October 15, 1922

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CASTE

THE three Mahrattas, Sindhia, Holkar, and Bhonsla, were plotting the overthrow of the British, and the Peshwa was looking out of brooding eyes upon Hodson, the Resident at Poona. Up on the hill, in the temple of Parvati, the priests repeated prayers to the black goddess calling for the destruction of the hated whites. By W. A. FRASER78 min

THE TIMBER PIRATE

The Night of the Tempest THE sun went down that evening on a weird northern world. The wind, which had been pressing out of the east all day, had dropped as at some elemental sunset signal; but the great lake, lashed to fury, raced by windrow upon windrow of long, curling “shanty" waves — the terrible seas for which Superior in its wrath is peculiar. By CHARLES CHRISTOPHER JENKINS34 min

IN HIS OWN COIN

C. V. GROOME had left no friend behind him that evening he took flight from the Grand Central into his beloved Canadian North. At least, he left no friend to whom he cared to say: “Look here, Ami, I’ve got to talk this thing out. This thing on my mind gets more insistent instead of fading away, and I’ve got to talk it out with you. By T. MORRIS LONG STRETH31 min

MYRA

HUARD’S sensations were not those of pleasure. It was more a sense of curiosity that was bringing him back, a desire to see for himself what things had come to pass in the ten years that he had been away. It was strange to be returning, he thought, as he stood watching the foam churned up in the wake of the ship; spreading upon the black water like delicate white lace. By BEATRICE REDPATH23 min

BUMPS IN A BUMPER CROP

THERE WAS something of awe in the manner in which Farmer Elder heard the story, simple as it was. “You say," he repeated, as though he was struggling to grasp the full significance of the thing, “you say that Sid Siderman’s son way out in Saskatchewan has got a crop of fifteen thousand bushels of grain in one year! Gad! By GUY MORTON22 min

WOMEN and THEIR WORK

STARVING AND WRITING IN NEW YORK

I WAS NOT quite eighteen years when I made my entrance into New York City. I had a letter.from Mr. S— editor of Frank Leslie’s Magazine. Instead of the usual printed rejection slip, Mr. S— had written me a quarter page letter, in which he expressed an interest in my work and suggested that I should let his magazine see whatever else I had written besides the short story “regretfully returned. By ONOTO WATANNA11 min

October 11922