Argosy All-Story Weekly, October 7, 1922 — page 148: what you’re looking at

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

294 “T’m afraid—” ‘Your Never in your life. you afraid of?” “ Betty, are you sure that some time you won’t—remember ?”’ Beatrice laughed gently. She lifted his chin, and two slim fingers drew down the collar of his jersey, baring his brown throat. Beatrice pressed a soft round kiss on the head of the tattooed snake. What are Stephen, standing up in the stern of a shore boat, brought her neatly alongside the Windflower’s quarter. Richard and his sister, standing by the shrouds, and decided that he had never seen two more radiantly happy people. He grinned. ‘“‘ Stephen,” said Beatrice, “ though I’m THE oJ Le) He looked at ° ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. afraid you won’t do it very well, you’ll have to play the heavy brother, after all.” ‘“‘T guess I'll do my best,” said Stephen. “Do you really know how to give away a bride?” asked Beatrice. Stephen motioned them to get into the boat. When they were both safely in the stern sheets together he looked reflectively at Richard. “It beats me,” he said with brotherly frankness, “how you could ever have thought you would get to windward of Betty.” He sculled them ashore. The boat touched gently, and they stepped out upon the sand. The sinking sun gilded the creek with soft fire. The three Marneys, linking arms, wan- dered up the hill to Mersea Holt. END. U U RECOGNITION N Bermuda, where the sea Is a bowl of sun-kilned blue, I will conjure up a slew Out in Kansas or will be Buried to the waist in snow While observing roses blow. In Vermont, when every hill Is a greenery that hides Fern and moss and tinkling rill, I will scud on Fundy tides; In a smoking Catskill log I will smell Pacific fog. In the western desert, hours From the nearest settlement, I will watch the fairy towers Of a city from my tent; Through the silénce hear its hum Urgent like an Arab drum. In New York, the town itself, Rubbed and deafened by its rush, Ill surrender to the hush Of some high Sierra shelf. I now recognize my breed In the wind-blown tumbleweed. ¢ Richard Butler Giaenger. comiclbooolx C©