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Wanderlust: A Fiction & Literature Classic By Robert R. Reynolds! AAA+++
Wanderlust: A Fiction & Literature Classic By Robert R. Reynolds! AAA+++
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Excerpt:
Well I remember my first escapade, and as I sit here to-night writing these memoirs, most vividly do I recall some thrilling experiences which occurred in the pine fields and on the sand hills of Florida. I was then about fourteen years old and had just returned to the preparatory college after a most enjoyable vacation. While at home I began to love the open life and to long for the grassy sarannaks, the orange groves and the pine belts of the southland.
I had been thinking of running away for some time, being of a roving disposition and adventurous spirit, which, at this particular time, was fostered by the reading of dime novels and tales of adventure.
One bitterly cold night in January I sat by the fire and read of Jesse James and his desperate gang of outlaws until midnight. Eighteen months' confinement in college with the check rein taut was more than the embryo hero could possibly stand.
The clock struck twelve as I closed my book, and, reaching over, I stirred up the fading embers. I sat there and thought of the desperadoes of whom I had been reading, how heroic it would be to fight them, to have so many exciting adventures and hair-breadth escapes. The embers were dead when I finally decided on my plan of action. Sitting down at the little writing table I wrote the following note:
Well I remember my first escapade, and as I sit here to-night writing these memoirs, most vividly do I recall some thrilling experiences which occurred in the pine fields and on the sand hills of Florida. I was then about fourteen years old and had just returned to the preparatory college after a most enjoyable vacation. While at home I began to love the open life and to long for the grassy sarannaks, the orange groves and the pine belts of the southland.
I had been thinking of running away for some time, being of a roving disposition and adventurous spirit, which, at this particular time, was fostered by the reading of dime novels and tales of adventure.
One bitterly cold night in January I sat by the fire and read of Jesse James and his desperate gang of outlaws until midnight. Eighteen months' confinement in college with the check rein taut was more than the embryo hero could possibly stand.
The clock struck twelve as I closed my book, and, reaching over, I stirred up the fading embers. I sat there and thought of the desperadoes of whom I had been reading, how heroic it would be to fight them, to have so many exciting adventures and hair-breadth escapes. The embers were dead when I finally decided on my plan of action. Sitting down at the little writing table I wrote the following note:
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