Five Mile Beach weekly journal., 1915-07-23

as a ehost-like disk of polished alumni
num-. struggled through orange and
vermilion into a sphere Of living
fame. Lescott heard a voice at his
side.
when does ye low ter commence
paintin'?"
It was Samson. For answer the
artist, with his unhurt hand, impa-
tiently tapped his bandaged wrist.
"Ye still got yore right hand, hain't
ye?" demanded the boy. The other
laughed. It was a typical question. So
long as one had the trigger finger left
one should not admit disqualification.
"You see, Samson" he explained,
this isn't precisely like handling a
gun. One must hold the palette; mix
the colors; wipe the brushes and do
half a dozen equally necessary things.
1t requires at least two perfectly good
hands. Many people don't find two
enough"
But hit only takes M ter do the
paintin', don't hit?"
yes"
".Welr'-the boy spoke difidently
but with enthusiasm-"between the
two of US we've got three hands. ]
reckon ye kin larn me how ter do
them other things fer ye."
Lescott's surprise showed in his
face and the lad swept eagerly on.
"Mebby hit hain't none of my bust
ness, but, all day yestiddy an the
day befo', l was studyin' bout this
here thing, an I hustled up an got
tibet corn weeded an now I'm through.
Eff / kin help we out I thought meb-
by" He paused and looked appeal
ingly at the artist.
Lescott whistled and then his face
lighted into contentment.
To-day, Samson" he announced,
"Lescott, South and Company get
busy"
1t was the first time he had seen
Samson smile, and, although the ex-
preston was one of sheer delight, in
herent somberness loaned 1t a touch
of the wistful.
When, an hour later, the two set
out, the mountain boy carried the par
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at the door watched them off with a
half-quizzical. half-disapproving glance.
AS the boy, with remarkable apti-
tude, learned how to adjust the easel
and arrange the paraphernalia, Lescott
sat drinking in through thirsty eyes
the stretch of landscape he had deter
mined to paint.
Then, while he painted, the boy held
the palette, his eyes riveted on the
canvas, which was growing from a
blank to a mirror of vistas-and the
boys pupils became deeply hungry.
The day of painting was followed
by others like it. The disabling of
Lescott's left hand made the constant
companionship of the boy a matter
that needed no explanation or apology,
though not a matter of approval to his
uncle.
Another week had passed without
the temperance of Tamarack Spicer.
One afternoon Lescott and Samson
were alone on a c~liff-protected shelf,
with lumber and neutral tint the crude
sketcn or MS next picture.
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
l 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 hesi-
tant and overcome with %diffidence;
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 ii,
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-
nizes 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, then he rose.
I'm done," he said. "hain't a-goin'
ter fool with them thar trees an
things. / don't know nothing erbout
tibet. 1 can't paint leaves an twigs
an birdsnests. What l like is noun
tings an skies an sech-like things"
Lescott looked at the daub before