The Ely miner. [volume] (Ely, Minn.) 1895-1986, 1908-12-11

A'l A, ~
d rheumatics. I lay most of our ills
H to the damps that rises fun there.
d I'd sell the place an git away to-
morrer eff there was any one to
buy
mo, no, / wouldn't have you.
You've got 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, we'll thank the Lord
we even he'd the picter, and hev it
still to remember" he said.
5 In the doorway of the little red
q house on a lower terrace of the
s. knoll two other persons were talk
d ing, as it CHANGED, upon the same
a theme. The curve of the hill hid
all but gable of the little red
house in PEBBLES pasture from the
u eyes of the old people above, and
q the forest of the swamp hid from
n it, also, the view of plain and river
q and hill that had so fed the poetry
q in the soul of the little mother.
81 'Well," said Luzanne, looking
D over her husbands shoulder, before
the closed easel and color box, its
int hn ptru 10
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! l 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 l was scared to death of the
mOrasS-"
Poor child"
But it wasn't so wet, after all-its
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 l was at the end,
and there, below and beyond, lay the
very outskirts of Paradise. Yes, in
deed, a view that would make our
everlasting fortunes and give us sat
isfaction in our souls if we could put
even bits of it 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. l never
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 brushful of paint,
and every one of the pictures would
be hung on the line next spring. Isn't
it hard to be shut out of Paradise by
a 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.
ooh, I know, it's all delightful, our
being together here by ourselves. 1t
is Paradise, of course. But that view
out there would justify it, 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 a
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 a
river skins along, the blue STOPPING
into it, and beyond are hills clothed
with level layers of pine forest, and
you look straight into their depths as
if you penetrated mysteries, and over
all is a bountiful, enormous sky, blue
as blue, and carrying here and there
mares tail of 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
ness, 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 dark blue midnight, while the
stars shake in the wind! If we could
wake up some morning and find it
gone!"
''The days of miracles are gone.'
ooh, my, it makes me cross!"
81 wouldn't be cross, sweet purvey-
| or of motifs. I'd come in and make
my husband cup of tea, and then
dress for dinner in my gown with the
sea gray chiffons and make believe
| pearls, and I'd play 1 was a Venetian
lady supping with old Tizian-''
Nothing, if not modest I believe
| you'd be satisfied to paint old Purple
forever!"