Found 110,371 results for "farming"
by George Orwell
Nous sommes à la ferme, à la tombée de la nuit, alors que M.Jones vient de rentrer du pub. Il est ce soir bien trop émé...
by Henry David Thoreau
WHEN I WROTE the following pages, or rather the bulk of them, I lived alone, in the woods, a mile from any neighbor, in ...
by Laura Ingalls Wilder
Along time ago, when all the grandfathers and grandmothers of today were little boys and little girls or very small babi...
by Laura Ingalls Wilder
Once upon a time, sixty years ago, a little girl lived in the Big Woods of Wisconsin, in a little gray house made of log...
by Lucy Maud Montgomery
The house in the hollow was "a mile from anywhere"-so Maywood people said.
by Richard Adams
The primroses were over. Toward the edge of the wood, where the ground became open and sloped down to an old fence and a...
by Mark Twain
YOU DON'T know about me, without you have read a book by the name of "The Adventures of Tom Sawyer," but that ain't no m...
by Lucy Maud Montgomery
Wo die von Erlen und Springkraut gesäumte Hauptstraße von Avonlea durch eine kleine Senke führt, stand das Haus von Mrs ...
by Pearl S. Buck
In The Good Earth (1931), Pearl Buck tells a timeless story about a farmer struggling to eke out a living from the earth...
by Mark Twain
Well, it was the next spring after me and Tom Sawyer set our old nigger Jim free, the time he was chained up for a runaw...
by Willa Cather
FIRST HEARD of Antonia on what seemed to me an interminable journey across the great midland plain of North America.
by Edith Wharton
I HAD THE STORY, bit by bit, from various people, and, as generally happens in such cases, each time it was a different ...
by John Steinbeck
A Few miles south of Soledad, the Salinas River drops in close to the hillside bank and runs deep and green.
by Arthur Conan Doyle
IN THE YEAR 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the University of London, and proceeded to Netley to go throu...
by John Steinbeck
To the red country and part of the gray country of Oklahoma, the last rains came gently, and they did not cut the scarre...
by Arthur Conan Doyle
I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the autumn of last year and found him in deep conversation ...