Blackfoot news. (Blackfoot, Idaho) 1891-1902, 1894-10-27


Big hills, with rocks cropping on
next to the river"
''Wait, says the artist. and h,
dashes and dabs and slaps and spat
ters the mingliug tints and shades o
color all about with speed that il
bewildering.
The gold-digger in his anxiety
bends over him closer and closer, a:
though he would look through the
canvas for the scene he longs for.
mo" he says. mo. faint like il
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 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?n
| ''It will be-
1T looks to me like a streak Va
brown paint.
Il ~ - INV q SANlG N1AA 4 AdNt la EAAN
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.an6 had worn little crooked
path down to the water
''Yes, that's it. That's just what :
want, but 1 don't get it yet. dom.
seem to see it for the paint"
You look too closely. Stand back
little"
We'll, BY the eternal! 1t is like it,
stranger! 1t is like it toa dot! How
could ye hit it so closer he asks in
amazement. But We left out house
here on this side, he continues. "a
little house with matched roof, and
a tall oak tree bending over it"
The painter starts at this. 1t
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. He
paints the little house where he and
his brother Tom We're 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
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, 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, tell We, We must.
Don't tritie with me. stranger. / or
dered that picture, and it's mine. We
won't go back on that. But 20 on.
There's winder on this side, an
door here-thats all. 1 can fairly
see two mischievous youngsters
a-htdin' behind that wall, and mother
standin' in the door a calm. Saw.
stranger, could We just put a woman
in the door tn ere, shadin' her eyes
with her hand, like this?-a little.
tired, anxious-lookin' woman, with
the XII ndest face, the dearest face.
Could We. stranger?"
No, the space is too small.
couldn't do il SO that you could see
the face
Paint me her face, will We, stran-
ger, will We? See here" And he roes
down into his capacious pockets and
heaps 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 ye have. I'll try and tell We how
she looked. can see her face vet
but it's kind Of misty. If could see
one suthin' like it / could tell We how
1t 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 hone
still growing in his heart. Instead.
for answer, he rises, and, going to a
corner Of the room, lifts faded cur.
as it might be over a
shrine-and reveals upon low easel
the worn face of his saint, his mother
The gold seeker with a quick spas.
nodic 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
Tor time he does not move or speak.
Whip-cords gather and knot them.
selves under the brown skin of his
temples, and scalding tears well I'M in
MS eyes, and overlooking the rugged
1plands Of his cheeks in briny rivu-
cts lose thamga1yas l., a. 81,