The Yale expositor. (Yale, St. Clair County, Mich.) 1894-current, 1914-12-10
CHAPTER V-continued.

CHAPTER V-Continued.
The two men had lost an hour
huddled under a canopy beneath the
cannonading OF a sudden storm. They
had silently watched titanic battalions
of thunder clouds riding the skies in
gusty puffs of gale and raking the
earth with lightning and hail and
water
My God" exclaimed the mountain
boy abruptly. I'D give anything eff
] could paint that"
Lescott rose smilingly from his seat
before the easel and surrendered his
palette and sheaf of brushes.
TRY It," he invited
For a moment Samson stood hest
tant and overcome with difidence;
then, with set lips, he took his place
and eXperimentally fitted his fingers
about the brush. as he had seen Les
colt DO. He asked no advice. He
merely gazed for a while, and then.
dipping a brush and experimenting for
his color, went to sweeping in his pri-
mary tones. Samson, even though he
was hopelessly daubing, and knew it.,
was sincere, and the painter at his
elbow caught his breath and looked on
with the absorption of a prophet, who,
listening to childish prattle, yet recog-
les the gift Of prophecy.
'Thet's the way hit looks ter me"
the boy said, simply.
That's the way it is" commended
his critic.
For a while more Samson worked
at the nearer hills, them he rose.
I'm DONE he said "hain't a-goin'
ter fool with them thar trees an
things. l don't know nothing erbout
thet l can't paint leaves an twigs
an birdsnests. What l like is noun
tnEs an skies an sech-like things"
Lescott looked at the daub before
him. A less trained eye would have
seen only the daub, just as a poor
judge of horseflesh might see only
awkward joints and long legs in a
weanling colt, though it be bred in the
purple.
Samson" he said, earnestly, that's
all there is TO art. It's the power to
feel the poetry of color. The rest can
be taught. The genius must work, of
course-work, work, work, and still
work but the gift is the power of
seeing true-and, by God, boy, you
have it. You've got what many men
have struggled a lifetime for. and
failed. I'd like to have you study with
me- I'd like to be your discoverer.
Look here"
The painter sat down, and speedily
went to work. He painted out moth
ing. He simply toned, and, with pre-
cisely the right touch here and there,
softened the crudeness, laid stress on
the contrast, melted the harshness,
and, when he rose, he had built, upon
the rough cornerstone of Samson's
laying, picture.
THAT proves it," he said 81 had
only to finish. l didn't have much to
undo. Boy, you're wasting yourself
Come with me, and let me make you.
We all pretend there is no such thing,
in these days, as sheer genius; but,
deep down, we know that, unless there
is, there can be no such thing as true
art. There is genius and you have
it." Enthusiasm was again sweeping
him into an unintended outburst.
The boy stood silent. Across his
countenance swept a conflict of emo
tions. He looked away, as IL taking
counsel with the hills.
Its what I'm a-honin' fer" he ad-
mitted at last. Hits what I'd give
half my life fer mout sell
my land, an raise the money. -.
I reckon hit would take passels of
money, wouldn't hit?" He paused, and
his eyes fell on the rifle leaning against
the tree. His lips frightened in sudden
remembrance. He went over and
picked up the gun, and, as he did SO,
he shook his head.
NO" he stolidly declared; every
man TO his own tools. This here's
mine.'
Yet. when they we're again out
sketching, the temptation TO play with
brushes once more seized him, and he
took his place before the easel.
Neither he nor Lescott noticed a man
who crept down through the timber,
and for time watched them. The
mans lace wore a surly, contemptuous
grin. nd shortly it withdrew.
But, an hour later, while the boy
was still working industriously and
the artist was lying on his back, with
a pipe between his teeth, and his half
closed eyes gazing up contentedly
through the green of overhead
branches. their peace was broken by
a guffaw of derisive laughter. They
looked up, to find at their backs a semi