For Mark Twain Fans ,this combination is for you guys...please enjoy this book.Thank you for your support by purchase this book.a short description about Mark Twain.Samuel Langhorne Clemens known by his pen name Mark Twain, was an American writer, humorist, entrepreneur, publisher, and lecturer. He was lauded as the "greatest humorist this country has produced",and William Faulkner called him "the father of American literature".His novels include The Adventures of Tom Sawyer (1876) and its sequel, the Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (1884),the latter often called "The Great American Novel".Chapter 1 of THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGERIt was in 1590—winter. Austria was far away fromthe world, and asleep; it was still the Middle Ages inAustria, and promised to remain so forever. Some evenset it away back centuries upon centuries and said thatby the mental and spiritual clock it was still the Age ofBelief in Austria. But they meant it as a compliment, nota slur, and it was so taken, and we were all proud of it. Iremember it well, although I was only a boy; and Iremember, too, the pleasure it gave me.Yes, Austria was far from the world, and asleep, andour village was in the middle of that sleep, being in themiddle of Austria. It drowsed in peace in the deepprivacy of a hilly and woodsy solitude where news fromthe world hardly ever came to disturb its dreams, andwas infinitely content. At its front flowed the tranquilriver, its surface painted with cloud-forms and thereflections of drifting arks and stone-boats; behind itrose the woody steeps to the base of the lofty precipice;from the top of the precipice frowned a vast castle, itslong stretch of towers and bastions mailed in vines;beyond the river, a league to the left, was a tumbledexpanse of forest-clothed hills cloven by winding gorgeswhere the sun never penetrated; and to the right aprecipice overlooked the river, and between it and thehills just spoken of lay a far-reaching plain dotted withlittle homesteads nested among orchards and shadetrees.Chapter 1 of The Tragedy of Pudd’nhead Wilson.PUDD’NHEAD WINS HIS NAME.Tell the truth or trump—but get the trick.—Pudd’nhead Wilson’sCalendar.THE scene of this chronicle is the town of Dawson’sLanding, on the Missouri side of the Mississippi, half aday’s journey, per steamboat, below St. Louis.In 1830 it was a snug little collection of modest oneandtwo-story frame dwellings whose whitewashedexteriors were almost concealed from sight by climbingtangles of rose-vines, honeysuckles, and morningglories.Each of these pretty homes had a garden infront fenced with white palings and opulently stockedwith hollyhocks, marigolds, touch-me-nots, prince’sfeathersand other old-fashioned flowers; while on thewindow-sills of the houses stood wooden boxescontaining moss-rose plants and terra-cotta pots inwhich grew a breed of geranium whose spread ofintensely red blossoms accented the prevailing pink tintof the rose-clad house-front like an explosion of flame.When there was room on the ledge outside of the potsand boxes for a cat, the cat was there—in sunnyweather—stretched at full length, asleep and blissful,with her furry belly to the sun and a paw curved overher nose.Then that house was complete, and itscontentment and peace were made manifest to the world by this symbol, whose testimony is infallible. Ahome without a cat—and a well-fed, well-petted andproperly revered cat—may be a perfect home, perhaps,but how can it prove title?All along the streets, on both sides, at the outer edgeof the brick sidewalks, stood locust-trees with trunksprotected by wooden boxing, and these furnished shadefor summer and a sweet fragrance in spring when theclusters of buds came forth. The main street, one blockback from the river, and running parallel with it, wasthe sole business street.
