Frostburg mining journal. [volume] (Frostburg, Md.) 1871-1913, 1886-10-23

and L Will try"
''Wcl, across, on the other side, is
row O. hills tibet stand right up against
the sky. J'st make a row O. hills there,
will ye."
The artist can do that. He was horn
among the hills, and now he recalls
certain group of them in every detail.
First, laying in summer sky for back.
ground, he sketches in their forms in
flat colors.
NO." says the other, "not like that,
real hills, genuine New England hills,
with hemlock m 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 tints and shades of color all
about with speed and abandon that is
bewi. dering.
The gold digger, in his anxiety, bends
over him closer and closer, as though
he would lcoll through the canvas fol
the scene he longs for.
No." he says, mo, faint 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 shimmcring 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
''That is like the turn o. the river!
Try stone wall down here t'wards the
left. Is that stone wall?"
1T will be-
''It looks to me like streak O. brown
paint"
1T is like stone wall have in mind"
the artist says. ''But Just here it was
tumbling down, and the loose stones
were scattered about. half hidden 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
Eyes, that's it, that's j'st what want,
but don git it yet. l don't seem to
see it for the paint"
''You look too clio ely. Stand back
little"
"Well, by Cenge! 1t is like it,
stranger! It's like it to a dot. How
could vie hit it so close" he asks in
amazement "Rut y If out house over
here on this side, - he continues. "a
little log house with a 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 Il wild
hope thrills him for the momentI What
if this-pshaw! What a foolish fancy!
A thousand homes would answer that
description; and he goes ON with his
work.
He paints the little house, a; 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
and his brother Tom were born-wherc
the little houe 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-tneir fortune
He paints the little house from winch
their little mother, brok en- hearted for
want of tidings of her absent boy had
been borne to her gravc-the little
house, no longer home, from which he
had wandered, a 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 itn'
But y must, l tell ye, y must. Don't
tritle with me, stranger! / ordered that
pictur' an its mine. " won't 90 back
on that. But go on! There's winder
on this side an u door here-that's it !.
| en- fairly see two mlsch, vious young
stcrs a-hidin' behind that wall. an
mother stan'in' in tn door a-callin'. Say,
stranger! coa'd " is put woman in
the door there shad n her eyes with her
hand, like this-a tile tired, anxious
lookin' woman with the kindest face, the
dearest face. 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 yc, stranger
will yc? See here" And he goes down
into his capacious pockets and heaps a
great pile of yellow coin and little heaps
me y can't do it, stranger. " thought
y couldn't do this, but y hev. IL try
n tell y how she looked en- see her
face yet, but it's kind o. misty. If I cd
see one suthin like it, 1 cd tell y how
it was different" And he takes an eager,
impatient turn about the room.
mo, faint like these, none of 'em, ~
he says. "These gay ones is all we'll
enough, but haint y got no plain ookin'
little women with homc-faces with
ther-faces-haint y, stranger"
The painter dare not speak. lie dare
not look into the questloner's face lest
he lose the dear hope still growing in his
heart.
Instcal, for answer, he arises, and GO
ing to corner of the room, lifts fa, ell
curtain draped rs it might be over a
shrine-reveals upon low easel the
worn face of his saint-his mother.
The gold seeker with quick, spas
modic catching of his breath is on his
knees before it, clutching the frame in
both his big, sanburnt 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
scaldng telrs well up in his eyes, and.
overlooking tie rugged uplands of his
checks in briny rivulets, lose themselve:
in the wilderness of his shaggy beard
that quakes and quavers like stretch OF
alfalfa in storm. Then he presses hi.
face against the cold canvas, kissing il
| L.