Pulp Fiction, 1922 · page 73 of 187
Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 73: what you’re looking at
A restored page from Pulp Fiction, 1922. Page through the whole issue in the reader above.
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Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
a Oe,” protested Garry: ‘ they we 'e go’ lle can't have anything to do with the murder, on to let yo we 1! you!” Rie, ve Exactly. You tell me; but you don't Garry drew a ae ead them know any more than I do about it! Sup- Very well. ei i rei: a pose we read them and see!” agreed. He held out nis Nand tut ©” TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK 7 v vu i) = " A SPRIG OF MYRTLE "[ HERE is a bed of myrtle by the house ~ It is the flower of memory, they say- She set it gayly there, a gay young bride It blossoms there for strangers, now, to-day: Yes, strangers now are living where she dwelt, There in the house to which she came, a bride— Love in her eyes, and roses at her belt, Her young, adoring mate, tall, at her side: And, oh, she needs to pass it every day, As to her little cottage she goes by! Above the stranger voices, glad and gay, Does she, I wonder, hear her first born cry? Do well remembered voices call to her, The laughing voices of her vanished brood, As she goes by? And does she wince to see The strangers in the doorway where she stood To give her mother’s kiss to each in turn, When each had learned, in turn, to say farewell? The door she softly closed, at last, one day Upon the past that she had loved so well! 1857 Do figures that her eyes alone can see Walk down the garden paths and bend above The flowers that had known her tender touch, Had blossomed to reward her care and love? Does she remember? Who of us can say? We marvel as we see her passing by, For she goes gallantly upon her way, And ever walks erect, with head held high! And always on her lips there is a smile, But once I saw her, when no one was by, Pause at the gate uncertainly a while, Then slowly turn and enter haltingly! But, once within, she swiftly sped to where The myrtle bloomed—a moment there caressed Its blossoms! Then she rose, without a tear And passed—a sprig of myrtle at her breast ! Roselle Mercier M ‘Ccomicbooks.com