Explore "Stories" by Marjorie Pickthall on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Joyce was at his tenth story, the pipes were drawing well, and the birch logs singing softly, while Father John gazed at his entertainers with fascinated eyes.
". And so he fell into the car, and the grain poured in on him, and there he was, buried. That car wasn't unloaded until spring, and then out he came like a board, and they buried him again, and no one knew he was heir to a million."