Adventure Magazine Cover, June 18, 1921 — page 149: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

The Desert, Sleeps softened as far as it was possible for them to do so, and he smiled. At least, Mooney so read the strange grimace that distorted his dough-like face. “He seemed at once to for- get the strangers. Moving toward his father, he,gently rubbed his stomach where K. O.’s fist had gone home. “Lou hungry!” he gasped. “All right; run home like a good boy! Eunice’ll get ye some victuals!”’ Without so much as a glance at his recent victims the, idiot turned and shambled off toward home. Hulbert turned angrily toward Mooney, because he was the only listener available. “You fellers have been pestering him!” he charged. “I warned ye not to do it!” K. O. explained what had happened, so far as he was able. Hulbert’s glance fell upon the scattered sticks and stones in the path and a gleam of understanding came to “‘T see,” he remarked. ‘Well, it’s lucky I see it in time. The boy ain’t vicious, but he don’t know his own strength when he’s upset.” _ One by one the three prostrate men rose painfully, extending their legs cautiously, feeling of heads and arms, seeking groggily to recall what it was that had happened to 139 them. They stood aside dubiously, while Mooney faced Farmer Hulbert. Through the young prize-fighter’s brain flashed a series of pictures that were more like the waves of.an intermittent current than reasoned thoughts. That four. trained athletes, representing many schools of attack and defense, should be helpless before an idiot unable to frame a sentence containing more than three words —this idea loomed in the background. An old yearning for the soil, the stirring of generations of peasant forbears, was pres- ent. Shame was not lacking, as he looked upon Hulbert, lean, brown, bent from an unequal fight, waged alone, against drought and blight and time itself. A pink apron—freckles and serene blue eyes beneath a sunbonnet—of course they entered in. He drew a deep breath. “Say, Mr. Hulbert, you don’t want to hire a green hand, do you?” The old man’s eyes held his eagerly, al- most hungrily. “If eighty dollars a month, a clean bed and all ye can eat is any inducement, I do!”’ K.O. turned to where his three training- mates stood in a forlorn little group. ‘Trot along to camp, boys! I’m through,” he said. ‘Tell Andy that I'll write Spike. Me, I’m going to go to work!’ THE DESERT SLEEPS by Forrestine C. Hooker ESE desert sleeps. Gaunt cacti weirdly stand Like ghostly sentinels Where no foot treads, and no eye ever reads The story writ on sand. Half-buried, scattered bones; a grinning skull That jeers man’s pigmy day; Its eyeless sockets watch coyotes halt, Then, hungry, slink away. Frail fingers tell the rosary of years (A woman waits and weeps.) The desert clasps him to its shriveled breast And, sated, calmly sleeps. Clo@@ “\ ) C© C©