THE SHORT STORIES OF ERNEST HEMINGWAY: The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber; The Snows of Kilimanjaro; Up in Michigan; The Killers
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THE SHORT STORIES OF ERNEST HEMINGWAY: The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber; The Snows of Kilimanjaro; Up in Michigan; The Killers
mule and had begun to entertain doubts as to whether these animals were really mortal. On rare occasions I had seen what I took to be dead mules, but on close approach these always proved to be living creatures who seemed to be dead through their quality of complete repose. But in war these animals succumb in much the same manner as the more common and less hardy horse. Most of those mules that I saw dead were along mountain roads or lying at the foot of steep declivities whence they had been
will live to see the actual death of members of this literary sect and watch the noble exits that they make. In my musings as a naturalist it has occurred to me that while decorum is an excellent thing some must be indecorous if the race is to be carried on since the position prescribed for procreation is indecorous, highly indecorous, and it occurred to me that perhaps that is what these people are, or were: the children of decorous cohabitation. But regardless of how they started I hope to see
what is there to do?” “Continue, slowly, and wait for luck to change.” “But with women?” “No gambler has luck with women. He is too concentrated. He works nights. When he should be with the woman. No man who works nights can hold a woman if the woman is worth anything.” “You are a philosopher.” “No, hombre. A gambler of the small towns. One small town, then another, another, then a big town, then start over again.” “Then shot in the belly.” “The first time,” he said. “That has only
They prefer it to the fines.” “How strange!” said Macomber. “Not strange, really,” Wilson said. “Which would you rather do? Take a good birching or lose your pay?” Then he felt embarrassed at asking it and before Macomber could answer he went on, “We all take a beating every day, you know, one way or another.” This was no better. “Good God,” he thought. “I am a diplomat, aren’t I?” “Yes, we take a beating,” said Macomber, still not looking at him. “I’m awfully sorry about that lion business.
them with rubber blankets. Bill came down with a pair of heavy wool socks. “It’s getting too late to go around without socks,” he said. “I hate to start them again,” Nick said. He pulled the socks on and slumped back in the chair, putting his feet up on the screen in front of the fire. “You’ll dent in the screen,” Bill said. Nick swung his feet over to the side of the fireplace. “Got anything to read?” he asked. “Only the paper.” “What did the Cards do?” “Dropped a double header to the