Argosy All-Story Weekly, August 9, 1924 — page 67: what you’re looking at

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

WITHOUT FEAR. D’Albret surmised that he could be none other than Bourdelais. But who was his messenger—the Indian who had sought to slay Rossignol and who had warned the Chickasaw, Pokasset, of their coming? Surely no Biloxi would dare venture alone in this enemy infested forest—and no Chickasaw could hope to remain within the confines of Fort Maurepas undetected. It was all most baffling. But Pokasset gave the order to resume their march and presently the party entered an open space where, beneath the shelter of innumerable skin covered huts, the main 217 body of the Chickasaws were sheltered from the sun. The two white men were led to a hut larger than the rest, and Pokasset bade them enter. For a few moments their eyes, adjusting themselves to the gloom of the interior could distinguish nothing, but soon a figure arose from a heap of furs and con- fronted them and, as D’Albret recognized the Indian, he shook his head perplexedly. The wounded brave, his right arm band- aged roughly with a piece of coarse cloth, was the same Indian whom he had seen that morning at Fort Maurepas conversing with Bourdelais—the Biloxi, Tesoto! TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK wv U le) MY JOYS "THESE are the joys of life I prize. The earth, The call of bird; the wind, the road, the skies; the grace of flower; An echo heard—at twilight hour. Give me these and make me wise— These are the gifts of God I prize. Dawns of shimmering golden silk: Pale moons glimmering like creamy milk; Night-breathing desert sands; Faint trails etched, in far flung lands. Dancing shapes in dead-branch fire: The pines’ sweet lute—the hemlock’s lyre. A mystic lure the white day long; The running moons; the owl’s dead song. The prayer-like haze of horizons; The snow flakes The stars! The sifting orisons. stars! Alive for me. The winding road’s hot mystery. With such as these, I lay me down, Yonder in the silver brown Of hedgerow, thorn, and meadow-dew, With galleon-dreams, re-dreamed, anew, The lights of town glim dim at me, Like glow worms yellowing the lea. These are the joys of life I prize— The earth, the wind, the road, the skies; The call, the lure, the yet-to-be, The mind’s unfathomed empery. Clem Yore. MICLOO (”) CO S (C@) nn