I was born under the Blue Ridge, and under that side which is blue in the evening light, in a wild land of game and forest and rushing waters. There, on the borders of a creek that runs into the Yadkin River, in a cabin that was chinked with red mud, I came into the world a subject of King George the Third, in that part of his realm known as the province of North Carolina. The cabin reeked of corn-pone and bacon, and the odor of pelts. It had two shakedowns, on one of which I slept under a bearskin. A rough stone chimney was reared outside, and the fireplace was as long as my father was tall. There was a crane in it, and a bake kettle; and over it great buckhorns held my father's rifle when it was not in use. On other horns hung jerked bear's meat and venison hams, and gourds for drinking cups, and bags of seed, and my father's best hunting shirt; also, in a neglected corner, several articles of woman's attire from pegs. These once belonged to my mother. Among them was a gown of silk, of a fine, faded pattern, over which I was wont to speculate. The women at the Cross-Roads, twelve miles away, were dressed in coarse butternut wool and huge sunbonnets. But when I questioned my father on these matters he would give me no answers. My father was—how shall I say what he was? To this day I can only surmise many things of him. He was a Scotchman born, and I know now that he had a slight Scotch accent. At the time of which I write, my early childhood, he was a frontiersman and hunter. I can see him now, with his hunting shirt and leggings and moccasins; his powder horn, engraved with wondrous scenes; his bullet pouch and tomahawk and hunting knife. He was a tall, lean man with a strange, sad face. And he talked little save when he drank too many "horns," as they were called in that country. These lapses of my father's were a perpetual source of wonder to me,—and, I must say, of delight. They occurred only when a passing traveller who hit his fancy chanced that way, or, what was almost as rare, a neighbor. Many a winter night I have lain awake under the skins, listening to a flow of language that held me spellbound, though I understood scarce a word of it.
Compiled in one book, the essential collection of books by Winston Churchill:The CelebrityConistonThe CrisisThe CrossingDr. Jonathan (A Play)The Dwelling Place of LightAn Essay On the American Contribution and the Democratic IdeaA Far CountryThe Inside of the CupA Modern ChronicleMr. Crewe's CareerRichard CarvelA Traveller in War-Time
Winston Churchill (1871-1947) was an American novelist. He attended Smith Academy in Missouri and the United States Naval Academy, where he graduated in 1894 and became an editor of the Army and Navy Journal. He resigned from the navy to pursue a writing career. While it is claimed that his first novel was The Celebrity, published in 1898, a question arises where his novel called Mr. Keegan's Elopement should be placed, because it was published two years earlier in (1896) within a magazine. Later in 1903 it was republished as an illustrated hardback book. His next novel called Richard Carvel, was published the next year. It was a phenomenon, literally selling by the box-car as many as two million copies in a nation of only seventy- six million, and that book made Churchill rich. His next two novels, The Crisis (1901) and The Crossing (1904), were also very successful. In 1917, he toured the battlefields of World War I and wrote about what he saw, his first non-fiction work. Sometime after this move, he took up watercolours, and also became known for his landscapes.
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