The L'Anse sentinel. (L'Anse, L.S., Mich.) 18??-current, 1894-09-29

iO' o"ShBrouhu, nc shctcneS IN tnelr
forms in fat color.
mo-" says the other, "not like that.
Big hills, with rocks cropping out
next to the river"
wait" says the artist, and he
dashes and dabs and slaps and spat,
tiers the mingling tints and shades OF
color all about with speed that il
bewildering.
The gold-digger in his anxiety,
bends over him closer and closer, as
though he would look through tho
canvas for the scene he longs for.
"No," he says. mo, 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 a 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 river!
Try stone wall down there t'ward
the left Is that stone wall?'
1T will be-"
ut looks to me like O 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, AMI had worn little crooked
path down to the water"
"Ycs, that's it. That's just what
want, but | don't get it yet. don't
seem to see it for the paint"
"You look too closely. Stand back
little"
"Well, by the eternal! 1t is like it,
stranger! 1t is like it to dot! How
could we hit it so close?" he asks In
amazement. ''But we left out house
here on this side," he continues, "a
little house with matched roof, and
tall oak tree bending over it"
The painter starts at this. II
is his turn for amazement now.
What a wild hope thrills him
for moment! What is this-Pshaw!
What foolish fancy! A thousand
homes would answer that description;
and he goes on with his work. Ho
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
n 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
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"
Il can't part with it," said the
artist.
But We must, I tell we, we must!
Don't trifle with me, stranger or
dered that picture, and it's mine. Yc
won't go ba ok on that. But go on.
There's n winder on this side, an
door here-that's all l can fairly
see two mischievous youngsters
a-hidin' behind that wall, and mother
standin' in the door a calm Say,
stranger, could ye just put woman
in the door tn ere, shadin' her eyes
with her hand, like this?-a little,
tired, anxious-lookin' woman, with
the Iii ndest face, the dearest face.
Could We, stranger?"
mo, the space is too small. I
couldn't do it so that you could see
the face"
Paint me her face, will We, stran-
ger, will We? 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 you can't do it stran,
ger. Ye thought We couldn't do this
but we have. I'll try and tell we how
she looked. can see her face yet,
but it's kind of misty. If could see
one suthin' like it l could tell We how
it were different" And he takes an
eager, impatient turn about the room.
No, 'tan't like those, none of EN-
he says; "these gay ones is all well
enough, but ant we got no plain look
in little women, with home faces,
with mother faces-han't we stran-
ger?"
The painter dare not speak. lie
dare not look into the questioner's
face, lest he should lose the dear hope
still growing in his heart. Instead,
for answer, he rises, and, going to
corner of the room, lifts faded cur
tain-draped as it might be over
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
kne es 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 time he does not move or speak.
Whip-cords gather and knot them
selves under the brown skin of his