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THE MOTION PICTURE STORY MAGAZINE
you — I trust you; isn 't that enough?" .
Then, as he still hesitated, trembling, uncertain, she came close to him.
1 ' Kiss me , dear," she said; "you've never kist me!"
With a sigh that was almost a moan, he bent to meet the lovely, smiling lips ; but, ere he touched their sweetness, he raised his head again, with a sharp, decisive gesture.
"No!" he cried; "I must not — I must tell you "
She flung up her hands, with a pretty, shrinking gesture, as if warding off a blow. Her cheeks were paling now, but she shook her head bravely.
' ' See, I will not let you speak, ' ' she laughed — laid her slender, sensitive fingers upon his face, to stop his words — and staggered back instantly,
THE FACE!" SHE MOANED
like one smitten with a mortal blow!
"Walter!" she shrieked; "oh, God!— Walter!" Step by step, eyes dilated, face blanched, hands thrust out as if to keep him from her, she moved away from him.
"The face!" she moaned ; ' ' the face in the darkness! Oh, go — go quickly — t h e face!"
For one long, anguished moment the man 's eyes gazed at her, and in their depths burned pain and love and longing and despair. Then, with a hopeless gesture, he bowed his head, turned softly, and went out into the gathering dusk. And as he walked, the air around him was filled with close-whispering voices that chanted shrilly: "There is no hope — none. The face in the darkness — the face in the darkness!"
To The Motion Picture Story Magazine
I wrote a Moving Picture play And told my friends about it,
Describing it as new and gay — They smiled and didn't doubt it.
And they are talking, far and near :
"I'll write a play some day !" Now I am asking, loud and clear : Who hasn't tried to write a play?
The milkman and the plumber, too, The man who gets the ashes,
The cook who cooks our daily stew, The laundry girls and hashers,
Our carpenter and tinner.
Essayed the Moving Picture art,
And the bum without his dinner Has contributed his part.
And when I see the show each day, I scarce control my feelings ;
I see how much they please the jay, And illustrate his dealings.
Diogenes, with lantern lit,
Went searching for an honest mortal, And, with his odd, archaic kit,
He paused at everybody's portal.
A longer quest than his I plan, About the world I mean to stray To find the woman, child, or man,
Who hasn't tried to write a play.