Futurist Stories   By: Margery Verner Reed

FUTURIST STORIES

MARGERY VERNER REED

NEW YORK MITCHELL KENNERLEY 1919

COPYRIGHT 1919 BY MITCHELL KENNERLEY

FUTURIST STORIES

MOONBEAMS

THE DREAM MUFF

ROSE PETALS

IN A FIELD

INCALCULABLE

A NEAPOLITAN STREET SONG

IN ALGIERS

CANDLES

IGOR

TWO HAD LIVED

THE FIFTH SYMPHONY

THE MAD ARTIST

OLD SCORES

THE LAST

ASHES

NANCY TURNER

THE PAWN SHOP KEEPER

SOMETHING PROVINCIAL

CONFLICT

THAT NIGHT HIS SORROW WAS LIFTED

MOONBEAMS [ To V. Z. R. ]

IT was a glorious winter's night. Through a blue haze one saw the ground, covered with snow, shining under the magical moon. And the trees of the forest were also covered with snow; great clusters glistened in their branches. Almost as light as day. Not a bleak light, but an enchanting one, which dazzled in the cold, brisk air. Into the woods walked the Spirit of Art. As he gazed at the surrounding beauty he grew sad, and wondered why he had never reproduced such splendor the moon the snow Oh, he must try again Tomorrow he would do better.

Then came the Spirit of History and he too grew sad as he gazed into the quietude of the night. His hands were soiled with blood, with dark hideous crimes. And he asked why he had committed such deeds with all this beauty around him. Why could he not have likened history to these woods where the snow was white. Tomorrow he would do better.

And then came the Spirit of Philosophy and like the others he wondered why he had never been under the spell of the Moonbeams before why had he filled the minds of men with entangled masses of dark thought, instead of teaching them the beauty, the enchantment of a night like this. Tomorrow he would do better.

The three Spirits met and talked together. They would go back to the cities and begin anew. They would bring the spell of the woods back with them and teach men unknown things.

A NEW Era was about to be born.

MORNING dawned cold and raw, a bleak gray light shone in the deserted streets. The three Spirits returning from their wandering all too soon forgot the magic spell of the woods the snow the Moon and fell to work once more among the sordid things of the day; making Art and History and Philosophy only grayer darker

AND in the woods where all was beauty, the Moonbeams shone only for the fairies as they danced under the trees, and now and then for a wistful human soul that had strayed into the splendor of the night.

THE DREAM MUFF [ To I. K. McF. ]

ONE more day of horror had ended for Russia. At this hour once the lamps along the Neva would have been lighted, the laughter of sleigh riders would have resounded over the snow. But now the streets were dark deserted save by some wandering homeless people, seeking refuge in the night.

NO one seemed to know exactly what had happened or the cause

THERE was no ruler no order

DARKNESS and chaos.

A GIRL, perhaps of twelve, sat huddled in a ragged shawl on the steps of a closed church.

THERE had been a time when a fire burned

A MOTHER a father

BROTHERS

THEY had gone no one knew where. The mother was royalist.

SHE used to sew for a great lady a Princess.

PERHAPS the jailers of a prison could tell where she was.

ONCE in the life that was only a memory was it real or was the biting cold was the hunger what had always been her mother had taken her to the house of the great lady

HER eyes had opened in childish wonder, as the Princess took her from room to room.

ON a great couch of palest blue, among cushions that were all lace and blue and pink a muff.

IT had been carelessly thrown down she had loved it.

HER greatest desire had been to touch it to feel the soft gray fur on her face.

A PIERCING wind blew from the frozen river the muff if it would come it would keep her warm

SHE would put her hand in it and hold it to her heart.

THROUGH half closed lids she saw the muff curving and swaying in the air like a gray bird.

IT was looking for her there were so many freezing children in the streets she was small for her age