shallow, bowl-like depression. The starlight illumined it wanly. Frannie was down there, struggling in the grip of a blood-red, vegetable thing! A segment of it was wrapped around her, dragging her forward. The light of it drenched her with blood; its myriad green eyes glared throughout its waving length.
And ahead of it was a line of others of its kind, leading the way, slithering up and over the opposite slope!
The horrors of the Blood-red Day, the City of Ice, and the
diabolical designs of Rokk will be told in the thrilling
chapters that bring this story to an end
in next month's WEIRD TALES
The Three Witches
By ERNEST DOWSON
(Reprint)
All the moon-shed nights are over,
And the days of gray and dun;
There is neither may nor clover,
And the day and night are one.
Not an hamlet, not a city
Meets our strained and tearless eyes;
In the plain without a pity,
Where the wan grass droops and dies.
We shall wander through the meaning
Of a day and see no light,
For our lichened arms are leaning
On the ends of endless night.
We, the children of Astarte,
Dear abortions of the moon,
In a gay and silent party,
We are riding to you soon.
Burning ramparts, ever burning!
To the flame which never dies
We are yearning, yearning, yearning,
With our gay and tearless eyes.
In the plain without a pity,
(Not an hamlet, not a city)
Where the wan grass droops and dies.
