Argosy All-Story Weekly, July 11, 1925 — page 158: what you’re looking at

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

‘ 312 Lights were gleaming uptown. Minna stood and looked wistfully at them. She had lived all her life in Cathead. Then she turned toward the right along the pier. She walked slowly, but with no indeci- sion. Down the creaking wharves she tramped, toward the breakwater of rocks and cedar poles at the harbor mouth. The rain had slackened. The pier head light glowed down mistily upon her, pinken- ing the soiled white dress, for a moment lending a flush to her cheeks, brushing a yellow luster across her flying hair. lips were open, as if she might be smil- ing. She strode on, toward the end of the breakwater, out of the light. Ahead lay the lake, dark, enduring, masterful, heed- less of women’s anxieties. A stiff current ran westward out of the harbor mouth, sucking at the piling, break- ing the course of. rollers, carrying with it a burden of sand and sticks, dead leaves, pieces of old boats, all the refuse of a care- less world ashore. Beyond the bar the _ lake lay sixty fathoms deep. THE U Her — ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. ~ Robin did not go home immediately. He sat on the floor with his ill-smelling nets and thought the matter over for a while. Funny, Minna acting that way. He re- membered nothing about a fire. But there lay his boots, there his slicker. Certainly they looked wet. He arose shakily and poured another drink. ‘oo bad, drinking so much. Minna made such a fuss. Well, a man deserved a bit of a spree after saving ten kids. He wandered home at last. looked empty, no light in the kitchen. Minna must be in bed. Well, she wasn’t any more tired than he. He stum#led up the stairs, trying to think what it was he’d forgot. Oh, yes, that bowery dance! Minna must be over there skylarking yet, she wasn’t in bed. He sat down on the edge of a chair. and pulled off a boot. She’d get home all right. Funny, he couldn’t re- member going after those kids. He was very sleepy. END Lv} Le] WHITE COAL ( Hydro- Electrical) DEEP thunders in the gorge, The white-fanged rapids rage: And—miles below—men forge Plowshares and swords of life Wherewith in tw ain to wage The arts of peace and strife. Under the drifting clouds The rapids tos s their manes; While—miles below—the crowds Toil in the turbined mills, And count their minted gains Born in the woodland rills. With clamor and with foam The rapids seethe and sweep— While—miles below—a home Of industry aspires, And while the world’s asleep Paints heaven with its fires! Olin Lyman, — ce = f= ~ 900 The house. . < > vs