Seabury Quinn

one horde that struggle through the dusk with eyes that look in keen despair upon life's radiant hollow husk and find no hint of beauty there one horde that laugh and loiter here who drink and clothe their bodies well who sing away the whole rich here and haunt the twisted streets of hell a few that work and watch and pray who dream nor whirls from out the strife a few that will not turn away but linger heart and hand with life life

THE STONE IMAGE by Seabury Quinn Why is it, I wonder, that there must always be a rift in the lute, a fly in the ointment, a gnat in the ice-cream soda? Take Betty and me, for example.

If I might be allowed to borrow a term from our spiritualist friends, I would say that never were husband and wife more thoroughly en rapport than Betty and I.

When I call down from the bathroom and ask her where in blazes her what-do-you-call-it is, she knows perfectly well that I'm inquiring of the whereabouts of her crème chalima.

THE DUMMY AND THE VENTRILOQUIST by Harold Hersey who shall say that his love was not good for the dummy of cloth and wax and wood i know that more curious things exist than the love of a dreaming ventriloquist he liked to percher on his knee combing her black hair lovingly then talk by the hour just as though she understood and ought to know her chatter merged with his and twice i know he struck her it wasn't nice repenting he bought her costly things gowns rare necklaces and rings she would sit at the table talking to him and cry if refused the slightest whim once in a rage of jealousy he even tried to strangle me one night they found him on the floor stark dead each year i wonder more why killing himself he never wrote of the dagger he sank in her wooden throat End of section 13 The Dummy and the Ventriloquist LIFE by Roy Lemoine one horde that struggle through the dusk with eyes that look in keen despair upon life's radiant hollow husk and find no hint of beauty there one horde that laugh and loiter here who drink and clothe their bodies well who sing away the whole rich year and haunt the twisted streets of hell a few that work and watch and pray who dream nor whirls from out the strife a few that will not turn away but linger heart and hand with life life

THE STONE IMAGE by Seabury Quinn Why is it, I wonder, that there must always be a rift in the lute, a fly in the ointment, a gnat in the ice-cream soda? Take Betty and me, for example.

If I might be allowed to borrow a term from our spiritualist friends, I would say that never were husband and wife more thoroughly en rapport than Betty and I.

When I call down from the bathroom and ask her where in blazes her what-do-you-call-it is, she knows perfectly well that I'm inquiring of the whereabouts of her crème chalima.