THE LIGHTS BEYOND by Walter Cable A cool gray mist hovered closely over the city, carrying with it an indescribable hint of Spring, as though it already sensed the faint stir and throb of life. The awakening of a new world a world of illimitable possibilities, of sunshine, growth and joy. All this and more seen, as it were, through the dim gray curtain that sifted silently through the streets, pausing tentatively before each open doorway. Even the faint pop of bursting buds bore testimony. Almost, it seemed, the very restlessness of Spring was carried in the evening breeze. Spring with all its subtle hint of change. To Maisie Travis, as she lay on her narrow cot, it was a cooling draught to her fevered body. That and something more a promise; could it be of another day? Maisie loved the Spring. It seemed a part of her, and she of it. She was a creature of the Spring, full of changing moods, of lights and shadows. Even her airiness bespoke the Spring, and she loved the wild freedom of it all. It spoke to her of the inexorable march of life. It whispered of new fields to conquer. Perhaps it was only her superstition, but to Maisie the coming of Spring meant a new role to play. It was always thus; ever since she could remember it had stirred new fires in her. An odd restlessness would seize her, luring her on and on with an urge that was irresistible. It was almost a sixth sense a sixth sense that willed her forward, and each Spring struck from it a vibrant chord. Each Spring brought an unbidden call. Even as a little girl Maisie had heard its voice, and it had filled her with a vague sense of unrest, a longing she somehow could not define. Scoff as she might in the sunlight, she had wakened in the night-time to hear its echoes. As she grew she made a discovery. There were other things, highly imaginative perhaps, that called and beckoned too. The still small voice was not alone! Dimly she was conscious of them tiny points of light that sought to pierce the distance between themselves and her. Little flames that fascinated her with a queer magic that was at once a challenge and a call. And because she was a child, she sought to know and failed to understand. Her childish mind wondered at the awe of it. With each succeeding Spring Maisie's restlessness grew. The old scenes and faces became a torment to her. They mixed themselves up in fantastic patterns and danced in wild abandon with the lights beyond. Feverishly she sought to know their meaning. The voices once dimly heard, became louder and more persistent. Sometimes the lights grew to a blinding glare, and in those moments she sensed the latent powers of her soul. In them she dreamed her dream of greatness. She would rise above the world and conquer it, and the years would kiss her name with gentle touch and leave her richer for their passing. From that moment the lights that beckoned became her life, and hearing their call, she rose and followed them. That had been ten years ago. Tonight from her hospital cot Maisie Travis watched those years pass by again. Incredible speed of time! That there should be so many ot them! "Turn backward, turn backward, O Time . . ." was that the line she had learned? Ten years of . . . what? Disappointment and futile struggle, perhaps; yet here and there a note of triumph had crept in, too. Weary years that drained and sapped the soul? Yet she had lived them and found them good. Hunger and heartache and the emptiness of nights not spent alone yes, these were there in goodly measure. Each picture how clear they all were, and how near. Painfully she shifted, her face toward the window. The roar and surge that was Broadway seeped through the lesser noises, an echo of that momentous night ten years before when she had found herself alone on the threshold of her great adventure. The breathlessness of that night still lingered, though remote. She had pictured New York waiting to receive her, and she had enjoyed a moment pretending that the blaze of lights which greeted her arrival had been prepared for her coming. It had been a childish dream, but infinitely dear to her. The days and years had proved its childishness. In those days the lights beyond had dimmed somewhat. She had sought them and brighter lights had drowned them out. She had liked these new bright lights, had sung in their radiance, danced in their warmth and reflected the glory they wrapped wildly about her. . . . And there had been men, so many men. And the emptiness of nights not spent alone. . . . And the vast vacuum of night, and that other darkness within where the lights had gone out. Yet tonight she could see them tiny pin-points of flame. Above the bursting of buds and the silent swish of cool gray mist she could hear their voices