Five Mile Beach weekly journal., 1915-07-09
CHAPTER 1.

NumDerlRnd ridge nrougn a Sky OF
mountain clarity, the sur seemed hest
ttating before It's descent to the hori-
ZION. The sugar.loaf cone that tow
iered above a creek called Misery was
pointed and edged with emerald trac.
iery where the Hottest timber thrust
up its crest plumes into the sun. On
1.-The hillsides 1t would be light for
more than an hour yet, but below.
where the waters tossed themselves
along in a chorus of tiny cascades, the
hight was already thickening into a
cathedral gloom. Down there the fur.
primer" would have seen only the rough
course of the creek between moss
Nelveted and shaded powders of
Titanic proportions. The native would
have recognized the country road In
these tortuous twistings. A great block
.of sandstone, to whose summit a mar
Istanding in his saddle could scarcely
Preach his fngertips, lowered above
THE stream, with a gnarled scrub oak
kclinging tenaciously to its apex. Loft
lily on both sides climbed the noun
tains cloaked In laurel and timber.
Suddenly the LEAKAGE was thrust
aside from above by a cautious hand,
Iand a shy, half-wild girl appeared in
the opening. For an instant she halt
ed, with her brown fingers holding
back the brushwood, and raised her
face as though listening. AS she
lstood with the toes of one bare foot
Twisting in the gratefully cool moss
lshe laughed with the sheer exhilara-
ltion Of life and youth, and started out
ion the table top of the huge rock.
But there she halted suddenly with a
lstartled exclamation and drew instinc-
lively back. What she saw might we'll
have astonished her. for it was a thing
lehe had never seen before and of
which she had heard. Finally,
treasured by the silence, she slipped
across the broad face of the fiat rock
flor a distance of twenty-five feet and
lpaused again to listen.
At the far edge lay a pair of saddle
bags, such as form the only practical
equipment for mountain travellers.
Near them lay a tin box, Uttered with
small and misunderstanding tubes of
jsoft metal, all ~grotesquely twisted and
Istained, and beside the box was a
Istrangely shaped plaque Of wood
lsmeared with a dozen hues. That this
Iplaque was a painters sketching pal
cite was a thing which she could not
know, since the ways of artists had
Ito do with a world as remote from
her own as the life of the moon or
lstars. 1t was one of those vague mys-
~Iteries that made up the wonderful life
Eof down below" Why had these
things been left here in such confu-
sion? If there was a man about who
owned them he would doubtless return
Ito claim them. She crept over, eyes
land ears alert, and slipped around to
the front of the queer tripod, with all
her muscles poised in readiness for
flight.
A half-rapturous and utterly aston
ished cry broke from her lips. She
stared a moment, then dropped to the
UNDISCOVERED rock, leaning back on
her brown hands and gazing intently.
"Hit's purtyi" she approved, in a
low, musical murmur. Hits plumb,
dead beautiful"
or course 1t was not a finished pic
ture-merely a study of what lay be-
fore her-but the hand that had
placed these brush strokes on the
academy board was the sure, deft
hand of a master of landscape, who
nnol ao,,uhk &hn a1YonHiH oO3rik nf fha
thing and fixed 1t immutably in true
and glowing appreciation. Who he
was; where he had gone; why his
work stood there unfinished and aban-
honed. were details which for the mo-
ment this h~alf-savage child-woman for
got to question. She was conscious
only of a sense of revelation and awe.
Then she saw other boards, like the
one upon the easel, piled near the
paint box. These were dry, and rep
resented the work of other days; but
they were all pictures of her own
mountains, and In each of them, as
hn this one, was something that made
her heart leap.
To her own people these steep hill
sides n "coves" and valleys were a
matter Of course. In their stony soil
they labored by day, and in their shad-
ows slept when work was done. Yet
omeone had discovered that they held
a picturesque and rugged beauty; that
they we're not merely steep fields
where the pillow was useless and the
hoe must be used. She must tell Sam
son-Samson, whom she held in an
artless exaltation Of hero worship;
Samson, who was SO smart that he
thought about things beyond her un-
tderstanding; Samson, who could not
only read and write. but speculate on
problematical matters.
Suddenly she came to her feet with
a ewlft-darting impulse OF alarm. Her
ear had caught a sound. She cast
searching chances about her. but the
tangle was empty of humanity. The
AIM