. The Saturday evening post. e bottomof the canoe. Graves sat rigid with horror, watching aclear upward spurt of water, caught intrivial amazement at the disappearance ofthe steel. Then he saw Margarets face,staring and blanched with fear; WesleyBeaver, with a countenance expressionlessas wood, his mouth, at last, composed in athin line. There was no time for thought;the lake mounted with a swirl; and Graveshad a last glimpse of what seemed to himan incredible and terrible dignity, intowhich vainly he wanted to enter. He sank,but came again to the surface—a hardempty blue plane sweeping, troub


. The Saturday evening post. e bottomof the canoe. Graves sat rigid with horror, watching aclear upward spurt of water, caught intrivial amazement at the disappearance ofthe steel. Then he saw Margarets face,staring and blanched with fear; WesleyBeaver, with a countenance expressionlessas wood, his mouth, at last, composed in athin line. There was no time for thought;the lake mounted with a swirl; and Graveshad a last glimpse of what seemed to himan incredible and terrible dignity, intowhich vainly he wanted to enter. He sank,but came again to the surface—a hardempty blue plane sweeping, troubled, tothe far shore. He hesitated, racked by sickemotions, and then, helpless, swam stronglyaway. He was safe, but that was valueless tohim; he was nothing better than the greenbass he had contemptuously flung back tolife, the fish that, unable to distinguish be-tween sham and truth, had struck at thebrilliant tied feathers of a scarlet ibis fly,only to find, in the concealed barbed ste-rility, a mocking at his


Size: 2730px × 916px
Photo credit: © The Reading Room / Alamy / Afripics
License: Licensed
Model Released: No

Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookidsaturdayeveningp1933unse, bookpublisherph