Pullman herald. [volume] (Pullman, W.T. [Wash.]) 1888-1989, 1920-12-10
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= THE DAY MOON SS
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BY ALICE p. PHlNNEY.
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g, 1879, by Mcclure Newspaper Syndicate)
Clad In cool white she sat on green
| hill among the daisies and dreamily
! watched the pale day moon. An art
| lists portable camp stool and an easel
| stood beside her and I'm her hands was
palette, much daubed with green
and yellow. The bees droned and all
was sleepy and warm.
Then a mans voice quietly chimed
In with her mood
There's a superstition about that,
you know"
"IesY she questioned without NOV
| ing, and then, startled, she turned to
see a tanned, white flannel clad young
man standing behind her his keen blue
eyes thoughtfully considering the day
| moon.
Funny so few ever write about that
or paint It," he was saying. Now |
| could place II over hazy hills, between
| columns of marble" his long fingers
frightened on the brush they held. but
! that superstition" He turned to her
and she greeted him with smile. But
| 1t was quite different from that init
mate questioning yes" Oh, 1t was
| entirely polite, the smile was, but very
| cool for the girl had come back from
the white day moon to this queer old
| world where there are men who have
been introduced, and there are others
! Ooh, quite attractive others) who have
not.
The artist laughed good humoredly.
Il didn't come up to talk of moons"
he said, "and l apologize for being so
informal but I'm painting this land
scape-" his sweeping gesture took in
| the sunny hills and the cleaning riv-
er-"and just as l was getting it my
! light yellOws gave out-thats the
main tone-and then l saw your easel
and wondered If you, being a painter.
! too"
"Of course" she admitted, eight
| yellOws One couldn't paint without
them today. But the OIL tubes aren't
! here yet. If yOu'll wait"
She motioned to him to be seated.
ITS wonderful to paint" she said
as he complied.
Isn't it, though? And on day like
this"
She nodded and shifted the sun
scented air delightedly. Natures lust
baking" she declared. and laughed
as she added, Cooking things always
smell good to me-"
The artist tapped the ground with
his brush. Nature" he said. us the
one artist who is practical. There are
so few like that"
In the valley below was a white
church, seeming rldiculOusly tiny as
they looked down from the hill. The
wee door swung open and
"Why, that darling white speck,"
cried the girl. ITS a bride! And
the black speck is the groom, and all
the rainbow specks are
The artist watched them. "From
this distance" he unused, 1--WE can sup
pose them the ideal couple. Mother
Nature is healthy, artistic and practi-
cal. We people can all be the first
and then we have our choice between
the other two"
He had often talked In this strain
at the club.
II hope" he added, that one of
those little specks can dream to some
purpose and that the other can-boil
eggs. They might use the day MOON"
he suggested.
"Oh," she remembered, "the day
moon! What was that superstition?
IAN old Hindu thing, think. Your
watching it so intently made me re-
call ii. On the noon of the full of
the day moon one should pray to 1t
for his hearts desire. But he won't
receive it unless 1t Is worthy and fair
ly practicable. It's best to sleep with
white cat until the new crescent
appears, and there ought to be some
one else who wants the same thing.
They could VOW for the practical"
How keen you are for the practi-
cal" She turned to look at him.
well, being an artist I've had to
cook for myself now and then. It
makes man think. l shall never
marry an artist, while you, now, If
you were to marry some intensely
practical fellow"
Suddenly he didn't want her to mar
ry any too intensely practical fellow.
But maybe you're not an awfully
good artist he suggested hopefully.
II don't wonder our grandmothers
laugh at u.s." she declared rising
briskly This way Of discussing our
most personal affairs In an lmpersonal
way with utter strangers is funny"
He chuckled at her dainty decisive
ness and, rising, TOO "Do you know
! wish you weren't an artistY'
The girl was shading her eyes and
looking off toward the hot. lazy river.
A canoe, padded by strong, drab
clad woman, glided ashore The girl
smiled
"Ah. there's Annette" she MUIR
mured.
Annette Fraser, the artist" he
nodded.
The girls hazel eyes dOubtfully ap-
praised the easel and stool. 81 hope
| these ora RIGHT ~