The San Antonio light. (San Antonio, Tex.) 1883-1886, 1885-08-12

must become weary sometimes OF duli nom
IONS, OF neutral tints, Of gray crowds swarm
Ing under slate-colored sky. But to-day,
a beam OF sunshine plerces the clouds; let
US take peep at the little Italian girls Of
the Place Jussleu.
Under the glow OF the rich light all this
theatrical tlnsel OF costume all this hgurante-
undress becomes radiant. II Is like the light
Ing up OF an immense stage The floating
sleeves are white as sails seen at sea; robes
OF velveteen show CLEANS In their hollow
folds; red aprons blaze with joyous -four.
his OF color; and everything Is animated
and noisy and brilliant to eyes that appreci-
ate the frank charm OF natural colors.
And here are faces Of ancient sibyls such
az we read OF In romancc-profiles OF vir-
gins worthy to be craven upon amethys,s.
or all the italian models who frequented
The studios during recent years, little Me-
dalla was by far the most charming and the
best known.
She had really the aspect Of an antique
cameo, with her low, broad brow, her hair
braid I'm rich twist behind her head, her
sensuously partician profile. She used to
live In the Rue de Ia Clef In commonplace
and sordid dwelling, with barrels OF dirty
water ON every landing-place brick stair
ways and sweating walls. But over the
roofs could be seen one little patch Of green
In vacant lot; and Mcdalla dreamed of her
broad italian wales, silent and dreamy lands,
where the lazy ilocks slumber under the mel.
low light
They loved her In the studios for her grace
fulness and her smile. Her portrait was ex-
hibited several times at the Salon last year.
You must certainly have remarked her fever
ishly-bright eyes, that burned beneath her
brows like dry twlgs In furnace In one
painting you see her drawing water from
fountain Into bronze vessel In another she
holds out her hand 10 you from the recess of
deep gateway; In another you see her ~.
Ing asleep, with her curly head rcposing on
her tambourine. But she is most often
painted laughing.
You ought 10 have seen her In the morn
ing when the little band Of models used 10
descend the slope OF Saintc ticnevleye-ma
Ing specks Of brilliant color with their rag
ged costumes against the monOtOnous hOrl-
Ion--to hail the omnlbuscs with sonorous
cries, and climb up with bursts Of laughter.
She would come down walking against the
bitter wind, her bosom FACILITATING behind
the thin chemlse. Her ragged dress illumln-
ated all the street; her beautiful hair, as In
revolt OF young life, would break through
ntI NthHbllttl HttuuIfN1s tllu ufNlllu ltT
the Pantheon, bathed In morning light, made
an Italian background for her fgure-an
Italian horizon.
One cannot hurry with impunlty through
these streets Of ours, especially In winter,
with throat and chest unprotected. Medal
Ia is dead. They buried her In an obscure
corner Of the Montparnassc Cemetery. An
original and dismal funeral procession.
There were dozen old models there, classic
ally draped in rags, and tragically mourn
full.
There was an old woman who never ceased
TO weep bitterly, and two children who
laughed. There was not much ceremony
about lowering her into the grave; there
were neither speeches nor prayers. The
prayers OF the poor are short
To-day no one remembers her, except, per-
haps, some young shepherd Of her own land,
who still waits for her, and dreams OF her as
he watches his fiocks, and tries, when even
Ing comes, to spell out her name In the stars
-TTdnsldted for he Neio Orleans Times
Democrat.