“Emil Petaja’s article on ‘Famous Fantasy Fiction’ was also fine but to me far too short. I could add dozens of other interesting anthologies to his list but a few of the more important ones will suffice. Mr. Petaja called attention to Dorothy Sayers’ ‘Omnibus of Crime.’ It should be noted that Miss Sayers edited a second series of stories entitled, ‘Detection, Mystery, and Horror.’ Another worth-while group of stories has been collected and edited by Montague Summers under the title, ‘The Supernatural Omnibus.’ This volume has a splendid introduction by the Rev. Summers and contains, among other stories, ‘The Upper Berth’ by Crawford, and ‘The Damned Thing’ by Bierce. Another well-rounded collection was gotten together by Colin de la Mare under the title, ‘They Walk Again.’ This book contains ‘The Voice of the Night’ by Hodgson and ‘The Beckoning Fair One’ by Oliver Onions. “Perhaps at times I have been somewhat harsh in my criticisms, but I am glad that you have taken them in the right spirit.” We know that you will be pleased to note that we are lengthening the installments of Lovecraft’s article hereafter. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Gods of the North by Robert E. Howard The clangor of the swords had died away, the shouting of the slaughter was hushed; silence lay on the red-stained snow. The pale bleak sun that glittered so blindingly from the ice-fields and the snow-covered plains struck sheens of silver from rent corselet and broken blade, where the dead lay in heaps. The nerveless hand yet gripped the broken hilt; helmeted heads, back-drawn in the death throes, tilted red beards and golden beards grimly upward, as if in last invocation to Ymir the frost-giant. Across the red drifts and mail-clad forms, two figures approached one another. In that utter desolation only they moved. The frosty sky was over them, the white illimitable plain around them, the dead men at their feet. Slowly through the corpses they came, as ghosts might come to a tryst through the shambles of a world. Their shields were gone, their corselets dinted. Blood smeared their mail; their swords were red. Their horned helmets showed the marks of fierce strokes. One spoke, he whose locks and beard were red as the blood on the sunlit snow. “Man of the raven locks,” said he, “tell me your name, so that my brothers in Vanaheim may know who was the last of Wulfhere’s band to fall before the sword of Heimdul.” “This is my answer,” replied the black-haired warrior: “Not in Vanaheim, but in Vallhalla will you tell your brothers the name of Amra of Akbitana.”