Adventure Magazine Cover — page 127: what you’re looking at

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

‘LP RAUMEREI by William Ashley Anderson ever heard was the Sudanese re- veille. During the holy month of Ramathan, when the Mussulman feasts only after sundown, the reveille awakes the sleeping soldier at midnight. It is a symphony of the desert. It is the voice of the desert itself expressed by sons of the desert. The golden notes of massed bugles rising in the silent night, and the swelling roll of the drums, are thrilling beyond description, because they are the vocal spirit of an intangible something that always touches the soul of man. The deep velvet sky, the glowing planets, the vast- ness and silence of the desert, the utter absence of distractions, make it a blending of perfect beauty; so perfect that I have lain on my cot under the open sky, looking up at the stars, scarcely breathing for fear of breaking an illusion, as the waves of music flowed over me. It was the nearest thing to perfection I have ever known, since beauty almost in- variably depends upon contrasts, and here there were no contrasts. It was the culmi- nation of an exquisite blending. In the presentation of beauty I do not care for a display of contrasts, anyway. I feel a sort of pity for the subordinated ugliness. Once, southward bound for Singapore, the ship was off the coast of Siam, which every seafaring man knows is a place of marvelous sunsets. The heat of the day had been great, but evening brought cool- ness. After a delicious dinner we were lounging along the starboard railing, well forward so we could look down on the fore- castle deck if we felt so minded. But our whole attention was drawn across the molten sea to where the sun was sinking Pre the most stirring music I beneath the horizon in a golden purple haze. The ship seemed to be drifting onward in silence, the engines throbbing like a faint pulse. All the waters of the ocean, turned to seething red and gold, were flowing into the abyss of the sun. There were mottled sea snakes on the surface, and white-crested -deep-blue waves flowed alongside. Darkness came on swiftly, turning these colors to richer hues. In this vast splen- dor we stood silently gazing. Our hands touched. And then the German orchestra in the saloon began to play “Traiumerei!”’ My companion’s eyes half-closed as if she were being mesmerized by the dying sun and the melody, the vessel floating on in the waves of the loveliest of all lulling music, drowning all lesser sounds. All at once into my consciousness there came a faint discord that grew more and more on me until I was forced to turn aside. Looking down upon the forecastle deck, I saw a naked man hanging on the railing there, struggling and writhing in the grasp of sailors. He made no sound except a peculiar moan. I could not figure out what was happening. Other deck-hands ran to him. And presently he was dragged back, still struggling, panting desperately and groan- ing. A bucket of water was dashed upon him. I jerked a glance up at the bridge to see what the watch thought of the dis- turbance. “‘What’s he doing?” I called out. The ship’s officer had to cup his hands to make himself heard above the strains of lovely music—Dreaming! Dreaming!—that still rose about us. “Stoker! Crazy with the heat! Tried to throw himself overboard!” 125 MICLOOOK (©