Each summer about this time, I dig out my copy of Big Two Hearted River. I make a pan of mixed canned spaghetti and pork and beans and sit down for a read. It's the only short story that I reread each year. Hemmingway did a great job on that one. I enjoy a number of other writers short stories, but none stand out with the prominence of Big Two Hearted River. Curious what others favorites are.
Bfly

As far as short stories go, I'm partial to The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber, another Hemmingway classic. I seem to get something else out of it every time I read it. Also, I'd check out West with the Night by Beryl Markham. It really is just a series of short stories and is very good.

Getting away from an African theme, I really liked An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge. Been decades, literally, since I've read it.

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West with the Night by Beryl Markham

What a great read and a phenomenal person.

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I make a pan of mixed canned spaghetti and pork and beans

You have a right to eat that stuff as long as you are willing to carry it. I prefer the wheat cake with apple butter.

What a loaded question! My FAVORITE short story. (only one.) I agree with everything that has been said so far,all good writing,+ mostly all Hemingway. So just for the sake of argument let me produce the best paragraph ever written. Hemingway,"Islands In The Stream". Part one-Bimini. The part when his son is in the water with the shark coming to him + he pulls the 1903 M/S from its sheepskin lined case,you know,the one with the 18" barrel that they don't sell anymore. (Also the same model of rifle that killed Macomber.)Just one beautiful descriptive paragraph describing a beautiful rifle.

Good thoughts here on an interesting topic.

NormanConquest, I agree the paragraph you reference from "Islands in the Stream" is one every rifleman would enjoy.

My nomination for Hemingway's best paragraph is from "The Short Happy Life":

"Thirty-five yards into the grass the big lion lay flattened out along the ground. His ears were back and his only movement was a slight twitching up and down of his long, black-tufted tail. He had turned at bay as soon as he reached this cover and he was sick with the wound through his full belly, and weakening with the wound through his lungs that brought a thin foamy red to his mouth each time he breathed. His flanks were wet and hot and flies were on the little openings the solid bullets had made in his tawny hide, and his big yellow eyes, narrowed with hate, looked straight ahead, only blinking when the pain came as he breathed, and his claws dug in the soft baked earth. All of him, pain, sickness, hatred, and all of his remaining strength, was tightening into an absolute concentration for a rush. He could hear the men talking, and he waited, gathering all of himself into this preparation for a charge as soon as the men would come into the grass. As he heard their voices his tail stiffened to twitch up and down, and, as they came into the edge of the grass, he made a coughing grunt and charged."

Well Dave, it would be assumed that we are on the same page. 1st Favorites have been taken,but "Big Two Hearted River" x 2 is my second thought. That is a story that you wish you could live yourself. I Did.... + did,thanks Papa.

I'm sorry, I generally read books,not short stories.That is why I have to give you something in paragraph form. STOP,I have a book of short stories for you + everyone. "No Comebacks" by Frederick Forsythe. Enjoy!

If there is a dog lover among you then "One" by Gene Hill may not totally qualify as a short story more of a magazine article but I guarantee if you love dogs this will touch you.

Norman - thanks for your posts on Hemingway. Enjoy reading them and very educational.

Here is mine

It always make me think of my grandpa. He is 82 and still going but he has slowed a bit....

Good story,that. I read it again a couple of years ago in "Sporting Classics" magazine. Of course they are affiliated with Field + Stream.If anyone is not familiar with "Sporting Classics" mag. you should be.Great stories + beautiful advertisements for quality rifles + shotguns. I may not be able to afford them but as the man said in context with the beautiful woman," I know I can't afford her,but it costs me nothing to look."

JB, I to think that it's the best short story ever. Thanks for posting it.

" The Old Man And The Sea" is my favorite book and the movie is excellent too.

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Originally posted by cessna:
JB, I to think that it's the best short story ever. Thanks for posting it.

It is about as good as a sentimental story can be. I love that it asks so many questions of the reader(your own mortality/faith, the mortality of the hunters who were your mentors, how we should cherish the time we have, and on and on...).

I revisited this thread because I wanted to point out that the original that was published in Field and Stream was far more haunting than the "original, unedited version" that I posted.

Mete
The Old Man and The Sea is THE story that opened my eyes to what great literature can be. I will always be thankful to Mrs. Pearl for having us read it along with The Good Earth in freshman English.

JB,

And the mortality of our dogs; something that has long toubled me.

