Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 102: what you’re looking at

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

728 So he connected up, and strike me dead if the first thing I didn’t hear was Poll’s voice, the same voice that used to sing them tinny old Woolworth pieces and make them sound like heaven. Well, there’s some things only the poets can find the words to talk about—and I ain’t no Shelley—but I’m telling you it— got me. That night I decided to pack a couple of shirts and a dozen new neckties and blow for home. She wasn’t at the same place she used to stay, so I looked up this dame Annie. ‘“* Where’s Poll?” I asked. “Gee, Bill!” she drawled. ‘‘ When did you romp in? Say, you look great after all these years. Bet you’ve made a pile of cush. Set down and I'll look up a cup of tea, kid.” ‘““Where’s Poll?” I insisted. “ Ain’t seen her for a bow-wow’s age. Guess she’s singing for some radio people or something—giving concerts. I dunno just what. Say, kid, remember the night we tod- died into that restaurant and—” “Ye-ah, Annie, sure. I remember. U ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. Where’s them radio people you was talking about?” “Oh, down to Newark. Wait, I got Poll’s telephone number somewheres around. She’s staying in New York. Said for me to call her up if I wanted a job,” { grabbed the number and beat it. “So-long, Bill!” called Annie, pleasant, out of the second-story window. ‘“ Drop in again some time.” “« Sure, sure!” I yelled back and run down the street like a couple policemen after a rum-runner. Poll’s hangout was a swell one, all right— palm trees in front, marble hall, elevator and everything. I begin to think that may- be [ better not see her after all. But the coon boy said she was in and to come up, so I had to go. The door opened and there was Poll, her eyes still big and brown. i come in and we didn’t say nothing, “ Poll,” I sputtered finally, “ would you like to marry a darn fool?” “No,” she returned. “I would like to marry you, Bill.” Can you beat it? U U UPON GRADUATING SOME day, when I have ceased to hear The scarlet songs my pulses sing, Forgotten dreams, turned stone to fear And found my flesh a stoic thing, Perhaps I'll know—that have not known— Why laughter lurks beyond the stars What preludes on west winds are blown From pole to pole; and why the bars Of summer moonlight urgent lie Across the green breast of the grass; And to what purpose men must die, As furtive shadows pause, and pass. ll sit, remotely, in the sun, And read these answers in the air, And yet—when all is said and done, When once I know, I shall not care. Faith Baldwin Cuthrell. Go NOOK (C@