Fairhaven herald. [volume] (Fairhaven, Wash.) 1890-????, 1892-12-30

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OF butterflies. Then life became one long
breath of delight. What color there was
The earth seemed hung in some rarer me
alum than common air. The yellow cactus
blossoms were like fakes of flame. A scar
let Hover fairly burned into the sight
Trace developed new enthusiasm every
day and piled her palette with cobalt and
chrome Even Fleming, who had preceded
them, smoked a trihe faster than usual and
grunted ont now and then: Put in your
color pure Make her jump"
So they painted from morning till night,
Keeping two or three studies under way at
Once-putting in blues where Woodson saw
greens, and puppies where he saw nothing
but nondescript sand, and doing all the in
applicable things that should be done ac-
cording to the gospel Of the luminists.
Woodson sat by and chaffed. He couldn't
paint. He wouldn't smoke. He parted
Grace's occasional inquiring glances by ex-
planning that he was negotiating to go into
the cattle business-a man was going to
bring him herd on trial
Meanwhile he arrayed his shapely figure
in cowboyish top boots, blue shirt and
SLOUGH hat, which became him immensely,
and made sinister impression among the
blazers and tennis suits of summering
Manitou. Grace was absorbed and salts
fled. One day an idea struck him Grace, t"
said he, II found a little bit down here the
other day that I'd like to have you sketch
to send home, you know. You'll do it,
won't your"
why, of course. I'll speak to Mr.. Elem
ing"
"Oh, hang Mr.. Fleming" Woodson broke
in. "Fleming's all right in his way, but /
want you-your sketch, you know"
The place was quite a distance away,
over the mesa. They set out for it the
next day.
Here it is" Woodson exclaimed, after
quite tramp pointing over the burning
plain to where a row of cottonwoods were
banked against the sky, tremulous in the
vibrant air. "There, do that; call it "A
Hundred in the Shade, or something like
that"
at doesn't seem to compose very well, !"
Grace murmured, holding the tips of her
fingers together and inclosing the picture
in a rosy frame through which she gazed
half shutting her eyes in truly artistic in
tentness.
well, never mind that, get the charac-
btI VI H. Ou hIOW says Iut
characters the thing. That'swhat want
the characteristic true character of this
beastly country"
So Grace donned her big blue apron and
set to work with her biggest brushes But
somehow she had trouble. The quality of
that sky, burning with light and yet deep
in hue, did not seem to reside in cobalt,
however fresh from the tube. The value
of the stretch of plain, tremulous under
the flaring heavens, disturbed her, too, and
when she came to put in the airy wall of
cottonwoods along the horizon the whole
thing ended in a panty muddle.
"Oh, / can't do anything todayp Grace
exclaimed petulantly, wiping her troubled
brow with the back of her hand and leav-
ing streak of blue along her forehead that
intensified her puzzled look.
why don't you put those trees in
green" Woodson asked with serious CON
Germ as Grace renewed her struggle with
the regulation blues and puppies
But don't see them so, !" she murmured
in a moment of absorbed effort.
Grace" he blurted out almost before
he knew it, 81 don't believe you see any
thing. Excuse me, but don't believe you
ever did. | don't believe in your art |
don't believe in your career; don't believe
in your independence You're simply spoil
ing the incest girl in the world with il.
You see things blue and purple because he
does; and newell, he sees things that
way because some fellows over in Paris do,
and don't believe in it. There, now, I've
said it; come"
But 1t was not arranged that he should
finish what he had to say. He had looked
down to the ground where he sat as he
spoke of Fleming. When he looked up
Grace was several feet away from him,
hurrying down the hill, with her head
bowed.
Pm a brute-a miserable brutep Wood
son remarked to himself with considerable
force as he watched her striding toward
the half dry creek. But some one ought
to have told her. Her art is all foolish
ness. Look at Fleming, even. He's forty,
and I'd like to know where he'd be if It
wasn't for his teaching. But I'm brute,
Just the samoa heartless brute"
There was a plum thicket along the
creek, and after watching Grace disappear
within it Woodson set about picking up
her sketching kit. This done, it occurred
to him that 1t would be proper penance
on his part to wash her brushes-he had
always hated dirty brushes so. Gather
ing them up he started toward the creek.
When he got there he could see no sign of
Grace. Could it be that anything had
happened to herr The thought made him
catch his breath for moment He knew
she was mpulsive-capable of any rash
move in moment of excitement. Then
he heard a stirring in the plum thicket
and came face to face upon her in little
opening crying softly to herself.
Grace" he called, why, what's the
natter9 l know I'm brute, but didn't
,hink you'd take it So"
"Oh, can't you help mei" she pleaded
md began cropping about and feeling aim
essly with her hands.
He saw that her hair was loosened and
hat her wrists and face were scratched
md bleeding in dozen places.
why, what is the matterS" he queried
lgain as she came cropping toward him and
stumbled against him
Cant you help me at alli"
"Of course l can small girl; you're all |
light. Nothing shall touch you," he re-
terated as his arms closed around her.
"Oh, silly, can't you see I've lost my |
ylassesi" she exclaimed, pulling away |
rom him and flushing red among the |
rPppnerv Rut he held her tipht