The Washington herald., 1914-08-10
The Sun Artist.
BY EAroRY >. HAYNES

Opposite my window on the lawn, bunch of
shrubbery bursts into silver. Yet it is not flower
ing bush The appearance of blossom is really the
early sunbeams that food the top branches and ex-
reme tips of the twigs The rest of the Shrub is in
shadow and shows its customary green color only.
There IS in fact not flower but changes its hue in
sunlight. So positive is the variation that garden
is quite another show of color on rainy or cloudy
day and on clear, sun-painted day. Flowers change
hues after sundown So it is literally true that the
whole Towering globe brightens up in mighty and
sweeping wave of color as the sun travels over it
from morning to evening
To see the west bank of the Hudson, look West
in the morning For miles the landscape is inhabited.
The artist sketches in every farmhouse barn, and
palace But in the afternoon all this landscape
is changed to blue waste of mountains, with not
human hut in all the dim stretch. In the afternoon
the artist sketches in all the dwellings on the
east bank made visible for the dwellers the west
side. Over there on the west shore people can see
little distinctly the east shore till afternoon The
sun is very kind very impartial. In the morning he
shows me my friends trans-Hudson home. In the
afternoon he shows my friend over yonder my home
So it goes the globe around. All day long he
reveals hidden dwellings, and then conceals them. The
old farmers wife looks out, in the morning to catch
sight of her welded daughters farmhouse. 1t is the
OHly sec u 50 Inc uduSHlcl
used to hang out white cloth in the window to say
"All is we'll" That was before the telephone days.
The sun artist dashes color on harvest fields.
Wheat is golden, rye is bushing red in the sunlit
vista Ripenng oats are silver. Fields that you have
been watching afar off there since the early plowng
now stand revealed. You know now what the distant
farmer put here and there.
But the most marvellous works of this great artist
in the underbush of forests. For long months
the struggling bush has waited overshadowed by the
big trees for its time to flower Now the sun peeps
down and touches the~bush. morning after morning,
just for two hours. 1t is if the whispered Il
am coming. Be patient it is your turn now" So the
Towering underbush bursts into beauty. 1t is mere
glimpse perhaps of the zenith sum- silver shaft of
light that leaps down through the envious tops of
aged trees. But it does the work The forest is a
garden.
The sun has flaming spear, and with it he touches
the windows OF Catskill Mountain hotels The struc-
lures have all the seeming OF bursting into fame So
perfect is the counterfeit of conAagraton that
is alarmed spectator in spite of reason. The angle
OF reflection is such that the whole building appears
on fire. The red sunset ray makes the stimulation
perfect still But the vision passes the scattered
upland farmhouses going through the identical mimic
burning one after another till the fiery ball drops
below the horizon. The painter of startling ests has
dropped his torch-brush The twilight follows, and
there is no color in it.
The sun paints faces. What rich, deep brown
on the countrymans cheek. and down upon his barred
breast. What charm in the compilations of these
schoolchildren, books under arms. What can COM
pare with the smile that health returns from hand
some upturned human face to the down-looking face
of the sun.
Again, let US think of him, the sun artist, work
ing countless faces the entire year around. Not
on dull canvas, but on living flesh of men, women,
and children. He paints cheeks, foreheads, arms.
hands, brushing the color, millions on millions.
Paints the invalid, dear heart, fair and restored
that when she returns to her loved ones they will
adore the that did it. Paints the all out
with many touch, till even old age and misery are
oblterated. What a privilege the sun has to paint
the signs of sorrow on the faces of men. Let US
lift up our faces to the sun.