Wausau pilot. [volume] (Wausau, Wis.) 1896-1940, 1909-02-02

boats. | ask? Yes. one, with the bottom
knocked out. belonging TO William Jones'
Tim has got this name so pat. that my
curiosity begins to be aroused. Who Is
William Jones? Sure, them says Tim.
he's the man that lives down beyond. by
the sea- l demand, somewhat irritably,
if the place contains only one inhabit-
ant? Not another did Tim see. he ex-
plains barring William Jones.
80 80 a. m.-Start painting in the open
air, under the shade of large white cot
ton umbrella. Paint on till ] p. m.
~ p. intake a long walk among the
sand hills, avoiding the settlement be-
yond the lake. Don't want to meet any of
the aboriginals. more particularly Will
liam Jones. Walking here is like run
ming up and down Atlantic pillows, as
Stunning said pillows to be solid; now |
am list in the trough of the sand, now [
re-emerge on the crest of the solid wave.
Amusing, but fatiguing. / soon lose my
self, every hillock being exactly like an
other. Suddenly hare starts from under
my feet. and goes leisurely away. | re-
member an old amusement of mine in the
west of Ireland, and | track Puss by her
footprints-now clearly and beautifully
printed in the soft sand of the hollows,
now more family marked ON the harder
sides of the ridges The sun blazes down,
the refraction of the heat from the sand
is overpowering. the air is quivering,
sparkling, and pulsating, as If full of
innumerable sand crystals. A horrible
croak from overhead startles me, and,
looking up, / see an enormous raven,
wheeling along in circles and searching
the ground for mice or other prey.
Looking at my watch, I find that /
have been toiling In this sandy wilderness
for quite two hours. Time to get back
and dine. Climb the nearest hilIock. and
look round to discover where l am. Can
see nothing but the sandy pillows on ev-
cry side, and am entirely at loss which
way to go. AT last, after half an hours
blind wandering, stumble, by accident, on
the road by the lakeside, and see the
Caravan In the distance.
II p. m.-Dinper Boiled potatoes,
boiled eggs, fried bacon-even William
Jones' fossil bread. / asked if any hui
man being has visited the camp. 'Sorra
one, Tin says, looking rather disappoint-
ed He has got to feel himself a public
character, and misses the homage of the
vulgar.
Paint again till p. m.
"a beautiful sunset. The sand hills
grow rosy In the light, the lake deepens
from crimson to purple, the moon comes
out like a silver sickle over the sandy
sea. A thought seizes me as the shadows
increase Now is the time to entice the
pink trout from their depths In the lake
/ get out my fishing rod and line, and
stretching two or three flies which seem
suitable, prepare for action. My rod Is
only small, single-handed one, and 1t is
difficult TO cast beyond the sedges, but the
fish are rising thickly out In the tranquil
pools, and, determined not to be beaten,
| wade In to the knees. Half a dozen
trout, each about the size of a small her
ring. reward my enterprise. When have
captured them. the moon is high up above
the sand hills, and 1t is quite dark.
such is the chronicle Of the past day
By the light of my lamp inside the Cara
van l have written it down. 1t has been
all very tranquil and uneventful, but very
delightful, and a day to be marked with
a white stone, in one respect-that from
dawn to sunset ! have not set eyes on a
human being, except my servant.
Stop, though! | am wrong. Just as
was returning from my piscatorial ex-
cursion to the lake, | saw, passing along
the road in the direction Of the sea, GER
tain solitary horseman, who accosted me
not too civilly on the roadside the night
l. 1a1
ing, and, OF course, recognized me by the
aid of the Caravan. His name is Monk,
of Monkshurst, and he seems to be pretty
well monarch of all he surveys. l have
an impression that Mr.. Monk, of Monks
hurst, and myself are destined . be bet
ter, or worse, acquainted"