Argosy, Vol. 117, No. 2 — page 109: what you’re looking at

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

SEVEN-LEAGUE LIZZIE. message, but I think he’s crazy. White, you are a telephone man. Can a fellow talk with nothing but the receiver ?”’ “Yes,” said White, “if he knows how,”’ and he explained that he would have to wait until some one-came on the line. ‘“How long was you up on that pole?”’ asked Volney. ‘“T don’t know, sir. some time,” said Munro, ‘““T’ll bet it did, cold as that wind was.” ‘Well, I'll be damned,” swore big Bill Trueheart. ‘‘ 1 don’t want none of the re- ward for ketchin’ Kinch Bedloe’s gang.” The men marveled at the feat, while Hit seemed like 259 ° Munro stood shivering. Finally he said in quavering tones: “ Mr. Volney, I didn’t mean to do no © harm. Besides that, Kinch Bedloe gutted the mail bag, and read a lot of your letters, and I'll be arrested for it, dang his ornery soul,” and Munro’s voice trailed off into silence. ‘No, you won’t be arrested for it,” said Volney, with a husky note in his voice. ‘“Go on to bed, son, and get some sleep. That ranch cabin belongs to me. You don’t have to tinker old Lizzie any more. You have a better job—with the telephone company.” THE EXILE’S DEVOTION F I forswear the art divine That glorifies the dead, What comfort then can I call mine, What solace seek instead ? For from my birth our country’s fame Was life to me, and love; And for each loyal Irish name Some garland still I wove. I’d rather be the bird that sings Above the martyr’s grave, Than fold in fortune’s cage my wings And feel my soul a slave; I'd rather turn one simple verse, \ True to the Gaelic ear, Than Sapphic odes I might rehearse With senates listening near. Oh, native land! Dost ever mark When the world’s din is drowned Betwixt the daylight and the dark, A wandering, solemn sound That on the western wind is borne Across thy dewy breast? It is the voice of those who mourn For thee in the far West. My native land! My native land! Live in my memory still. Break on my brain, ye surges grand! Stand up, mist-covered hill! Still on the mirror of -the mind The scenes I love I see; Would I could fly on the western wind, My native land, to thee! Thomas D’Arcy McGee Gomicbook (C©@)