The Somerset reporter. [volume] (Skowhegan, Me.) 1868-1909, 1905-11-23
Anfoine'1
Marie
BY Virginia Leila Went,
Copyright, Ig95, by x. " Whitehead

one August morning with his high
leather leggings. his easy costume, his
fishing basket and tackle, Paul Blake
strobe along through the dew wet Cana
dian grass He knew of certain deep
hollow in the brook which on such
gray moist day as this would be the
haunt of juicy trout, and for the sheer
joy OF expectation he whistled. For
equal 10 Blake's love for the art of
painting WAS his love for the sport Of
fishing He was not only enjoying his
summer gathering French Canadian
landscapes: lie was revealing in his fa-
Yorite sport as well.
After .ii1 hour Of successful fishing in
the quiet spot which he had selected
he sped splendid trout tucked cozily
uader a stone But it was written in
Tie book of fate that this fish and the
irving pan should not lightly be
brought together. Ely after fly VAS
thrown in vain Down through the
crystal clear water he could see the
Sleek sides and the round. unspeeula-
i've eye of his intended victim and he
resolved to try tlc method Of tickling
So he undI his sleeve links. barred
his arm and knott upon the lichenS,
clHging with one hand to an oyerhang
ing birch. lie was dipping cautiously
toward the water when there in the
pool before him. close TO the reelection
1t was girls face. and in lis I'M
usual loyelneSs it lay for n second like
some magic picture. Tie next second
Blake observed with Il thrill that the
vision was being changed by the cur
rent and thai his own blond eurls We're
made to trcspasS gently over the girls
dark ones Then while he gazcd at the
reflection With Narcissus-likp intent
ness the other face vanished as sudden
ly as it had come
Springing 10 his feet, Blake perceived
the bent trunk of an alder which pro-
jected across the stream from the top
! of the bank above, and he knew that
the girl must have been leaning over
the trunk from that higher bank, uncon-
scious of his presence. until, like a
startled deer. she fed.
"She was like one of Murillo's gypsy
eyed Madonnas9 he exclaimed And,
though he went on for awhile longer
with his trout fishing, the sport seemed
to have lost bit of flavor.
The next day Paul Blake drew up his
horse before the kitchen door of a
whitewashed farmhouse, and Antoine
Martin rose to greet him.
"Bienvenue, m'sieu," said he, with old
French hospitality. And will m'sieu
dismountf"
Blake did dismount, and as he stood
in the wide doorway he tried to &C
count for his presence. He was a
painter, forsooth, and doing this section
of Canada. lie had already collected
good many views, but among them
all there was not one more wonderful
than that which could be obtained from
the level plateau on which Antolne's
farm stood II was as II the hills had
here withdrawn to leave an arena for
some great spectacle, some ancient
savage pageant. Might he, therefore
he permitted to fetch his easel and
palette and to put upon canvas the har-
mony and beauty of it ALL
Blake saw the 1.-the figure of a girl
sitting opposite To him, her arms upon
the table. her dimpled face with the
Murilo eyes framed in both hands her
scarlet lips parted in GREATNESS listen
ing, hanging upon his words. ALI, luck
was with him. to be sure. If he had
lost the trout yesterday he had found
the girl today
Come here. cherie," said old Antoine
TO the girl. and to the stranger, My
niece Marie"
But you little water sprite, you lit
lie Undine. however did you get your
face so mixed up with mine that day
In the pool?" Blake asked one morning
MS Marie stood watching him at work
on his canvas
"Eh, bien, m'Sieu, had gone out for
"A pique-nique on the barrenS, and-ra-
masse les granages- what you call pick
berries" she answered in her quaint
English speech, ekcd out with bits of
patois here and there. Then she ex-
planned how she'd leaned over the
trunk of the tree from the bank above
to wash her stained fingers. how, just
as she was in the act of dipping down,
she had seen his reflection In the wa
ter and was startled.
Between the strokes of his brush
Blake took surreptitious glances at the
willowy figure, half holding back the
apple boughs as she talked, half swing
ing on them. Rebel locks had broken
out of confinement and were curling
damply about her warm, white neck
and that crumpled rose leaf of an ear.
All, she was exqulsitely delightful!
That same day he said to Antoine:
IF you would permit Mile. Marie to
sit to me, and IL Mile. Marie will con-
sent"-he questioned the Murillo eyes,
which silently gave him his answer !
then fell beneath his own-"I could do !
a painting that was worth while"