The Sunday morning news. [volume] (Jersey City [N.J.]) 1886-1891, 1886-10-17

The gold digger, in his anxiety, bends
over him closer and closer, as though he
would lock through the canvas for the
scene he longs for.
mo" he says, mo, faint it. Try the
turn o. the liver an' some land on this
side"
Even as be speaks, the. form and colors
| Of the sky and hills ore shimmering and
| ripping there, and at Il sweep the painter
describes the line of the nearer shore, and
then the foreground seems to unrolI across
1 the canvas.
"That is like the turn O. the riverI Try
stone wall down here l'wards the left
| Is that stone WALTZ"
st will be-"
at looks to Inc like streak O. brown
paint.
1T is like stone wall have in mind"
the artist says. "But just here it was
tum5ling down, and the loose stones were
scattered about, half hidden in the grass,
like this; ard here the cattle and the
sheep came through and had worn little,
crooked path down to the water"
Yes, that's it, that's j'st what want,
but don't git it yet don't seem 10 see
it for the paint"
"You look too closely. Stand back a
little"
"Well, by Georgel 1t is like it,
strangerl It's like it to dot. How
could We hit it so closer" he asks in
amazement. "But y IF out house over
here on this SIDE" he continues. "A lit
| tie l,g house with a cla'board roof n a
tall-a big oak tree bending over it."
The painter starts at this. 1t is his turn
for amazement. What wild hope thrills
| him for the moment? What if this
pshaw What foolish fancyl A thou
| sand homes weuld answer that descrip-
ton; and he goes on with bis work.
| He paints The little house, as he has
painted the river and the hills and the old
wall, not from Imagination or description,
but from memory.
| He paints The little house where he and
his brother Tom were born-wherc they
| spent their childhood together-the little
house from which Tom, his brave, big
brother, bis hero, grown desperate over
| the hard lot of their widowed mother,
had gone away with bold front to seek
his fortune their fortune.
He paints the little house from which
! their little mother, broken. hearted for
want of tidings of her absent hey, had
been borne to her grave-the little house,
no longer home. from which he had wan
dered, weak, forlorn, helpless little lad,
out into the big world alone-all alone,
vainly wishing that he might find Tom.
Now you strike it, strangerl That's
i'll It's the very PLACED How much do
you want forit9 Name your price"
| Il can't part with itl'
| "But y must, Iell ye. y must Don't
trifie with me, stranger! / ordered that
| that. But 90 on! There's a winder on
) this side an door here--that's i'll | en-
| fairly see Two mischievious youngsters
a-hidin' behind that wall, an mother
stan'in' in TIL door a-calln'. Say.
stranger! could y is put woman in the
door there shadin' her eyes with her hand.
| like this-a little, tired, anxious-lookin'
woman, with the kindest face, the dearest
face, the dearest facel Could y,
stranger~
mo, The space is too small. couldn't
do it, so that you could see the face"
Paint me her face! will we, stranger
will ye? See here" And he goes down
into his capacious pockets and heaps
great pile of yellow coin and little heaps
of "dust" upon the table. Don't tell me
y can't do it, stranger. Y thought y
couldn't do this. but y hev. I'll try n
| tell y how she looked. | en- see her face
yet, but it's kind O. misty. If cd see
one sulhin' like it, cd tell y how it was
| different" And he takes an eager, i'm
patient turn about the room.
"No, faint like these, none of EN-, he
says. "These gay ones is all well enough,
| but haint y got NO plain lookin' little
women with home faces-with mother
faces-hain't y, stranger?"
| The painter dare not speak. He dare
not look into the questioner's face, lest he
lose the dear hope still growing in his
| heart.
| Instead, for answer, he arises, and going
| to corner of The room lifts faded cur
tain--draped as it might be over a shrine
reveals upon low easel the worn face
of his saint-hs mother.
The gold seeker, with a quick, spasmo-
| die catching of his breath, is on ms knees
before it, clutching the frame in both his
big, sunburnt hands, as if be feared this
might be an illusory fading vision.
His eyes are fixed upon the face, and
for time he does not move nor speak.
Whip-cords gather and knot themselves
under the brown skin of his temples, and
scaldng tears well up in his eyes, and,
OVERLOOKING the rugged uplands of his
cheeks in briny riyulets, lose themselves
in the wilderness of his shaggy beard that
| quakes and QuAvers like a stretch of alfalfa
| in storm. Then he presses his face
against the cold canvas. kissing it over
and over, and fetching great convulsive
sobs. "Oh, mother" he moaRs, "after
all was too later
The shabby little figure is down beside
him, hanging about his neck and crying:
Tom, Tom. Brother, don't you know
me?
The brawny giant, never turning his
eyes from his mothers face, gathers the
other in his strong arms with an embrace
like grizzly. and murmurs between his
sobs: ''Oh Willie, Williel"-[ A. Ire
size Saunders, 10 the Chicago Current.
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