Mineral Point tribune. (Mineral Point, Wis.) 1869-1938, 1908-12-10

rheumatics. lay most Of our Ills
to the damps that rises FUN there.
I'd sell the place an git away to-
morrer eff there was any one TO
buy"
mo, no, l wouldn't have you
You've got a silly old wife. moonin'
over something she's lost sight of,
and she went in with him TO put
on the teakettle. He carried the
basket of grapes on one arm, but
he put the other arm about her to
help her little. AN wen we say
grace, Hubby, Wen thank the Lord
we even he'd the picter and hey it
still to remember" he said
In the doorway of the little red
house on lower terrace of the
knoll two other persons were talk
ing. as it CHANGED, upon the same
theme The curve of the hill hid
all but a gable of the little red
house in PEBBLES pasture from the
eyes of the old people above and
the forest of the swamp hid from
it, also, the view of plain and river
and hill that had SO fed the poetry
in the soul of the little mother.
We'll" said Luzanne, looking
over her husbands shoulder, before
the closed easel and color box, its
great, this coming into the country to
paint and photograph winter scenes
and finding yourself shut off from the
most glorious landscape you can
imagined"
Shut off?" inquired her husband.
"Oh, you're content with the day of
small things, Eugene! | was till
saw what lies on the other side of that
great wet wood down there"
What is it? Morning and Greek
temples? Sunshine and a rolling sea?
The purple OF the hills?"
Titles for pictures? No; pictures
themselves. Just the vale of Avoca,
the vale of Cashmire, the valley of
Avilion, a fragment of Eden. Some
thing idyllic and perfect | was on
the edge of the wood and got init
was so alluring-deeper and deeper,
till there was scared to death OF the
morass-"
Poor child"
But it wasn't SO wet, after all-it's
been so dry-though there were spots
just steaming where the sun broke
through But skirted them and made
for the light, and the trees grew thin
ner, and suddenly | was at the end,
and there. below and beyond, lay the
very outskirts of Paradise. Yes, in
deed, a view that would make our
isfaction in our souls if we could put
even bits of ii on canvas. Why, !
should feel I'd been chosen for sancti-
fication if | were only allowed to do
it. You must come down with me and
see for yourself, Eugene. never
shall be content to go on painting old
Purple behind us there, now I've seen
this. And fancy, If that swampy wood
were out Of the way we could sit
here all winter and sketch, and feel
an uplift in every hrushful of paint
and every one of the pictures would
be hung on the line next spring. Isn't
II hard TO be shut out of Paradise by
bit of woods? It's as bad as
flaming sword"
I'm not shut out of Paradise" said
her husband, looking at her with the
red on her cheeks, the spark in her
eyes, her whole face full of the spirit
Of life.
"Oh, ! know, It's all delightful, our
being together here by ourselves. II
is Paradise, of course. But that view
out there would justify II, and it's
vexatious to have to go afield for what
we might have from our own door,
And it's too far, in the winter weather,
every day. There's a long interval of
champagne country from tender green
to dark, with warm russets, and
blush of red sapphire, threaded with
creeks that are neither blue nor green,
but the green of the grass and the
blue OF the sky and the gold of the
sun: and in the middle distance
river skins along, the blue stopping
into 1t, and beyond are hills clothed
with level layers of pine forest, and
you look straight into their depths as
II you penetrated mysteries, and over
all is a bountiful, enormous sky, blue
as blue and carrying here and there
mares tail of a snowy cloud. And
gulls-you ought to see the 10000
gulls swooping round the river! Oh,
it's no use staying here with that to
tantalize us, the breadth, the large
less. the freedom-and only old pur-
pie hills TO console us. One picture
of old Purple and there's an end. But
this-why, you could paint all winter
and not exhaust IT, Think Of It, with
the blue shadows Of the snow, with
sunsets like fires on great hearth,
in a dark blue midnight, while the
stars shake in the wind n we could
wake up some morning and find It
gonel"
THE days of miracles are gone"
"Oh, my, It makes me cross!"
Il wouldn't be cross, sweet puryey-
or OF motifs. I'd come in and make