Argosy and Railroad Man's Magazine — page 179: what you’re looking at

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

THE HAMMER. 521 that is past. In London I escaped and wandered through the streets until I stum- bled in a drift of snow, and had not the strength to rise. I fell asleep, thinking to die, and instead I woke and found you. Isn’t that like a fairy tale?” He muttered something between his set teeth. They had come down the river toward the portion which supported long rows of houses on either bank. Yellow lights fled across the current, and as the barge passed the shaft of light would touch the gold hair of the boy crouched at the bow, the swarthy, muscular arms of the rowers, and last of all, glint on the emerald in Sonia’s hair. It was the gift of Sanseverino. Other barges were in view, drifting down- stream. Finally one came toward them, a monstrous galley brilliant with lights and (The loud with music and laughter. A dozen oars rhythmically swayed and flashed on e:ther side of it. Tt came closer. There were perhaps thirty people in the boat beside the rowers. In the high seat of honor in the waist of the galley sat a lady crowned with flowers. On either side of her a negro slave held aloft a bright lantern. Behind her leaned a man who whispered in her ear. : As they passed she turned and laughed up to him, It was Beatrice della Marca with Harry of Gilford. Peter’s little barge crept by them unnoticed. The great galley drove swiftly on into the night, leaving a shivering trail of laughter behind. Sonia glanced covertly at Peter. He was staring straight-before him and smiling into the dark, and Sonia leaned back with a sigh. She was content. End.) IN RETROSPECT 'HE sunlight filters through the smoke and dust And warms my sixteenth-story window-pane Where, seated at my desk, I plan a trust Or how to break one, which to me’s the same; It warms me and I dream of home again The way it looked when early spring first. showed In golden buttercups along the road. O spring! you are a rapture to the boy, And oh, the gipsy wanderings you provoke! IT now recall with what a truant joy T pulled the angieworm until he broke And waited at the pond with stone to soak The frog when he should swell his throat to sing The universal madness of the spring. Oft, while along the budding lane I’ve trod Barefoot and bathed in April’s golden sun, I've watched my father break the stubborn sod In fragrant, rippling furrows, one by one— But soon, too soon, those happy days were done, For I grew. up and had to guide that share, And so I'm glad, this spring, that I’m not there! Ralph Bacon comniclooolks.conn