Argosy, Vol. 117, No. 2 — page 168: what you’re looking at

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

Dy” people like to read bright, cheerful love stories? A man I know thinks they | do, and is constantly advising an author friend of his to write them cinstead of cudgeling his brain to evolve some horrible happenings with complicated plot and an outcome which is more likely than not to leave an unpleasant taste in the mouth. Interested in their discussion, I determined to put the matter up to you readers of Ter Arcosy and ask for an expression of opinion. Naturally there must be variety, but there seems to be such a scarcity of tales about the course of true love in these days that I am curious to know whether the public at large is not interested in this sort of thing any more, or if it is merely because editors think they are not. When Jason sailed in search of the Goiden Fleece his fleet was called “ The Argosy,” his quest the motif for a whole literature of adventure on the high seas. And to stories of the sea and of the men who live on and by it, this magazine has always been particularly hospitable. “A MAN TO HIS MATE” BY J. ALLAN DUNN Author of ‘‘Isie of Drums,’’ ‘*‘ The Butterfly Orchid,’’ etc is an epic of the deep—a swift, colorful drama of strong lives and bitter hates. ‘‘Elemental ” is the word for it, hackneyed as usage may have made it; “ big,” vital,” “ gripping ” is indeed a tremendous canvas of truly Homeric quality. I like to think that the soul of a Viking was born again in that dynamic body of Lund, the magnificent; that Rainey, too, inherited the iron in his blood; that Peggy’s indomitable heart came straight from some Valkyrie’s haven of strong souls. It is net too much to say that Londoh at his best never did anything better of its kind than this47omance of a double lure. And if you like surprises, the astoundingly dramatic finale will leave you dumb. Beginning February 7, as a four-part serial. aM Ss a This.is the story of a sparrow that turned into a swan—and ‘swans do not sing, as everybody knows—or ought to know. “THE SONG OF THE SWAN” BY JAMES HENRY THOMPSON is that rare blend of interest and appeal: a “ human document,” the dramatic and moving history of a child of the slums, whose philosophy, at least in the beginning, 318 > one can exhaust the adjectives, and still fall short of what _ CORMICLOOOKS (C@)