Here it is -

Unpacking Some Memories of Africa
By Gene Hill

Just about this time of year, a few years back, I was happily packing for Africa. After I got home I never really unpacked. I played at staying ready to return at a moment’s notice. I kept a few things in my little tin truck and a lot of things in my heart. But now that my part of Africa is closed t hunting, I guess I might as well shake out most of the things I put away.

I wish I could tell you about the dawns and sunsets, but I can’t. I could attempt to describe the colors of the sky, the ways the light shifted from dark olive to orange to yellow to blue-white, and the way the air went from bone cold to suffocatingly hot, but I can’t really do them justice. I can close my and see the colors change, but I lose the intensity when I open them.

What I would like you to hear most are the sound of mourning—a pair of shrikes, a male and a female, calling so melodiously to each other that you cry from the beauty of it. The baboons setting up an early leopard watch with their angry, vicious backing. And until the morning heat sends everything into a modest quiet, the rising susurrus of sounds: an animal newspaper with everybody reading items aloud to everyone else.

And the n evening comes on and the sun hangs there just the way Cezanne would want it to, framing a perfect acacia tree so long you’d think it was stuck. Then suddenly it’s dark and the night orchestra tunes up: one animal small-talking to others of its kind; another just bragging and shouting; others still going about their nightly business of getting supper and rounding up the kids.

But, as I said, I can’t do it justice and I won’t try. I can’t even get across to you one of the things that I still dream about. It’s a simple thing to say but something else to feel all around you. It’s space, or distance, or horizons, and it’s really no one of these things—it’s all of them; it’s Africa.

Perhaps more than anything I liked riding up in the back of the hunting truck with the trackers, trying each other’s tobacco and snuff. You’d look out in front as the truck topped a hill, and there was Africa everywhere—and you’d smile because that was just what it ought to be. You’d runt around and there it was, even more of it, all spread out behind you. And no one was there, except for a few Masai or Wakambas who you didn’t see unless you went looking, or got on one of the real roads—the kind that didn’t have trees and brush growing up in the middle.

Off in the distance you’d almost always see something: a band of ostriches, giraffes, oryx, zebras, gazelles, or—where we were—rhinos. It was an experience just being there, being part of Africa, part of something so right, so big, so exactly what could never get enough of that I didn’t want the truck to ever stop. In my mind we just keep driving on and around forever… Katheka and Josie and me, poking each other in the ribs whenever we see something, or chucking a little snuff under our lip to make spit. Together we form a kind of Africa Flying Dutchman.

I can’t really explain how this vastness drew something out of me, rid me of some emotional paralysis and made me feel as free and as natural a part of that landscape as the Masai or the oryx or the impala. But I have never been happier.

Another of the memories I didn’t want to unpack was of lunch time: cold meat from yesterday’s supper, maybe a kidney or a Tommy liver, along with a chop or two, some sardines, a fresh-baked bread, and a semi-warm bottle of Tusker beer. I’d lie on my back and watch the clouds play through the leaves of fever trees, or the giant figs. I’d watch the weaver birds in their sort of upside down nests, or the blue rollers doing their aerial chandelles. Then I’d sleep in the heat until Josie work me up for a cup of tea, and we’d be off again, sailing over the sea of Africa.

In the evening, or more often well after dark, we’d spot our campfires and begin wondering what we’d have for supper, what the others had seen or shot, and whether to have a scotch or a gin. At camp a huge fire would be warming our canvas chairs. We’d have a quick drink and chat about the shooting, and then a hot bucket shower, clean clothes, a down jacket, and on or two more drinks before dinner.

It was always early to bed, snuggled under three or four blankets, wish-dreaming like a child for tomorrow’s lesser kudu or a better than 40-inch oryx. The now-familiar night sounds were a touch of home. It was always a great temptation, now and then indulged, to sit up and listen until the small hours and marvel that even the fire smelled like nothing else but Africa.

I would be up early with the ripping sound of my tent zipper being opened by one of the kitchen men bringing me my pot of tea. He’d light the gas lantern as he left so I could see to dress and shave. Then I’d have 15 minutes or so to lie in bed and drink my tea before getting up. No king ever enjoyed such luxury more!

Then breakfast: oatmeal, more tea, toast, and bacon. Afterwards I’d check the rifles and ammo and be off into the chill of a 6 o’clock African morning, my fluting shrikes going slightly off-key in the cold and dark. I would have given anything to be able to whistle just well enough to join them for a minute, but was never tempted enough to risk spoiling it.

A day’s note from the most inadequate diary typically reads: “Morning hunt was a five-hour walk. Perfect day to see top of Mt. Kilimanjaro. Cannot believe I am camped virtually on a side of it. Never want to go home. Watched four kongoni who seem to be practicing sharp turns. Shepherd’s pie for supper. Up tomorrow at five as usual. A lovely day.”

