Argosy: The Short Story Magazine — page 24: what you’re looking at

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

24 MARY LEE SETTLE scraping over food was rising up through the still air as I mounted the stairs, so I just couldn’t feel very frightened. I tried. I was afraid no one could be pizic on such a bright Sunday morning. Even my great-grandmother seemed less intent on me. As I started up the last flight of stairs to the attic, I heard a new sound, and a thrill tinkled through me. It was the weak sound of singing. She—I knew it was she—was singing. How terrible! I kept on climbing. My head was above the floor of the attic, and I saw that the door was open. She was sitting in the rocking-chair, facing the door, with her knees spread out under the Mother Hubbard. Her lanky hair was let down and lay in a black tangle around her shoulders and over her floppy bosom. She held a brown book in one hand. It looked like a Bible. In her other hand was a bottle of corn whisky with a horseshoe on the label. Her face was red and damp, and bleached-looking in spots. Sweat stood out all along her forehead and made her hair stick. She was singing—slobbering and singing, rocking back and forth. She slobbered and sang, “‘ J was washed in the blood of the Lamb.” She didn’t even see me. I didn’t start to cry until I got to the second floor. Then I felt my face go hot and begin to twist. I couldn’t help it. I just couldn’t help it. Aunt Emiline came out of her bedroom door and saw me. She said, ‘‘ Good lord a’ mercy, what’s the matter ? Are you sick?”’ But I couldn’t tell her what was the matter. I couldn’t tell anybody what was the matter, not even my grandmother. When some of the aunts were standing around later, after I’d thrown up and was beginning to feel better and enjoy being in bed, Aunt Phorena said, “If it ain’t one damn thing, it’s two. What with having mother’s medium in the attic in what mother thinks is a trance, and the children obviously coming down with something, it’s too much, just too much.”’ I knew what a medium was. I knew all about that. Mamma saw I was paying attention and asked me again what hurt. I couldn’t think of anything to say. I didn’t want to get my grandmother into trouble with all my aunts, so I said it was my leg that hurt. My Aunt Eliza said it was growing-pains. * * * Of course the game is worth the candle, but it 1s often better played without one. KATHERINE MANSFIELD comiclooks.comnn