Argosy All-Story Weekly, January 13, 1923 — page 172: what you’re looking at

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

iO Sees 634 grasses—to the right and the left of him; above and below him. An odor—reminiscent of crushed cucum- bers—became increasingly stronger—even stronger than that of the pungent ointment. The hissing of snakes was like the rust- ling of autumn leaves when a mighty wind blows. Heavy weights pressed about his body, u U ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY, his legs, his arms. Something cold—clam- my-—slimy—squirmed across his feet. He screamed in maddened terror; with one tremendous effort he attempted to shake off the crushing weights. He screamed again and—then was 5 still. The sound like the rustling of autumn leaves when a mighty wind blows, seemed to be ever increasing in volume! U u THE GOLFOMANIAC THWART the clubhouse porch he walks With earnest, hurried tread; And out across the turf he stalks Like herald grimly sped. Behind is home, behind are cares Of stocks and bonds and wheat— What matters wife, or bulls and bears, When bogey is to beat? And now he halts beside the box That marks, anear, the lea: And now in manner orthodox He molds his little tee; ‘And now he draws his driver forth, Like blade from out a sheath; And now he gazes west and north, And stamps upon the heath. - He waggles—with compelling force His eager club he shakes; He waggles—and along the course A stern survey he takes; He waggles—for the distant hole Again he keenly sights; He waggles—and with heart and soul The waiting sphere he smites. He’s off—atrudging down the green, O’er smiling hill and plain; But every tender rural scene Presents its-charms in vain. Not his the springtime’s fragrant lore, Not his the purple fall; His mind, egad, is on the score, His eye is on the ball! Edwin 1. Sabin. comichbook (E@)