My lovely days went into a notebook with a few words designed more to job the memory than to attempt to capture the uncapturable. There are little notes like, “Saw fourteen fine heads of different species today: rhino, elephant, eland, lesser kudu, etc., etc.” Already I’d gotten too blasé to finish the note. But now I remember some of the others: cheetah, a pride of five that we literally stepped on and flushed, like so many brown-spotted, golden, land-bound birds; a red-maned lion that was far too elegant to shoot—and too smart to come to our bait for a closer look: a leopard at mid-morning that sat a half-mile distant and coldly stared into my eyes until I flinched and looked away.

There are those who will go back without a rifle, but I am not one of them… no yet. I like to hunt. I like to stalk, the tracking mystery, the shot, and the skinning. I suppose I could go without shooting, but that’s a decision I can only make with the legal rifle in my hand. I want both the right to shoot and the privilege of not doing so. I could see Kenya again without my heavy rifles—but I couldn’t experience it.

What I ought to do is keep my tin trunk packed, after cleaning out the despair and the regret, with a fresh notebook and a new pen. Add a box or so of .375’s, my old walking shoes, some fresh chewing tobacco and snuff, and a few pictures to show Josie and Katheka when I get back.

An artist once said that his eyes were stuck to a point and would bleed if he turned away, Just so, my heart has been pierced by the turning of Africa, and bleeds for it.

Any one of about two dozen by Rudyard Kipling-

I have the complete collected works and carry a book of his verse while hunting also.

I have all the works of Kipling,Twain,etc. ad nauseum. My house is a library because that is my interest.My ex-wife in one of her frequent rages said, I'll just bet you would love a harem of librarians. What could I say? Sounds like heaven to me.

Kipling's the female of the species or something similar is classic -- and too true.

