The Argosy, Vol. 76, No. 3 — page 189: what you’re looking at

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

BRICKS WITHOUT STRAW. She was still sitting where the colo- nel had found: her, and the medicos said that she was suffering from paralysis of the great cerebral cortex, superinduced by mental shock, or some such bosh as that. Buzzy, his grubby little finger in his mouth, stood for a moment at the door, with that sheepish, abashed grin that children who have been surprised in some near-naughty act sometimes give, and her eyes wavered to his face. She started a little, perhaps—perhaps she looked dazed. “Why, Buzzy dearie,” she said. ‘Why in the world aren’t you in bed? Why, we'll just have to get after *Tachia with a sharp stick. Why, you ought to be in bed.” That was all. Seven hours had been as completely sponged from her con- sciousness as though she had been asleep—and with no more ill effect. The colonel didn’t retwe. The Mo- €59 ros had felt the relentless grip of the mailed fist, whose existence they had considered mythical. They wanted no more waiting in wall dungeons for the appearance of a juramentado machine-gun, and they remained quiescent for a year, which, by the way, is a record for those lati- tudes—and it was all done without a battle, after all. So pleased were the powers that they offered, and the colonel accepted, his general’s star. His name will remain in the honor roll of wise commanders, a _ result that was not hindered by Fancher’s last’ confidential telegram to his chief: “ Pomeranian peaceful. Brown snatches sculptor. Banting titillates elephants. Emma is no hog.” _ Which actually read: ‘‘ Masterly stroke of commander completely clears situation. Sultan seeks treaty. Sug- gest substantial reward—’” DEATH THE LEVELER. THE glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantial things; ‘There is no armor against Fate; Death lays his icy hand on kings: Scepter and Crown | Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill: But their strong nerves at last must yield; They tame but one another still: Early and late They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to death. The garlands wither on your brow, Then boast no more your mighty deeds} Upon Death’s purple altar now See where the victor-victim bleeds. Your heads must come To the cold tomb: Only the actions of the just Smell sweet and blossom in their dust. | James Shirley. COMicdoo S CO@