The Green Forest tribune., 1915-01-15
CHAPTER V-Contlnued.

The two men had lost an hour huddled under 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 GodI" exclaimed the mountain boy abruptly. "Id give anything eff I 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 moment Samson stood hesi- 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 brush and experimenting for his color, went to sweeping in his pri- mary tones. Samson, even though he was hopelessly daubing and knew it.,
 
 elbow caught his breath and looked on with the absorption of a prophet, who, listening to childish prattle, yet recog- nizes the gift of prophecy
 "Thet's the way hit looks ter me-" the boy said, simply
 That's the way 1t is," commended his critic.
 For a while more Samson worked at the nearer hills, then he rose.
 ''Tm done," he said. "hain't a-goin' ter fool with them thar trees an ithi-=gs~ j edont khSes I(thgU sorFl 6 thet. I can't paint leaves II tE il. 5 an birdsnests. What I like is noun tings 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 horsef1esh might see only awkward joints and long legs in a weanling colt, though 1t 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 1t. 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 noth- ing. He simply toned, and, with pre- eisely 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. q had only to finish. I 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, 1n 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 conflict of emo- tions. He looked away, as if 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. I 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 were 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 face wore surly. contemptuous grin. and 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 contented|y 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