Pemrose Lorry, Radio Amateur

“Good morning, Daytime!” A girl stood upon the gray stone steps of a Lenox mansion and, looking up, answered the first lovely smile that young day flung down to her as, robed in...

“Goodness! can it be-e—am I dreaming that I’m Pemrose—Pemrose, ‘listening in’ on something, picking up sounds from the air with a wonderful ring—radio ring—that her father has m...

Old Andrew’s hand went to his head. The girl sank to her knees beside her waking flower clock. For her the end of the world had come, heralded by that mysterious pitch pipe in t...

“It m-must have been the trees,” she ventured—her glance in the direction of Una, the flower sprite, said that she was accustomed to the whims of a girl as timid as she was fine...

“Well—‘Jack!’ Hullo, Unie! Haven’t you said good-bye to your flower clock yet? Good-bye for six weeks to your flower clock! Oh-h! I’m so excited over the start I just don’t know...

It was the “yamf” of a fox again. The sun was high now. The brown byroad stretched away like a ribbon between the fringing woods that rose on either side of it, screening the mo...

“We’re ‘gracie’ without, as well as within.” Pemrose danced up to the gray-haired chauffeur, with the humorous eye—her own blue as the wild chicory, that wayside friend, by the...

“Oh! it’s not the dusty highway, That—Camp Fire Girls don’t mind! And it’s not the thirsty hiking, There are always springs—to find. Oh! it’s not the mountain climbing, Our jol-...

“Well! _What_ a funny footprint! It’s a woman’s track, too, with spikes on the heel. Now, gracious! it couldn’t be that somebody else—somebody else has been trying my radio game...

“It’s ‘up to us’, then, to put a good face on its heavy heart by being extra chipper,” laughed Dorothy Bush—a fair-haired girl. “We’ll be in luck if it doesn’t rain more than it...

“Um-m. If you ask me, I’ll say she’s as rank a witch as ever rode on ragwort—I’ll say so! The wife she was talking about her jest now, when the thunder woke us hoping she’d ridd...

In what had come to be known as the “shack corner” of the cabin on the sidehill—the radio shack—Pemrose Lorry uttered the challenge into the microphone, small mouthpiece, making...

Pemrose, wild with the welcome of the mountains and the triumph of that late long-distance talk with her father—to say nothing of a step, at any rate, towards a secret code for...

“They go so well together, don’t they, mother and son?” said the latter, stroking Revel’s silky mane, “Revelation, with his coat a brighter chestnut, slighter, taller—faster—alt...

Treffrey Graham, aviator, Polytechnic student, youth of nineteen in whom East and West met on breezy ground, for most of his life had been spent on the other side of the contine...

So quickly, had that girl rolled down the moss-seamed rock, a dummy—a bundle of inanimate clothing—that such wild clutchings as her poor hands made at moss and grass and helples...

It was Una, a bell-shaped white flower, striped with pink, the light, filmy costume divided into the three-lobed corolla and five-sepaled calyx of the erratic little wild flower...

It was Dorothy who gave vent to this extinguisher, piling on more dry brush and resinous pine logs until not a spark in the firmament, planet or fixed star, dared to vie with th...

A fire—the realization swept these twenty chips of that grand old block called Woman, like a wind which made their teeth chatter—a fire which had unusual elements of horror in it.

“Una Grosvenor!” A weary Guardian, who had done the work of ten women, in saving the sidehill, in saving thousands of dollars worth of thoroughbred horseflesh, in saving the who...

In the dawn-blink the gray dawn-blink, Pemrose Lorry sat before her radio instruments. All night long, when she was not out searching upon the mountain, she had been sending out...

Near by a woman stood staring at her; a woman whose transient likeness to herself, as the light caught her face, too—her too brilliant dark eyes—made her a thousand times the mo...

“I tell you I’m not going a step further—not going to ride any further—until I stop and ‘listen in!’ This—this lit-tle ring-set,” chokingly, “that’s why I brought it—brought it...

“If it weren’t for the trees, we ought to be able to see them now. But—merciful hop toads! this trail is crooked enough to break a snake’s back, isn’t it?”

“Aunt Margot is getting better—Margaret her real name is—and I don’t know that I ought to call her ‘aunt’ after what she did to me ... but do you know I can’t help feeling sorry...