted to his sister and his

home. It was evident, that what remained for the living of that crushed

heart, was with Emily and Clarendon, and their children; perhaps more than

all, with his young heir and god-son, Henry Delmé Gage. The very colour of

that sunny lock of hair, gave rise to much speculation: and it seemed as

if he would never be wearied, of listening to the minutest description of

the dawning of intellect, in a precocious little fellow of barely five

years of age.

 

Encouraged by his evident feeling, and observing many more comforts

about him, than he had been led to expect from his previous errant

habits; his guest ventured to express his hope, that Sir Henry might yet

return to England.

 

“My good friend!” replied he, “for I must call you such now, for I know

not when I have experienced such unalloyed satisfaction, as you have

conferred on me this night, by conversing so freely of those I love; I

certainly never can forget that I am the last male of an ancient race, and

that those who are nearest and dearest to me, are divided from me by a

wide waste of waters. I have learnt to suffer with more patience than I

had ever hoped for; and, it may be,—although I have hardly breathed the

thought to myself—it may yet be accorded me to revisit that ancient

chapel, and to dwell once more in that familiar mansion.”

 

His guest was overcome by his emotion, and pressed his hand with warmth,

as he made his day’s journey the excuse for an early retirement.

 

Sleep soon visited his eyelids, for the ride, to one fresh from a sea

voyage, had brought with it a wholesome weariness. He was aroused from

his slumbers, by the deep sonorous accents as of a man reading Spanish.

 

The light streamed from an adjacent room, through the chinks of a

partition. He started up alike forgetful of Delmé, his ride, and his

arrival in Australia; conceiving that he was again at the mercy of the

waves, in his narrow comfortless cabin.

 

That light, however, brought the stranger back to the wanderer, and

his griefs.

 

Beside a small table, strewn with his lately received English letters,

knelt Sir Henry Delmé. The stranger had seen condemned criminals pray with

becoming fervour; and devotees of many a creed lift up their hearts to

heaven; but never had he witnessed a more contrite or a humbler spirit

imprinted on the features of mortal man, than then shed its radiance on

that sorrowful, but noble face.

 

Strange as it may appear, he knew not whether the words themselves really

caught his ear, or whether the motion of the lips expressed them—but

this he did know, that every syllable seemed to reach his heart, and

impress him with a mystic thrill,

 

“OR EVER THE SILVER CORD BE LOOSED, OR THE GOLDEN BOWL BE BROKEN, OR THE

PITCHER BE BROKEN AT THE FOUNTAIN, OR THE WHEEL BROKEN AT THE CISTERN.

THEN SHALL THE DUST RETURN TO THE EARTH AS IT WAS: AND THE SPIRIT SHALL

RETURN UNTO GOD WHO GAVE IT.”

Chapter XVII

The Wanderer’s Return.

 

“And he had learn’d to love—I know not why,

For this in such as him seems strange of mood,—

The helpless looks of blooming infancy,

Even in its earliest nurture; what subdued,

To change like this, a mind so far imbued

With scorn of man, it little boots to know;

But thus it was; and though in solitude

Small power the nipp’d affections have to grow,

In him this glow’d when all beside had ceased to glow.”

 

Within a period of two months, from the interview we have described, the

stranger found that his arguments had not been thrown away; as he shook

Sir Henry’s hand on the deck of a vessel bound for Valparaiso. His love of

travel and of excitement, had induced such an habitual restlessness, that

Delmé was not prepared at once to embark for England. He crossed the

Cordillera de los Andes—traversed the Pampas of Buenos Ayres—and

finally embarked for his native land.

 

It was the height of summer, when the carriage which bore the long absent

owner to his ancestral home, neared the ancient moss-grown lodge.

 

Fanny Porter, who was now married, and had a thriving babe at her breast,

started with surprise; as, throwing open the gate, she recognised in the

care-worn man with bronzed face and silver hair, her well known and

beloved master. As the carriage neared the chapel, it struck Sir Henry,

that it would be but prudent, to inform Clarendon of his near approach; in

order that he might prepare Emily for the meeting. He ordered the

postilion to pull up—tore a leaf from his memorandum book—and wrote a

few lines to Clarendon, despatching Thompson in advance. He turned into

the chapel, and as he approached its altar, the bridal scene, enacted

there nearly seven years back, seemed to rise palpably before him.

 

But the tomb of Sir Reginald Delmé, with its velvet dusty banner—the

marble monument of his mother, with the bust above it, whose naked eye

seemed turned towards him—his withered heart and hopes soon darkened his

recollections of that bright hour. With agitated emotions, Sir Henry left

the chapel; and in a spirit of impatience, strode towards the mansion,

intending to meet the returning domestic. His feelings were strange,

various, and not easily defined.

 

He was awakened from his day-dream by the sound of children’s voices,

which sound he instinctively followed, until he reached the old orchard.

It was such an orchard, as might be planted by an old Delmé, ere any

Linnean or Loudonean horticulturist had decided that slopes are best for

the sun, that terraces are an economical saving of ground, that valleys

must be swamps, and that blights are vulgar errors. The orchard at Delmé

was strikingly unscientific; but the old stock contrived to bear good

fruit. The pippins, golden and russet—the pears, jargonelle and

good-christian—the cherries, both black and white heart—still thrived;

while under their shade, grew hips, haws, crabs, sloes, and blackberries,

happy to be shaded from rain, dews, and fierce sunshine, and unenvious

of roses, cherries, apples, damsons, and mulberries; their self-defended,

and more aristocratic cousins.

 

Sir Henry stopped unseen at the gate of the orchard, and for some minutes

looked on the almost fairy group, whose voices had led him thither.

 

Lying on the bank, which enclosed the orchard, was a blue-eyed

rosy-cheeked little girl;—the ground ashes had been cut down; and her

laughing face was pillowed on the violets and oxlips, that burst from

between the roots. She was preparing to take another roll into the clayey

ditch below. Another little girl was gazing at the child from within the

orchard; half doubtful whether she should encourage or check her. One

pale-blue slipper and her little sock were half sunk in the clay, while

the veiny and pink-soled foot, the large lids half closed over her deep

blue eyes, the finger thrust between her red and pouting lips, her bonnet

thrown back and hanging by the strings round her swelling throat, her hair

dishevelled and stuck with oxlips, primroses, cowslips, violets, and

daisies; and wreathed with the spring-holly, or butcher’s-broom—made her

a perfect picture of English beauty, and of childish anxiety and

indecision.

 

Beside her stood a boy older than herself, and evidently as perplexed.

There was Julia perched cock-horse on the bank—there was Emily, her hair

undone, her bonnet crashed, with one shoe and stocking lost—and yet he

had promised Mamma, that if she would but once trust his sisters to him,

that he would bring them home, “with such a pretty basket of

spring-flowers.”

 

The beautiful blossoms of the cherry hung around the boy—the bees buzzed

in its bells—the

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