however, Captain Boyer, with customary sagacity and foresight, had traded all the sealskins for the ivory tusks collected by Chief Oo-gloo as admission fees to the ball game. The officers from the cutter went all through our little ship; then they apologized for having detained us. Our captain accepted this apology with grave and quiet dignity.
A month later we safely entered Frisco Bay. Before leaving the ship, Captain Boyer called me into his cabin for a little refreshment. “Moggs,” he said genially as we clinked glasses, “we’ve had a successful voyage; we both brought back good ‘ivory.’ I am well satisfied, as I know you are, too. There is just one thing that I can’t quite understand, and which I have thought over no little”
“What is that, cap’n?” I broke in.
“That little incident of the burning snow!” he replied gravely.
“Simple enough—when you understand,” I replied. “You see, Oscar is a firm believer in preparedness. He didn’t know just what sort of a mix we might be in before that game ended, so he came prepared for any eventuality. Now, that snow—before he touched a match to it—was plenteously sprinkled with camphor pellets! If you have any doubts about snow burning under such conditions, just try it some time. I can honestly say that it was the quick wit and ingenuity of our surgeon which saved the day for us and brought the triumph of defeat to Pitcher Bearson”
“To Oscar, the surgeon!” broke in the captain, raising his glass, “and his torch of burning snow!”
Lilith
By Roy Le Moyne
Ah, Lilith, let us twine these flowers
Around the day’s sweet sanctity
While Love strings all the shining hours
Upon the flesh’s rosary . . . . . .
For things turn back that now are ours
Into a growing yesterday.
Come, let us speak of lovely things
Close to our hearts while yet we may,
For Night shall wrap her star-strewn wings
About us when we go our way . . . . . .
All songs turn back that Love now sings
Into a growing yesterday.
A time comes when the heart is fed
Upon the things we build to-day
And things unfinished and unsaid
Shall rise to scorn, and well they may . . . . . .
Then Love shall stand among the dead
Who haunt the growing yesterday.
