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THE MOTION PICTURE STORY MAGAZINE
shrank back from the sacrilege. Tenderly she raised the feathers, and then gathered into her hands some of the loose dirt to plant about them and support them. Her fingers struck something hard. She looked downward and beheld a glint of shining blue. A moment later and a great matrix of turquoise lay -uncovered before her. The skystone of happiness !
She started to her feet. A wailing cry, a half chant, as of some one mourning his dead, had come to her ears. She started, and there flooded into her eyes a light she had not known since the days before the Great Brother had left on his lonely mission. She knew that voice, yes, knew it after all these years of waiting, all these years of praying, of slow aging — Taoa !
Slowly the form approached as she ran to meet him at the Altar of the Great Spring. The head was swaying slowly. From the lips, in measured accents, were coming the heart-breaking sounds of the Song of Despair. She rushed forward, to throw herself
GREAT BROTHER RETURNS AND FINDS
THAT LITTLE STRANGER HAS
FOUND THE SKY-STONE
A chorus of
into the arms of the man who, like herself, had aged from privations and from heartaches. A look of gladness came into his eyes, then faded. The half -raised arms dropped.
' ' I have failed, ' ' he said slowly. ' ' Failed V ' The voice of the Little Stranger was soft and low. ■ ' No — for I was with you in spirit, and you were with me. I have found it, Taoa."
She held up the turquoise. Taoa half staggered. His voice grew hoarse. ' ' The sky-stone of happiness!" he burst forth, "the sky-stone ! You 've found it!"
' 'I found it where we should have looked for it in the first place," was the soft answer, "where happiness should always be found — at our own doorstep. ' ' singing came from above. The tom-tom burst forth in its muffled rhythm. Vague forms showed on the ledge of the pueblo. A new generation of Isleta was threading the steps of the Dance of the Green Boughs. These two, in their hearts, grew young again.
Discontent
By GEORGE W. PRIEST
Oh ! man is ne'er contented with his lot, so sages say ; In summer's heat we long for March, in winter time for May ; Our hungry hearts cry for romance when skies are dull and gray, We'd follow bold Aucassin, and with Nicolette we'd stray.
We long for other landscapes, new labors and new loves. And will not be contented tho the inner voice reproves ; Forgotten dreams and vain desires the vagrant winds arouse, With call to wander, dreamy-eyed, beneath the arching boughs.
But childhood's far behind us, and scant is our time for play; With work at hand, and mouths to feed, we cannot roam today. Yet romance is always near us, and small's the price to pay — A Motion Picture Show, my friend, is just across the way.