The Salt Lake tribune. [volume] (Salt Lake City, Utah) 1890-current, 1913-06-15

been built to cut down the time be-
tween Los Angeles and New York city
one eighth Of minute.
Hetty, turning her head during her
continuous monologue, saw tears run
ming from her guests eyes as she
gazsd on the ideallzed presentment of
the speeding, foam girdled transport.
Why, say, Cecilia, kid, said
Hetty, poising her knife, "is it as bad
art as that9 I amt critic; but |
thought it kind Of Frightened up the
room, OF course, n manicure painter
could tell it was bum picture in a
minute. IN take il down if you say
so. | wish to the holy Saint PotluclI
we had an onion
But the miniature miniature painter
had tumbled down, sobbing with her
nose indenting the hardwoven drapery
Of the couch. Something was here
deeper than the artistic temperament
offended at crude lithography.
Hetty knew. She had accepted her
role long ago. How scant the words
with which we try to describe single
quality OF human beingl When we
reach the abstract we are lost, The
nearer to nature that the babbling of
our lips comes, the better do we under
stand, Fguratively (let us say, some
people are Bosoms, some are Hands,
some are Heads, some are Muscles, some
are Feet, some are Backs for burdens.
Hetty was a Shoulder. Hers was 4
sharp, slnewy shoulder; but all her life
people had laid their heads upon 1t,
metaphorically or actually, and had left
there all or half their troubles. Look
ing at Life auatomically, which is as
good a way as any. she was preordaiDed
To be a Shoulder. There were few truer
collar bones anywhere than hers.
Hetty was only 80, and she had not
vet outlived the little pain that visited
her whenever the head of youth and
beauty leaned upon her for consolation.
But one glance in her mirror always
served as an instantaneous pain killer,
SO she gave ono pale look into tho
crinkly old looking glass on the wall
above the gas stove, turned down the
flame little lower from the bubbling
beef and potatoes, went over to the
couch and lifted Cecilia's head to its
confessional.
eco on and tell me, honey" she
said. "I know now that it amt art
that's worrying you, You met him on
ferry boat, didn t you3 Go on, Co
ella, kid, and tell your-your Aunt
Hetty about it, ~
But youth and melancholy must first
spend the surplus of sighs and tears
that watt and float the barque Of rO-
nance to its harbor in the delectable
isles. Presently, through the stingy ten
dons that formed the bars Of tho con.
fessional the penitent-or was 1T the
glorifed communicate OF the sacred
flame V-told her story without art or
illumination.
f'It was only three days ago. I was
coming back on the ferry from Jersey
City. Old Mr.. Schrum, an art dealer,
told me of a rich man in Newark who
wanted a miniature of his daughter
painted. I went to see him and showed
him some Of my work. When told him
the price would be $50 he laughed at
me like a hyena. He said an enlarged
crnyou twenty times the size would cost
him only So.
'tI had just enough money to buy my
ferry ticket back to New York. J. felt
as If I didn 7 want to i've another day.
7 must have looked as 7 felt, for ] saw
him on the row Of seats opposite me,
looking at me as if he understood He