The Topeka state journal. [volume] (Topeka, Kansas) 1892-1980, 1894-08-23

NJ says Tie OkuCEs AOb AAAG Iu6ls
Big hills, with rocks cropping out
next to the river
Wait" says the artist, and he
aashes and dabs and s1aps and spat-
ters the mingling tints and shades Of
color all about with q speed that is
bewildering.
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.
mo" he says. ssNo, faint like it
Try the turn of the river and some
land on this side"
Even as he speaks the form and
color of the sky and hills are ripping
there, and at q sweep the painter
describes the line of the nearer shore,
and then the foreground seems to un-
roll across the canvas.
That is like the turn O. the riverl
Try stone wall down there t'ward
the left. Is that stone wall2"
1T will be-"
ut looks to me like a streak of
brown paint"
1T is like stone wall have in my
mind,'' the artist replied. 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 little crooked
path down to the water"
Yes, that's it. That's just what
want but ont get it yet. I don't
seem to see it for the paint"
You look too closely. Stand back q
little.'
'Well, by the eterna1l It is like it.
stranger! 1t is like it to dot! How
could ye hit it SO closer he asks in
amazement. but We left out a house
here on this side," he continues, "a
little house with a matched roof, and
a tall oak tree bending over it
The painter starts at this. It
is his turn for amazement now.
What a wild hope thrills him
for a moment What is this-Pshawl
What a foolish fancy A thousand
homes would answer that description;
and he goes on with his work. He
paints the little house where he and
his brother Tom were born-where
they spent their childhood together
the little house from which Tom, his
brave, big brother, his hero, grown
desperate over the hard lot of their
widowed mother, had gone away with
a bold front to seek his fortune-their
fortunes.
He paints the little house from
which their mother, broken hearted
for want Of tidings Of her absent boy,
had been borne to her grave-the
house. no longer home, from which he
had wandered, a weak, forlorn, help
less little lad, out into the big world
a1one-alI alone. vainly wishing that
he might find Tom
s'Now you strike it, strangerl That's
it. It's the very placei How much do
you want for it? Name your price"
Il can't part with it," said the
artist
But We must, tell ye. ye mustl
Don't trife with me, stranger. 1 or
dered that picture, and it's mine Ye
won't go bac on that. But go on.
There's a winder on this side, an
door here-thats all. I can fairly
see two mischievous youngsters
a-hidin' behind that wall, and mother
standin' in the door q calm Say,
stranger, could ye just put a woman
in the door tn ere, shadin' her eyes
with her hand, like this2-a little,
tired, anxious-loolxin' woman, with
the Xxi ndest face, the dearest face.
Gould ye. stranger?"
mo, the space is too small. 1
couldn't do it 50 that you could see
the face
''Paint me her face. will We, stran-
ger, will ye? See here" And he goes
down into his capacious pockets and
heaps a great pile of golden coin upon
the table.
Don't tell me yon can't do it stran-
ger. Ye thought ye couldn't do this
but We have. I'll try and tell ye how
she looked. can see her face yet,
but it's kind of misty. If could see
one suthin' like it 1 could tell ye how
it were differen mt" And he takes an
eager, impatient turn about the room
mo, 'tan't like those, none of EN-
he says; "these gay ones is all well
enough, but ant ye got no plain look
in little women, with home faces,
with mother faces-han't ye stran-
gerP''
The painter dare not speak lie
dare not look into the questiOners
face, lest he should lose the dear hope
still growing in his heart Instead,
for answer, he rises, and, going to n
corner of the room, lifts a faded cur
Handicapped as it might be over a
shrinc-and reveals upon a 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 big, sunburnt hands, as if he
feared this might be an illusory. fad
ing vision
His eyes are fixed upon the face, and
for a time he does not move or speak
Wnip-cords gather and knot them
selves under the brown skin of his
temples, and scalding tears well up in
his eyes, and overlooking the rugged
uplands of his cheeks in briny rivu-