Category: H.G. Wells

by H.G. Wells

I had seen the Magic Shop from afar several times; I had passed it once or twice, a shop window of alluring little objects, magic balls, magic hens, wonderful cones, ventriloquist dolls, the material of the basket … Read the rest

by H.G. Wells

“You can’t be too careful who you marry,” said Mr. Brisher, and pulled thoughtfully with a fat-wristed hand at the lank moustache that hides his want of chin.

“That’s why–” I ventured.

“Yes,” said Mr. Brisher, with … Read the rest

by H.G. Wells

My friend, Mr. Ledbetter, is a round-faced little man, whose natural mildness of eye is gigantically exaggerated when you catch the beam through his glasses, and whose deep, deliberate voice irritates irritable people. A certain elaborate clearness … Read the rest

by H.G. Wells

“There’s a man in that shop,” said the Doctor, “who has been in Fairyland.”

“Nonsense!” I said, and stared back at the shop. It was the usual village shop, post-office, telegraph wire on its brow, zinc pans … Read the rest

by H.G. Wells

There was once a little man whose mother made him a beautiful suit of clothes. It was green and gold, and woven so that I cannot describe how delicate and fine it was, and there was a … Read the rest

by H.G. Wells

“Talking of the prices of birds, I’ve seen an ostrich that cost three hundred pounds,” said the Taxidermist, recalling his youth of travel. “Three hundred pounds!”

He looked at me over his spectacles. “I’ve seen another that … Read the rest

by H.G. Wells

The night was hot and overcast, the sky red, rimmed with the lingering sunset of mid-summer. They sat at the open window, trying to fancy the air was fresher there. The trees and shrubs of the garden … Read the rest

by H.G. Wells

The man with the white face entered the carriage at Rugby. He moved slowly in spite of the urgency of his porter, and even while he was still on the platform I noted how ill he seemed. … Read the rest

by H.G. Wells

Three hundred miles and more from Chimborazo, one hundred from the snows of Cotopaxi, in the wildest wastes of Ecuador’s Andes, there lies that mysterious mountain valley, cut off from all the world of men, the Country … Read the rest

by H.G. Wells

The man with the scarred face leant over the table and looked at my bundle.

‘Orchids?’ he asked.

‘A few,’ I said.

‘Cypripediums,’ he said.

‘Chiefly,’ said I.

‘Anything new? I thought not. I did these islands … Read the rest