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The Race and Other Stories by Sinclair Ross

By Sinclair Ross, Edited by Lorraine McMullen

Publication Year: 1978


Published by: University of Ottawa Press

Series: Canadian Short Story Library

Table of Contents

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pp. 9-10

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pp. 10-11

"A Day with Pegasus" is published here as revised by the author for inclusion in Stories from Western Canada, edited by Rudy Wiebe (Toronto: Macmillan, 1972). "Spike" appears with minor revisions by the author from a transcription of the reading on CBC Anthology on December 19, 1967. "The Race" is reprinted from Whir of Gold by permission of The Canadian ...

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The Author

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pp. 13-14

James Sinclair Ross, the youngest of three children of Peter Ross and Catherine Foster Fraser, was born January 22, 1908, on a homestead in northern Saskatchewan twenty-five miles from Prince Albert. When he was about six or seven years of age his parents separated and Jimmy, as he was called, remained ...

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pp. 15-22

The Race and Other Stories includes all of Sinclair Ross's previously uncollected short stories and a chapter from Whir of Gold, here titled "The Race," which stands on its own as a short story. Heralded as a prairie writer and best known for his stories of the bleak dust-bowl prairie of the Great Depression, Ross has ...

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No Other Way

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pp. 23-36

Out of a sprawling sunset, ragged and unkempt, as if in a sullen mood it had grown careless of itself, the October wind dragged a clamping, resolute night. Hatty Glenn, on her knees at the end of the two-acre garden, felt it closing in, and her big butcher-knife hacked with feverish haste at the frost-blackened ...

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A Day with Pegasus

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pp. 37-48

"Two white stockings and a star," Mrs. Parker called from the kitchen, and in his bare feet, struggling with suspenders, Peter raced downstairs and across the yard to see. At the stable door, just for an instant, he hesitated. It was some instinct perhaps of emotional thrift, warning him that so fierce and strange a tingle of expectancy ought to be prolonged a ...

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pp. 49-60

Nell had been hoeing in the potato patch since noon. She was a tall, spare, raw-boned woman, with big hands, high cheekbones, and a crooked, jutting nose. But despite the strength of the features it was a rather shy face, and a coating of dust and sweat made it calm and impassive now, as if modelled ...

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Barrack Room Fiddle Tune

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pp. 61-68

He was a very young recruit. About seventeen, we thought, though he insisted twenty-one. He had a big, swaggering, overgrown voice, and then, on the last word or two, a shy way of glancing up to see whether you had been taken in by it. His shoulders, too — they were broad, powerful, aggressive, yet ...

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Jug and Bottle

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pp. 69-86

Most people I tell it to just shrug and ask if there aren't too many sentimental fools already muddling up the world. Forget him, they say, with a clear conscience. It isn't as if he were an old or valued friend. Obviously he was on his way out anyhow. What I did for him and what I failed to do are beside the point. A leaky boat in a ...

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Saturday Night

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pp. 87-98

"Maybe I should have phoned or sent a wire," Tom thought happily. "Not, of course, that it makes any difference. She'll be all set ready waiting for me just the same." Systole and diastole. A little contraction of doubt, concern, then the tension easing, expanding gently into confidence. He liked it that way, and kept repeating the words to himself, over ...

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pp. 99-110

Hunched, threatening, big — for a second or two in the glare of the lights, he even seemed to gather himself, defiant of the onrush of the car, taking a breath to spring. A trick of his eyes and the snowy light: George knew. Just a boy at that, nineteen or twenty at the most. Something awkward ....

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The Race

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pp. 111-118

"I say so and your father says so—that's who says so. For the last time, you're not riding her in any race. Not if there was a chance of winning a thousand dollars." "But what's the difference? Every time I ride her it's a race anyway. At the fair there' ll just be other horses." "That's silly talk. It's not a race unless there are other ...

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The Flowers that Killed Him

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pp. 119-135

"The flowers that killed him," my mother said this morning as she picked them for the coffin, nasturtiums and petunias, a few white geraniums. "And all the buds coming —just another day or two what a sight they'll be." Thinking of me, though, as she said it, not him. Easy to tell — the white, tight mouth, the scared eyes. Scared so bad they ...

Selected Bibliography

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pp. 135-137

E-ISBN-13: 9780776617237
E-ISBN-10: 0776617230
Print-ISBN-13: 9780776643434
Print-ISBN-10: 0776643436

Page Count: 136
Publication Year: 1978

Volume Title: 12
Series Title: Canadian Short Story Library