The Fortunes of Oliver HornSmith, Francis Hopkinson
General
The Fortunes of Oliver Horn
Smith, Francis Hopkinson
Baltimore (Md.) -- Fiction; Bildungsromans; New York (N.Y.) -- Fiction; Painters -- Fiction; Young men -- Fiction
Produced by Duncan Harrod
THE FORTUNES OF
OLIVER HORN
by F. Hopkinson Smith
I DEDICATE THIS BOOK TO THE MEMORY OF
"THE MAN OF ALL OTHERS ABOUT KENNEDY
SQUARE MOST BELOVED, AND THE MAN OF ALL
OTHERS LEAST UNDERSTOOD--RICHARD HORN,
THE DISTINGUISHED INVENTOR."
F.H.S.
THE FORTUNES OF
OLIVER HORN
CHAPTER I
THE OLD HOUSE IN KENNEDY SQUARE
Kennedy Square, in the late fifties, was a place of birds and trees and
flowers; of rude stone benches, sagging arbors smothered in vines, and
cool dirt-paths bordered by sweet-smelling box. Giant magnolias filled
the air with their fragrance, and climbing roses played hide and seek
among the railings of the rotting fence. Along the shaded walks
laughing boys and girls romped all day, with hoop and ball, attended by
old black mammies in white aprons and gayly colored bandannas; while in
the more secluded corners, sheltered by protecting shrubs, happy lovers
sat and talked, tired wayfarers rested with hats off, and staid old
gentlemen read by the hour, their noses in their books.
Outside of all this color, perfume, and old-time charm, outside the
grass-line and the rickety wooden fence that framed them in, ran an
uneven pavement splashed with cool shadows and stained with green
mould. Here, in summer, the watermelon-man stopped his cart; and here,
in winter, upon its broken bricks, old Moses unhooked his bucket of
oysters and ceased for a moment his droning call.
On the shady side of the square, and half-hidden in ivy, was a Noah's
Ark church, topped by a quaint belfry holding a bell that had not rung
for years, and faced by a clock-dial all weather-stains and cracks,
around which travelled a single rusty hand. In its shadow to the right
lay the home of the Archdeacon, a stately mansion with Corinthian
columns reaching to the roof and surrounded by a spacious garden filled
with damask roses and bushes of sweet syringa. To the left crouched a
row of dingy houses built of brick, their iron balconies hung in
flowering vines, the windows glistening with panes of wavy glass
purpled by age.
On the sunny side of the square, opposite the church, were more houses,
high and low; one all garden, filled with broken-nosed statues hiding
behind still more magnolias, and another all veranda and honeysuckle,
big rocking-chairs and swinging hammocks; and still others with
porticos curtained by white jasmine or Virginia creeper.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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