Juniata sentinel and Republican. [volume] (Mifflintown, Juniata County, Pa.) 1873-1955, 1892-03-09


a painter named Ayazima. His bam-
boo house was reflected IN blue,
rushing river, in which were carp and
towering Iris. He thought of nothing
but his art, his eyes saw nothing ex-
cept color, his fingers were of no use
except to draw; he was the friend of
fire-fiies and WilI-o-the -wisps. the
favorite child of the Solitary, Slkya-
monni, chief of the Bones, and the
Joy of Nothingness.
AS he sat in his doorway the women
passed along the street with silken foot
steps, bowing their heads and greeting
HIM with graceful movements of the
fan. The road was crowded with
porters and boatmen, and a buzz of
merriment arose from the tea-drinkers
in the pavilions.
"Folly, folly" murmured the artist,
"the wind blows, the water ripples, men
and women amuse themselves, death
comes, and nothing remains. / must
paint, / must paint butterfly, mix
soul for it In my saucers, and give it
life with my brush, and after that L can
sleep in peace.
He went into the house, spread out
paper fan, and prepared his coIors
Then he covered his face with his
hands and sat motionless, while he saw
in spirit the joys of his childhood days;
groves of orange-trees heavy with
golden fruit, fragrant meadows decked
out with blue lilies and azaleas, and
fitting in and out, futtering from tree
to tree, from flower to flower, a swarm
of tlny-wInged creatures, fairy like,
satin-smooth forms of brilliant hue.
"There are my butteriiesr' he cried,
and he stretched out his arm to copy
the gliItering cole and the culver
ing emotions, but in an instant they
were gone. His memory's sun was
obscured by fog. With a sigh he be-
gan to work, sitting on his cushions,
with box of tobacco on one side of
him and a cup of SdEi on the other.
Days and years passed by. On the
fan appeared a branch of apple bios
SONS, and Just above one of the flowers
hovered butterfly. But alas, Ayaz-
ima's hand was too clumsy, his brush
too heavy; the insect was one of paper
only, there was color and form, but no
life. The artist pushed away his paint
sauceTs in despair.
"How can l paint life when 1 do not
see any around me?" he said. "To
paint motion, one must move; to paint
love, one must love. That is the secret
OF creation"
Then in the meridian of life he mar
ried. His bride, young and pure, clad
in her white silken robe, dropped
gracefully beneath his embrace, and at
that instant the artist bestowed on her
the name that ciung to her forever.
"Oh, Iris-bud, Iris-bud," he cried,
'thou wilt love me as l do theel Thy
life will enter mine, and our two souls
will be absorbed in each other and in
my work"
He resumed his brush, and found all
changed around him. The quiet house
re. echoed the music of woman's voice
and the rustling of her gown, from day
break until dusk. Ayazima dropped
tears CT Joy into his colors, and worked
in an ecstasy of hope, putting into the
butterfly all his new found happiness,
his wife's embraces, her voice, her
grace, even the sound of her sandals
on the floor.
Time passed, and the insect in the
fan had begun to wear the semblance
of reality, when child was born to the
artist.
"MOre life, more lifel' he whispered.
Day after day he worked, and gradual
ly the butterfly seemed to spread its
shimmering, transparent wings, as it
lowered above the apple blossoms, on
the bough, and at last the artist trem-
bled as he touched it with his brush.
Life is a mystery. Should he dare to
probe it?
Years passed on, and still he sat be-
fore his easel. IrIs-bud and her three
children fingered near him, drinking
fragrant tea from tiny cups and float
ing like visions before his eyes. Often
Re hid himself behind silver screen
and listened to the children's shrill
sweet voices as they recited the forty /
seven letters of the irOf0, or rolled the
balls as they learned to count; and he
Rszed in admiration when they stood |
in a row before their mother to play
''pigeon, or danced the Ciri-f0uri, |
waving their little arms in their long |
full sleeves, and rattling their san
dals.
''Here is plenty of lifel' he mur-
INJURED, ''soon ! shall be equal to Sakya- /
Monni, the Solitary.
But old age was coming upon him, |
and Death lurked in the bamboo walls !
and among the folds of the curtains !
Ayazimas eyes cleaned with fever
ish light as he worked, giving all his !
strength and happiness to the butterfly |
upon the fan. 1t was beautiful, radi-
ant figure. and looked as If Just ready |
to fly, yet it moved not.
"Shall L have strength to finish it?"
said the old man, raising his trembling
hand once more. He had Just com
pleted his hundreth year, and 1t was a
calm, moonlight night. AS he touched
the butterfly sudden tremor passed
through it, At the same instant
he felt his own forces giving way, his
whole being crumDlIng to nothing
ness.
"a minute, only minute moreP' he
cried entreatingly, stretching out his
thin hands and fixing his haggard eyes
upon bis work. The moonlight pene-
trated his frail, transparent form, and
his soul became visible, like family
burning lamp.
Zone second morer' he faltered,
his creature lightly with the
last remnant of his strength.
snow, leave me, Soull'' he gasped.