Not Hamingway, but this is my story. Is it understandable&

Rat from “Ikea “
The gate in the deep fence of corrugated iron was slightly opened up and a serious woman in glasses, with short gray hair, looked on us.
- Wait, I'll take the dog.
Katya and I exchanged glances. The dog in the area was not exactly spaniel, the fence was afraid to approach.
The hostess led us, throwing on, a long, to the ground, light cape.
- And they tear in pigtails.
The whole estate! Cells with a bird, a huge prize rabbit species, an aviary with Indian ducks, standing next to a deck hacked with traces of blood ... Peasant life is simple. And here they are. In steel mesh fence on their hind legs are, clinging to the front, Spaniels puppies. Whine in chorus: "Ah, ah, ah!". Smooth like: white with black ears and spots, and even in small specks, with pink tum with colorful ribbons around the neck. From the nearby aviary Alabai stares on us. Serious dog, above the waist.
We stand at the fence. Before us, whining, close, looking at us, puppies, still on theirs hind legs. What were they thinking? They seem to be asking, "And maybe you're my masters?". Yes, we are the masters. Someone one of you. A few more climb at her by front paws. Indeed, it’s better not to approach in pantyhose for them.
- During the summer not a single call, apparently from the heat. Only now started to buy.
- Clearly, a bad season. I want this ... and this. Can we just see two cubes?
- Of course you can!
I did them already know a little. I looked on the internet: father-mother, grandfather- grandmother, spoke with Olga from the section. "The third dog buggy neck, the second hind legs too straight, but maybe more will recover, yes, the hair on the back of wavy, care should be taken, after the rain will curl. Remember, the last show we have a few dogs were "very good" for the coat? The other litter have smoother transition to the muzzle ... ". I obediently agreed. Olga cool determines which dog will grow out of a puppy, I had occasion to verify this. Yes, only it does not matter now. I'll buy friend. Yes, that's how! Money can buy Friend. It can not be sold, but you can buy.
I do not care what place he will go in the ring. And outside he will be called "handsome": Russian spaniel - beautiful breed.
The hostess has chosen directly by the withers and went, as with buckets of water from the well. Puppies dutifully hung, swaying to the beat of the steps.
In a small fenced vegetable gardens they dropped to the ground, and on garden beds flew two black and white rocket. Both bright, agile, free movement, all are interested in, sniffing. Are pulled blades of grass by milk teeth.
Outwardly, the two - a copy of each other, but not brothers. Looking closely at one of them, I see that he is a little jowly, his chest a little wider, thicker front paws. Enterprising: found an apple-fruit drop - with a crunch gnawing.
Second, that the smaller - quieter. Worn, but not far away from the hostess.
Both are torn between people and the world around: they have to look at us, and all sorts of wonderful things.
Are they smart? How to see how they hear?
Giving a rat from Ikea. Wonderful toy - pink, well-sewn by skilled hands of the Chinese and sold us for a hundred rubles by agile Swedes.
I do not know how reliable such a sign, but I try like this, a soft toy, to check the puppies. If they have enough right waist, and not for the tail, then it will be take game across the carcass, as it should.
Cheeky immediately saw the toy, three jump on all four feet, rushed up and took the "place" for the back of the neck. And let's comb. The second also poked his curiosity. The first did not engage in "tug of war", and also grabbed a friend of the neck and with a squeal pressed to the ground: "don't touch, not yours!"
Ran into the corner with the rat reviled, digs. Here's a meanie!
Yes, we must take the second. The first is too independent, already accustomed to the saddle, can I handle him when he grows up? Spaniel - a breed in which the main thing - obedience, contact with the owner. It should always be nearby. A strong, independent character it is not necessary, but it will be to hunt for themselves, rather than the owner. The pointer can stand on a point until the hunter will approach slowly, and when the spaniel finds the game, everything happens fast. And if the dog runs off far away, then hunter come back without a shot being fired.
Possessiveness can not be strongly developed. He should be happy to give me game, and not to make a duck on the other side of creek - and I saw those cases. This is may not corrected, even by beating, and I do not intend to beat somebody.
- So what? Take this here?
Kate does not respond, carefully watching for tiny dogs. He sits down beside them on her haunches, shook, lying on the ground. Puppies gladly substituted belly – to scratch.
Gets up and comes back to me.
- He does not like.
My daughter is serious.
- Exactly?
- Another similar. But this - is not so. We are not used.
That's it. Too independent, and the “small proprietor”, but we take it. Because ... a long time to explain. Well, then so be it.
- We take it here.
- Wait, I'll see what his name is. He's without a ribbon, tore. I do not remember what color he was.
Who would doubt!
- Yes, it does not matter. Now his name is Larry.
Mistress carries second puppy by the wither. Larry fell silent at the hands of daughter, glancing shyly at us: "You take me?"
Take. You're lucky guy. Today you have started a completely different life.
Do you know how to dream? Maybe they know how, the dogs see dreams. But it is unlikely you think about what would happen. You will live in love and for life will not touch you with finger, and it does not matter who you grow from: Joe Blow rattle, chase lark, or a dog-Professor, the shows star. Anyway you will be loved, and thou shalt love in return.
You've come a long way. Huge blooming fields that you will be worn, not feeling under a foot, reed thickets with streams and ducks, pigs smell, cold sea-coast with shells in the salty sand. Strings of geese, cackling with sailing over your head, frustrated by the bumps with hellish laughter ptarmigan. Meadows, thundering by corncrake choruses, a colorful mosaic of forest with fallen leaves, with invisible clouds of fragrance sunken woodcocks.
Hours on a drip at the veterinary iron table. Cold rain, cut the reeds and the glass legs. The skin in the thorns and thistles, brambles scratched your nose.
You will have the things for which you are born.
You, Larry, will have friends and rivals - the same as you, spaniels. Their owners will recognize you and wag thy silk ears. You're going to sit by the campfire next to me, listening to the human conversation, catching the familiar words and wondering what they mean.
You'll get a fresh sheets on not new mattress, washed and laundered toys. Your home is waiting for you.
You no longer see your brothers and sisters, a huge shepherd from a nearby cage, not enter into your aviary, paved with straw. All your brief life you only saw the patio with a couple of sheds, and the biggest distraction was the arrival of the mistress with a bowl of dry food.
And now you will have all. Anyway, I hope that my life will be enough for you - my dog, but the future is, of course, nobody knows.
Why you? You did not ask a question: why? And I have no answer for that. You, Larry, was just a little bit like the kind you do not know and will never know. Frankly, you're not too looks like him. But your life has just changed dramatically in just a few seconds.
And you, Bagray, with no luck. Just what this life could be yours, but did not. You will return to the aviary. Maybe you're still meet master – a hunter, or a tourist, or a fan of walking in the park. But most likely you will be given on the couch, and you live your life in an apartment with a few walks around the house on a rope. With an elderly housekeeper, who will love you. If you're lucky, you will export to the country, and this will be your happiness. Six acres of wonderful adventures, fragrant smells and great unknown world beyond the fence! Where you will never be released.
Farewell, Bagray! We no longer see each other again. Did not happen. The gods have decided your fate.
But we, the people think that our lives depend on us. How we learn, work and how we behave with acquaintances and strangers. Painfully think at night, where, when we make a mistake? Maybe there is something? Or there ...? Naive people ...

