The Abbeville press and banner. [volume] (Abbeville, S.C.) 1869-1924, 1886-10-13

row O. hills thet stand right up against
the sky. J'st make row o hills there,
will ye"
The artist can do that. He was born
among the hills, and now he recalls q
certain group of them in every detail.
First. laying in summer sky for back
ground, he sketches in their forms in
fiat colors.
NO" says the other, "not like that,
real hills, genuine New England hills,
with hemlock n scrub oak n hazel up
m down their sides, n rock cropping
out next the river"
"Wait," says the artist, and he dashes
and dabs, and slaps and spatters the
mingling tiuts and shades of color all
about with speed and abandon that is
bewi'dcring.
The gold digger, in his anxiety, bends
over him closer and closer, as though
he would look through the canvas for
the scene he longs for.
"No," he says, mo, 'taint it. Try
the turn O the river an some land on
this side"
Even as he speaks, the form and colors
of the sky and hills are shimmering and
ripping there. and at sweep the pain
ter describes the line of the nearer shore,
and then the foreground seems to unroll
across the canvas.
s'That is like the turn o. the river
Try stone wall down here t'wards the
left. Is that stone wall?"
1T VIII be-"
''It looks to me like streak O. brown
paint"
'Itis like stone wall l have in mind, I"
the artist says. ''But just here it was
tumbling down, and the loose stones
were scattered about. half-hiddenin in the
grass. like this; and here the cattle and
the sheep came through and had worn a
little. crooked path down to the water. !"
"Yes, that's it, that's j'st what l want,
but don't git it yet. l don't seem to
see it for the paint"
you look too closely. Stand back a
little"
"Well, by Ge,rge! 1t is like it,
stranger! It's like it to dot. How
could y'e hit it so closc9" he asks in
amazement. "But y If out house over
here on this SIDE" he continues. "a
little log house with cla'boa:d roof n
a tall-a big oak tree bending over it."
The painter starts at this. 1t is his
turn for amazement now. What wild
hope thrills him for the moment? What
if this-pshaw! What foolish fancy!
A thousand homes would answer that
description; and he goes on with his
work.
He paints the little house, as he has
painted the river and the hills and the
old wall. not from imagination, nor
description, but from memory.
lie paints the little house where he
aud his brother Tom were born-where
they spent their childhood together
the little house from which Tom, his
brave, big brother. his hero, grown des-
perate 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, brok en-hearted for
want of tidings of her absent boy, had
been borne to her grave-the little
house, no longer home, from which he
had wandered, weak, forlorn, helpless
little lad. out into the big world alone
all alone, vainly wishing that he might
find Tom.
"Now you strike it, stranger. That's
it! It's the very place! How much do
you want for it Name your price"
81 can't part with it,"
"But y must, I tell ye, y must! Don't
trifle with me, stranger! I ordered that
pictur' an its mine. y won't go back
on that. But go on! There's winder
on this side an a door hcre-that's it!
[ en- fairly see two mlschevious young
sters a-hidin' behind that wall, an
mother stan'in' in tn door a-callin'. Say,
cou'd " is put woman in
the door there shad:n' her eyes with her
hand, like this-a Little tired, anxious
lookin' woman with the kindest face, the
dearest face Could y, stranger!"
mo. The space is too small. l
couldn't do it, so that you could see the
face"
"paint me her face! will ye, 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 " can't do it, stranger. Y thought
v couldn't do this, but y hev. I'll try
m tell y how she looked. en- see her
face vet, but it's kind O. misty. If cd
see one suthin' like it, I cd tell y how
it was different" And he takes an eager,
impatient turn about the room.
mo, 'taint like these, more of 'em,"
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 questloner's face, lest
he lose the dear hope still growing in his
heart.
Instead, for answer, he arises. and 60
ing to corner of the room. lifts faded
curtain -draped rs it might be over a
shrine-rcveals upon a low easel the
worn face of his saint-hls mother.
The gold-seeker with q quick, spas
modic catching of his breath is on his
knees before it, clutching the frame in
both his big, sunburnt hands, as if he
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
scalding tears we'll up in his eyes, and.
overhowing the rugged uplands of his
cheeks in briny rivulcts, lose themselves
in the wilderness of his shaggy beard
that quakes and quavers like stretch of
alfnlfn u, a ctnrn, l'hnn he 1nrnsSas his