as they beckoned. This time, she promised herself, she would follow and no lesser lights should intervene. For it was Spring again Spring with all its subtle hint of change. That short, swift crash of speeding steel that brought her here how rich a gift it had been! For it had given her life again without the bother of dying . . . life again, and hope. The long slender finger of mist that reached in through the window was like a cooling draught to her body . . . that and something more. A promise . . . could it be of another day? MY PRAYERS I do not pray for peace in times of war, I bargain not with gods to gain my ends, Nor do I beg and cry for this world's gold. I do not ask for power; I want no fame, I shun not life nor wait for immortality . . . These things will come. Great strife must cease at last, And all man's gods are patient bargainers. Wealth will come if it be Fortune's whim, Both power and fame are evanescent joys; Soon death will bring tranquillity . . . Till then my prayers are blasphemies. Ten LONELINESS by Walt Prothero THERE are two kinds of loneliness, the loneliness of despair and the loneliness of the great which is sometimes called aloofness. The loneliness of despair is terrible and gloomy. A prisoner sentenced to be shot at dawn, lies in a dark, dank cell. There is no one to talk to, no one to console him. His mind runs back to the days of his youth. He sees himself with his boyhood friends basking on the banks of a swimming hole. He hears their laughter and shares their jokes he once knew so well. He remembers the family gathered around the table on a holiday; they are in a festive mood, laughing and bantering with each other. More salient memories of his boyhood detach themselves from his mind; then, suddenly a rat running across the corner of the cell and a scream of some demented prisoner echoes weirdly down the corridor, and suddenly brings him back to the realization of where he really is. He sees his only companion, the bizarre shadow thrown on the wall from the flickering light of the candle; it seems to be doing a dance of death like a puppet jerking at its strings. For a moment the macabre surroundings and his loneliness combine to overwhelm him and his screams mingle with those of the madman in the musty corridors. Imagine Magellan, in the days just before he discovered the passage to the Pacific, he was in the loneliness of despair. His men, emaciated and gaunt, seemed to sway with each breath of the icy, southern winds, and their burning eyes seemed to follow him wherever he went. Like wraiths they would stare and seem to point bony fingers of accusation at him. And, in the seclusion of his after-deck, he would feel this loneliness envelope him like an icy shroud. He would look into the cold, gray, empty skys; and into the equally cold, gray, and empty seas; their very sullenness and empty spaces over-whelming to his state of mind. He had no one to comfort him. He was an alien to his men. They were born under a different flag than he, and even the planks he trod belonged to a different nation than he did. Indeed, a loneliness of this kind must be a terrible thing. Aloofness, as sometimes the loneliness of the great is called, can be awe-inspiring. When we see a great, gnarled cedar, standing alone at the edge of the timber line, we wonder at it. It doesn't cluster with the rest of the trees seeking shelter from the fury of the elements. No, it braves the storm alone, sure of its power and strength. It holds its crest up high as if in contempt for the trees seeking shelter in the swale below. It watches the wraith-like storm clouds drift through the canyons, it stands grimly silent when rain and snow lashes at its tough trunk, and it is still calm when sunbursts come through the clouds like golden shafts of light, drying the jewel-like drops of rain on its branches. It stands alone on its rocky prominence, king of all it surveys, "Silent upon a hill in Darien." This is a royal loneliness, it is not terrible like the preceding type, but it is awe-inspiring and commands respect. STRANGE by WALTER CABLE Strange, isn't it? We never miss the floodlights of Life Until the shadows conquer them. The world seems eternally green Until we discover that the leaves Have all turned yellow And fallen into the dust. Strange, isn 't it? LOVE'S WINTER by DEAN JESSOP Winter came into my heart And stole my life To etch in frosty counterpart Designs of strife. LIMBO by JACK BRANHAM Fog. Murky. Desolate. And Butcher's lonely tonight. Tough guy wouldn't crack, wouldn't tell his name. Not even in the chair. Heaven . . . Pete, "No Record." Gabe, "No Record.'' J. C, "No Record." Big Shot, "No Record." Hell . . . Satan, "No Record." Butcher's lonely tonight. Eleven