Argosy All-Story Weekly, May 17, 1924 — page 110: what you’re looking at

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

260 yet,” Sid answered, gently. ‘‘ They was hitched to a wagon loaded with two tons and a half of nitroglycerine! ” Solemn Johnson and Dirty Shirt Smith stumbled into the stuffy, suffocating, melt- ingly hot tar-paper cook-shack, and dropped despondently down on the bench along the oilcloth covered mess table. Sing Low, the Chinese cook, stepped to the kitchen door. ‘““'Wantee slupper?”’ Solemn and Dirty Shirt nodded. ‘“ Pletty latee,” Sing Low said, mopping his streaming brow with a corner of his ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. apron. “Eight thirty o’clock. Gottee nuthin’ lef’ but some nicee boiled po’k an’ clabbage!”’ Solemn Johnson shuddered; his great frame seemed convulsed; there was tighten- ing of the muscles of his throat. A slow grin spread over the sweat marked face of Dirty Shirt Smith. Never yet had Solemn Johnson broken his word, failed to pay a bet; it was too late now to begin to be a welcher; his voice husky with emotion, he muttered: “ Fetch it!” Next Week: ROMANCE ROCKS RED BLUFF U Uw le} THE RURAL BARD BR heck, I reckon I was born a poet, . I allus feel the signs when spring comes round, | But by the time the autumn’s here I know it, When viewin’ nature’s lyrics of the ground. I ain’t no hand for tunin’ up a lyre To sing about the moon and stars that shine, But, dern it all, thar’s something to inspire The way the punkin’s gildin’ up the vine! The poppies look real purty, I’m allowin’, But, gosh, that’s all the pesky things kin do, And when the furrers of my thoughts I’m plowin’ ° I want to sing of things that’s useful, too; So what’s the matter with the punkin’ meller— ’ A dipperful of sunlight from the sky— A lyin’ here and gettin’ fat and yeller To later make an epic of a pie? Folks say I’m plumb poetic when they know me, And I opine I kind of got the knack, But I am from the grand old State of Show Me And like my poems flavored some with fact; And though them city poet fellers spurn it, And sing of bird and bloom and dronin’ bee, When I start out to write an ode, gol dern it, The humble punkin’s good enough for me! Ella Bentley Arthur. : Gomichbooks (C@