Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 167: what you’re looking at

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

QRDERS AT “K” TOWER. been really curious they might have seen the fat engineer of the train placidly sitting on the shady side of the tower talking with a fat, motherly lady dressed in a neat blue gingham. And the two didn’t seem to say much, and Matt only made one break—as he told his fireman later. He said, ‘ Hell, no!” when the widow verbally inquired if he v THE 637° swore. And they fixed up a date for Satur- day night. Well, the Widow Hart is now Mrs. Matt Powers; and the combined family of the two now numbers ten kids. No, indeed, not nine. I said, and meant it, ten. Ten kids, Ten, that was, at last counting. vu HARP N idle mood, and fond; in passioned call; Your loved, caressing finger tips have touched To living joy my soul. I have sung for you. All-vibrant to your need, I have echoed; given voice To thoughts too faery-spun for common word. I have held your heart to pure desire, and I have thrilled You to all-vital truth when sullen foes of faith Have thronged your path and mocked you to despair. I have wept while careless laughter Curved your lip; I have served, and I have waited—dumb, I, the master, slave to you; Have given pearls—for tears. But now— I have wooed and won; Alone I wait; the gangrene of neglect Has stained the silver and the gold. My taut strung nerves are strained to breaking, and The dust of old, dear memories falls: Gray snow—where roses bloomed. And yet; so strong is love in music wed; In this my hermit-quiet retreat Sometimes the moonbeams come. They build for me a little palace of delight, and Sometimes too, the south wind breathes From some far-distant clime, and I stir to eager, glad response. I feel A tremor waft and twine about; along each sentient cord. Some deft and spirit hand; the bridge of silence spans. I sing, a song unknown to me, but sweet as trill of birds At dawn. And then, while once again with hope I throb; I question—ask: “ Have you traversed the pass From this clay-bondaged life? Have you returned to me? Is it you, or is it some alien lover here To seek my company?”’ Am [, all-faithful, being called to mate, Some stranger’s tale with singing voice, and Broken heart, or— Have you come? Dahlia Graham. Gomichbooks com