Authentic Science Fiction Monthly No. 47 — page 132: what you’re looking at

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

How many meetings have.there been like this? TRYST by WILLIAM B. JOHNSON NDULANTLY she moves beneath the trees. Ala- baster is her skin. Silk-like. Yet no silk com- pares with it. Mist wreathes her as she moves. A silver - mist, a fitting garment. She is feeding on the leaves of trees which bend at her re- quest and so make easier her meal. Loved by the trees. The boughs caress her flanks. She is yet cloistered in sweet solitude, a maid, separ- ated as by custom from others of her species that she might, communing with the earthly things, negotiate the steps from youth to adult powers. Tended by the trees and flowers about her. Grasses, pale as honey, bend suppliant that she might move upon them. Trees and grass and 131 warm fiower blooms vie for the pleasure of her gentle touch. She is beautiful. Her lithe and vibrant form is supple. A queen of unsurpassed and milk-white aspect. Meditating. Her body ripples as she moves from tree to tree. They sup- plicate themselves for her attention. Wreathes of star- like insects, softly glowing, move about her as she glides. Envied, they, by a whole world of other creatures. Em- press of all nature, she. Dim-glowing is the forested and rolling continent in which is her abode. Belayered by swirling mists that cling about it. She needs no light from sun or stars to show her ob- stacles. For she perceives all things—or almost all. An- conmicloooks.Ccomnn