I've always liked Faulkner's Race at Dawn, but everything collected in Big Woods is outstanding.

One of my own. I wrote this maybe 3 years ago almost immediately after the event occurred. It was one of those suddenly overpowering things. Dad was fine at the time. As I type this my Dad is....well he's on his last carnival ride. He'll be 85 in April and while he will see that birthday it is unlikely we will spend another Christmas together due to a brain tumor.



And so it is....


...that as I turn the pages of the calendar and check off the accumulating years I find it is the simple things I enjoy more. Those blessings from God that are all around us if only we take a few moments to see them. They're hidden in plain sight. The fragrance of the old time heirloom climbing roses, the tug of a big bluegill on the end of my bamboo fly rod and of course those brilliant sunrises and sunsets streaked with purple and red and violet. Then there is the sounds of the forest awakening after a long, dark night. Or, at the other end of the day, the forest preparing for the hours of darkness and the night creatures beginning their foraging.

Those who are supposed to know about such things say the sense of smell elicits the deepest memories. I suppose that's correct but I submit that the sense of hearing can also dredge up long forgotten bits and pieces of our life. Perhaps not forgotten but lying dormant somewhere within our minds.

Now, why do I take such a long way around the barn to say something that ultimately will be quite simple? Just a few moments ago I was outside calling in our two spoiled dogs when off to the west I caught a wisp of a sound I hadn't heard this time of day, dusk, for quite some time. I thought I heard it, then stopped calling the dogs and turned an ear to the west. Sure enough, there it was again, no mistaking it this time. The evening bark of a gray squirrel telling the world whatever it is gray squirrels tell the world at dusk. I've heard that bark thousands upon thousands of times, at all times of the day. Why...why on this particular evening, with the hint of a spring frost in the air, did that unsophisticated bark of a gray squirrel immediately transport me back to one very similar evening half a century ago? I remember it as if it happened last week.

My hero, my Dad, and I were on an evening hunt for squirrels. It was later in the year but I remember a bite in the air, the bark of a gray squirrel, a vividly colored evening sky, perhaps even past legal shooting time but still light enough to see. A boy and his Dad were waiting beneath a tree for the squirrel to show itself. I was carrying a 20 gauge, single barrel shotgun and was ready to prove my mettle. As if on command the gray scurried out on a limb, evidently to survey the forest one last time before heading to its den, and I did what we set out to do. I harvested a part of a meal for our family. It took more than one squirrel to feed the 5 of us but I had done my part. I remember the shot, the jet of flame from the muzzle, the squirrel tumbling to the earth and the sodden "thump" when it landed. Dad and I walked to where the squirrel lay and my shaking hand reached down to pick up the warm squirrel. Mostly though, I remember the grin on Dads face and the pat on my back. It wasn't my first squirrel nor would it be my last but it was done with my Dad as a witness. No one could deny that I had killed that squirrel, not with Dad there as a witness and to confirm my deed. No one doubted the word of a hero. Yes....what a night tonight is.

Squirrels…..simple little mammals. Not particularly intelligent but as wary as a longbeard turkey. Certainly the filet’ mignon of small game and a challenge to hunt with my preferred firearm, a flintlock longrifle. Perhaps more important than that for a great number of us it is a link to our past and our youth.


I suppose I love to hunt squirrels so much because it takes me back to my youth. To grand times and fond memories of when Dad was younger than I am now and I was younger than my sons now are, a lot younger.

If you read this far thank you for humoring the ruminations of a man not yet old but certainly not young....and take your kid squirrel hunting, you'll both remember it....for a long time.

Vic

Thanks Vic;a beautiful story,thank God for Memories!My son's have had great shooting experiences but that is for them to tell.As for myself;my mother was against all guns as a cousin had killed himself.Did'
nt stop me or my interest. I had a couple of uncles who took me under their wing. From the start,I took to shooting like a duck to water.As an addendum to this I will say that strange as it may seem,but true;everytime my Uncle handed me that one .22,I KNEW how to operate it without help.This is not the Twylight Zone,it is a statement of fact.As God is my Judge,I picked it up + knew exactly what to do.Childhood memories indeed.

Vic:

Well done.

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Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge

This story is so good, and so under-read today. This is the pinnacle of Bierce's ability in my opinion. I like a bunch of his other stuff too, but nothing even comes close to this.

Baxter,

I think you are right. It is truly a great story and incredibly written.