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Stephen Crane (November 1, 1871 – June 5, 1900) was an American author. Prolific throughout his short life, he wrote notable works in the Realist tradition as well as early examples of American Naturalism and Impressionism. He is recognized by modern critics as one of the most innovative writers of his generation.
“It looks as if it might rain this afternoon,” remarked the lieutenant of artillery.
“So it does,” the infantry captain assented. He glanced casually at the sky. When his eyes had lowered to the green-shadowed landscape before him,
A Child was standing on a street-corner. He leaned with one shoulder against a high board-fence and swayed the other to and fro, the while kicking carelessly at the gravel.
Sunshine beat upon the cobbles,
The Palace Hotel at Fort Romper was painted a light blue, a shade that is on the legs of a kind of heron, causing the bird to declare its position against any background. The Palace Hotel, then,
The girl was in the front room on the second floor, peering through the blinds. It was the “best room.” There was a very new rag carpet on the floor. The edges of it had been dyed with alternate stripes of red and green.
“What will we do now?” said the adjutant, troubled and excited.
“Bury him,” said Timothy Lean.
The two officers looked down close to their toes where lay the body of their comrade.
Patsy Tulligan was not as wise as seven owls, but his courage could throw a shadow as long as the steeple of a cathedral. There were men on Cherry Street who had whipped him five times, but they all knew that Patsy would be as ready for the sixth time as if nothing had happened.