The Yale expositor. (Yale, St. Clair County, Mich.) 1894-current, 1907-12-06

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He returned the littlo laundress
glance with quick flash of admira
ton, she was so pretty so unusually
pretty, with so pathetic an expression
in her big blue eyes. His glance swept
across the ironing-room filed will
laundry girls of every age and descrip
ton. Many of them were fairly pref
ty, but none of them came up to his
little laundress for real beauty. She
shone amongst them like a gem.
rs this your bundle?" asked the
clerk.
Clifford looked long at the name
written seemingly in hieroglyphics
Yes" said he, discovering at last
some letters that reminded him dimly
OF his own name. and he still re-
manned after the clerk had counted
out his change, looking at the pretty
/ little laundress, patiently ironing away
/ at the linen of worthless fellows like
| himself. Perhaps she had ironed his
/ own. He took up the bundle tenderly.
1t had suddenly become precious to
him.
Her face haunted him. How pretty
she was! Entirely too pretty to work
as she did. Heavens! Couldn't she
find some easier work than that? To
think of standing on ones feet all
day long day after day ironing! He
could hardly imagine anything more
tiresome.
In his studio, he found himself con-
stantly drawing her face on bits of
paper with a pencil Failing in catch
ing the likeness, he tore up these lit
tie papers and made numerous
sketches of her in black and white,
the lifelessness OF which Knocked at
the beauty of her features. In the
course of time the studio came to be
strewn with these Indifferent sketches
and still he had failed to catch the
features of the laundress in their rare
perfection.
friend Wonderly, who in the interim
of his law studies made Clifford's stu.
dio his loafing place.
My ideal" answered Clifford short
ly, and indeed by this time that is
what the little laundress had become
One evening as he stood on the cor
ner opposite the laundry-it had be-
come a habit of his lately to haunt
those corners morning and evening
worshiping her from afar-she APP
peared at the door and glanced up at
the clouds. With her blue eyes raised
thus, he thought she had the look of
a madonna.
He followed her at a discreet dis.
lance. absorbed in the pearliness of
her skin, and the witching curls that
hung clingingly TO her white neck.
Was there ever anything so exquis.
ite
Meanwhile the laundress walked
briskly into a narrow street, and low
ering her umbrella. entered a cottage.
exactly like every other cottage in the
row. neat, square and covered with
mornings lories. Losing her thus.
Clifford turned back and went home
to his studio where in the waning
light he tried in vain to reproduce her
face. 1t eluded him like will-o'-the-
wisp. He squeezed out color after
color again and again. mixing if
brushfuls rather than with the knife
to avoid muddying. but careful as he
was, the colors were not to be com.
pared with the transparent beauty of
her skin as he remembered it.
He tossed his brushes aside in des.
pair. and fiinging himself in chair
by the window, leaned out. The rain
fell silently like tears. The smell of
the wet grass rose gracefully to his
window, mingled with the odor of
bed of mignonette on the plot be.
meath. These tranquil odors and the
calm of the quiet night failed to quell
his restlessness and disappointment.
He had made a miserable failure. He
was always making miserable fail
ures. He wondered il all artists
grieved over their mistakes as ne did.
He began to wish that he had chosen
some other occupation in life.
AT that moment, a natty bank clerk
assembled the steps across the street.
furled his umbrella, brushed the rain
drops from his coat sleeves and en-
tered his boarding house. He had
often seen him returning from his |
work and envied him. His life was
possibly prosaic enough In all prob |
ability he went through daily tread. !
mill of work mapped out for him with. |
out variations. but he rested well
when that work was done. There were |
no poor drawings TO grin hideously at |
him from studio walls, no ruined can |
vases worse by far than skeletons |
turned with their faces to the walls i'm
his studio closets, no pictures to |
haunt him upon which the paint was |
laid thick as slabs because of the
faces painted one above the other a |
score or so deep. He had the best of
It, that natty little bank clerk. He
had, indeed!
AS the door closed upon him. Cliff.
ford turned with a short laugh and
looked back into the studio, which had
become illuminated. Il was
Wonderly, who had turned on the in