Argosy All-Story Weekly, Vol. 189, No. 4 — page 111: what you’re looking at

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

THE SUN TEST. power and place, the unique position of importance and acclaim which every breath of her life enjoyed with feminine autocracy, an obstacle to hurdle which he had not con- templated. He replied, steadily gazing at her with level, sincere eyes: “ You are mistaken, Za. You are the daughter of Mr. McCarthy of Tonopah, Nevada, and I have come to take you home, to return you to your mortal father, who is desolate without you.” All friendliness in her seemed broken by this assertion. An outraged fire of resent- 581 ment blazed in her eyes. She stepped back out of his reach. ‘“ Are you indeed mad! Must the council condemn you for heresy!” c¢ a-—”? “Say no more,” she insisted. “‘ My ears can blot out what you have said—” “You must listen to me,” he went on haltingly, becoming bewildered at the strength of her belief and the force of her opposition. “TI cannot!” she exclaimed with finality. “If you persist, the Sun god, alone, can answer.” TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK Don’t fail to begin “ The Return of Serre Washington,” by George F. Worts, starting in the October 15th issue. v Le} U AUTUMN WOODS T HE leaves are slowly drifting down, Upon the fitful breezes tossed Like rainbow ghosts that sadly mourn The summer beauty they have lost, And, while the tall trees stand and dream Of winter with its drifting snows, The woodland ways are echoing The raucous cawing of the crows. Like rain upon the withered leaves The ripened chestnuts swiftly fall, As squirrels clatter through the trees, As chipmunks in the shadows call, And all the smoky autumn haze, That covers meadow, vale and hill, Is heavy with the sweet perfume The clusters of the foxgrapes spill. There is a sadness in, the air, The trees are tremulous with sighs, The breezes lift an elegy Into the reaches of the skies, As frost-blown leaves are drifting down Like bits of gold, like flames blood-red, To heap them on the withered earth, The bier where summer smiles—though dead. Edgar Daniel Kramer. Gomichooks (E@)