troubadour

by horace p sternwall

i am a wandering troubadour traveling from town to town i long for a lady’s soft amour but receive a burgomaster’s frown i grieve for the glorious days of yore when gallantry ruled the earth for heroic knighthood my heart is sore though i be of humble birth how little joy to walk a land in which poetry never flowers where love must tremble at the priest’s raised hand and mammon cruelly glowers o black-clad men of reason who lay waste to the woods and fields in what untimely season must you set wolves on a poet’s heels? we are on this earth to love and for no other cause no angels line the skies above to enforce your cruel laws i am a wandering troubadour traveling from town to town i long for a lady’s soft amour but receive a burgomaster’s frown

old chums in chicago

by horace p sternwall

i had long suspected cousin mark of murdering grandmother. wishing to get to the bottom of the matter i requested a leave of absence during the christmas holiday and journeyed back to the cedars, an undertaking i found quite lacking in stirring up nostalgic memories. by good fortune cousin mark was away, visiting old chums in chicago. i had a long talk with a gardener who had been in the employ of the estate since the aforementioned unpleasantness, and i prevailed on him to tell his tale. it was as i suspected, and after assuring the fellow that his livelihood would not be compromised i notified the authorities. i am retired now, and live alone at the cedars with only one servant. as i sit by the low fire with a good crackling log during the long chilly nights i often reflect on cousin mark and am drawn to the conclusion that he was guided not by malice, but only by weakness.

at last

by nick nelson

"the clown will see you now, mr dawkins." ralph stood up. he had been waiting forty years for this moment.