Winter Dreams: Short Story by F. Scott Fitzgerald

By F. Scott Fitzgerald

Middle-class Dexter eco-friendly has gigantic dreams—to in the future be as elite because the “old-money” households he works for every day as a golfing caddy. whilst Dexter returns to the golfing membership because the visitor of the lads he as soon as caddied for, he meets his undoing within the mesmerizing Judy Jones.First released in Metropolitan journal in 1922, F. Scott Fitzgerald’s “Winter Dreams” was once thought of through the writer to be the 1st draft of the good Gatsby. it's his hottest and republished brief tale in the Gatsby-cluster.

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You’re nothing but a piece of clay,” she said bitterly to Dad. Mom was speaking very softly but we all heard her . . he too. “You’re a good-for-nothing goofy nincompoop unfit even to be shot by a good cannon. ” Mom kept scolding Dad and us. Dad didn’t say anything; he knew that if he said something they might end fighting with the wooden poker. ” When Mom finished scolding she got up from the bench, made a step toward the stove, and snatched the bag. Giving Dad a look that almost made him stagger, she slammed the door and left.

I was afraid Mom might take a peek inside where she had surprised me already with a book in my hands. I got out through a hole on the side, crawled on the ground, until I reached the threshing floor. Then I be­ gan to run. I ran along field boundaries, then turned onto the street. The dark night made my fears grow and grow. I walked and walked, not knowing where to stop. Lukashka! W hy not go to him? I thought. Lukashka always slept in his master’s barn. “This is my The Two Kinds of Truth 39 nest/’ he’d tell me.

There’re two, you know. One’s poor, carries a bag; the other’s rich, has a trunk. ” I thought of the flour and the beating mother gave me. “You’re so right,” I said sadly. ” “Uh, don’t worry,” Lukashka mutered. He might have been talking to me or to himself. He woke me up early next morning. “Go on home now, Vasya,” he told me. ” I went toward home but then stopped behind the corner of our 40 T r e a su r y of R u ss ia n S ho rt S tories cottage to watch; mother was driving the sheep out to pasture —her face was smeared, tearful.

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