Daily Kennebec journal. [microfilm reel] (Augusta, Me.) 1870-1975, 1885-10-31
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William JoaR
'9:0 AM-st.rt painting IN The open air,
under ths shAds Of . large whiSe cotton UNI
rellA Paint ON tin 1P.M
ar. M-Take Q long walk among tho
sandhins, avoiding the settlement beyond
the lake. Don't want to meet any Of tho
aboeiginals, more particularly William Jones.
Walking hero i like running up and down
Atlantic pillows, assuming said pillows to b
solid; now am lost in the trough Of the
and, now I re-emerge on the crest Of the
solid wave. Amusing, but fatiguing. 1soon
lose myself, every hillock being exactly like
another. Suddenly . hare starts from under
my feet and goes leisurely away. 1remem-
Der an old amusement Of mine in the west of
Ireland, and track Puss by her footprints
now clearlyand beautifully printed in the
soft sand of the hollows, now more family
marked ON the harder sides of the ridges.
The sun blazes down, the refraction Of the
heat from the sand is overpowering, the air
is quivering, sparkling and pulsating, as II
full Of innumerable sand crystals A horri-
ole croak from overhead startles me, and
looking up see an enormous raven wheeling
along in circles and searching the ground for
mice or other prey.
looking at my watch, find that have
been toiling in this sandy wilderness for quite
two hours. Time to get back and dine.
Climb the nearest hillock, and look round to
discover where am. Can see nothing but
the sandy pillows on every side, and am
entirely at q loss which way to go. At last,
after half an hours blind wandering, STUN
BILE, by accident, on the road by the Lake side,
and see the caravan in the distance.
'4P.M -Dinner. Boiled potatoes, boiled
eggs, fried bacon. Tins cooking is prim-
tive, but I could devour anything-even
William Jones' fossil bread Iasked If any
human being has visited the camp. 'Sorra
one, Tim says, looking rather disappointed.
He has got to feel himself public character,
and misses the homage Of the vulgar.
"Paint again till 6P.M
ga beautiful sunset. The sandhills grow
rosy in the light. the lake deepens from GRIM
son to purple, the moon comes out like silver
dckle over the sandy sea. A thought seizes
me as the shadows increase. Now is the time
to entice the pink trout from their depths in
the lake. get out my fishing rod and line,
and, stretching two or three flies which seem
suitable, prepare for action. My rod is only
q small, single-handed one, and it is difficult
to cast beyond the sedges, but the fish are ris-
ing Unckly Out III tno tTdHquu pOOiS, anu, Oo-
termined not to be beaten, wade in to the
knees. Half a dozen trout, each about the
size of small herring, reward my enterprise
When have captured them, the moon is high
up above the sand hills, and it is quite dark.
'Such is the chronicle of the past day. By
the light Of my lamp inside the caravan
have written it down. 1t has been all very
tranquil and uneventful, but very delightful,
and a day to be marked with white stone,
in one respect-that from dawn to sunset I
have not set eyes on q human being except
my servant.
'Stop, thought I am wrong. just as
was returning from my piscatorial excursion
to the lake, l saw, passing along the road in
the direction of the sea, certain solitary
hQrseman, who accosted me not too civilly
on the road side the night before last. He
scowled at me in passing, and, of course, rec
ognized me by the aid Of the caravan. His
name is Monk, Of Monkshurst, and he seems
to be pretty well monarch Of all he surveys
I have an impression that Mr.. Monk, Of
Monkshurst, and myself are destined to be
better, or worse, acquainted"