St. Tammany farmer. [volume] (Covington, La.) 1874-current, 1907-02-16
WHAT HE VALUED MOST
By Ralph Henry Barbour
Copyright 1905, by Joseph B. Bowleso

One afternoon she had heard
movers in the hall, and knew that
the fourth-floor studio had been taken.
The next morning unfamiliar sounds
fell from above-a mans voice, deep
and musical, leaping up and down the
scale. a cheerful, companionable tor
rent of melody that brought a respon-
sive smile to her face.
Next day she had learned his name.
Seeking letters from the pile in the
lower hall, she had found colorman's
catalogue addressed to John TIM
son, Esq" She had smiled at the
name; Timson was so unusual and
quaint and-funny! John she liked;
her fathers name had been John. All
the morning, as she worked at her
copper bowls and candlesticks, she
strove to picture a personality be-
fitting the name Of John Timson.
A week later she saw him.
After that they bowed, and then
spoke. Meetings became frequent.
Aside from the little weakened
dealer in old worries and curl
osities on the first floor, they were
the only occupants of the mouse
who made it their home. That served
as a bond of sympathy, and they soon
discovered others. They were botn
orphans, and both without near rela'
tives; they were both struggling LOT
recognition-he as painter OF land
scapes in oils, she as worker IN
metals. And then there were minor
sympathies born of similar tastes ana
views which came to light in the nrst
year of their friendship.
1t became his custom to drop INTO
her room for a moment On his way
I'D and down stairs, and then IN the
evenings for long, enjoyable talks
while he sat in her one easy-cnalr
and smoked and she worked away at
an order or did her mending. once
week he descended tremendously,
Immediately clean, but d1Huslng a
strong odor of paint, and took luncn
with her, gravely marvel1ng at the
display and pretended alarm at ner
recklessness.
Once he had returned her hospltai'
ity-he had sold a small canVas-ano
thew had dined sumptuously at one
end of the paint-stained table on loD-
ster outlets and French peas and as
paragus, sent in chilled, but appetlz'
| ing, from the cafe across the square
And he had made marvellous cofee
in an old copper kettle, and had pro-
duced bottle Of olives, which, he sol
EMMY declared, had been two years
awaiting the occasion.
/ Usually he called for her at the
| institute in Brooklyn-she still at
tended an evening class three times a
week-and brought her home.
Once they had walked back across
| the bridge on brisk winter night,
| the white stars above them, the pur'
pie lamps advancing and meeting
them along their path, and the lemon
and red and green lanterns twink
ling I'D from boats and pier-heads
That night she had heard his story
He had told her of boyhood spent
in a little town in western Missouri
of his first dim dissatisfaction with
his lot and his growing hatred for
toll in his fathers squalid general
store;" how at his fathers death-his
mother he had never known-he had
gone to st. Louis, where he had
clerked by day and studied art by
night, until, with $4,000 saved, he had
come to New York and entered the
league. He had spent three years
there, and then had buried himself
in the Jersey woods, living like a her
NIT, in hut of his own building, and
painting from dawn to dusk, fair days
and foul.
"And now," he had ended, they're
/ beginning to know me. I've sold g
few canvases, mostly through Ruy
ter. Ruyter believes in me. The
thing I'm working on now is for the
academy. It's going to take year;
but it's good, it's the best / have il
me-and it's going to be hung"
ooh, do so hope sol" she had said
earnestly.
.Tve never doubted it." he had an
swered, simply. Its a big stake
but-Pm going to win!"
And so that first year had passed
and the second OF their friendship
was three months old.
One afternoon-the morrow was the
last day for receiving canvases at tne
academy-he entered her room, ant
sank silently into his accustomed
chair, She looked up questioningly
from the silver buckle on which she
was working.
FINISHED" he said, gloomily.
Does it go to-day?"
Tomorrow; it isn't quite dry yet
suppose ought to be glad, but
he smiled forlornly--'T only feel rath
er lonesome" He filed and lighted
his pipe. do you care to see i
again?"
"Oh. yes" she answered, eagerly.
Upstairs he drew aside the yellow
ish cloth, and laid bare the canvas. OF
which he had toiled for almost a year
It was large, six feet by four, ant
undoubtedly an ambitious effort TO
what might be called first picture
yet the result was so splendid tina
the artists faith in It's success SCENE,
justified
He had called 1t Angus" wide
for.raachin0 aynanSe of Salt-ma rS1