The Other Fellow

repared a little supper, he said, as he led the way, with a benign smile, into the dining-room, where a lonely bracket lamp, backed by a tin refl

want to talk to you about this young fe

', ain't he? Don't look much like a habit

ole story." I was in a mood either to reserve

about the pocketboo

and I reached for the scraps of b

over to Chris and told him to take it out. The wallet struck the edge of the counter and fell on the floor, and out come a wad o' bills. The only other man besides him and Chris in the bar-room was Dick. It was Saturday night, and Dick had come in to git his paper, which was always left to Rankin's. Dick seen he was drunk, and he picked the wallet up and handed it back to the farmer. About an hour after that the farmer come a-r

his wife and wanted clean money for her. Chris swore he seen Dick pick it up and fix the money all straight again for the farmer; the farmer's wife swore she had took the money out of her husband's pocket, and that when she opened t

k's good character and, mind you, there warn't one of 'em could say a word ag'in him 'cept that he lived in Hell's Diggin's, Lawyer White began his speec

fellers left their seats. The mother give a shriek and fell in a heap on the floor, but Dick never changed a muscle nor said a word. When Polk asked him if he had anyt

o' you who do are afraid to say it; but you, Judge Polk,' and he squared himself and pointed his finger straight at him, 'you claim to be a man of eddication, and so there ain't no excuse for you. You've seen me grow up here, and if you had any common sense you'd know that a man like me couldn't steal that man's money, and you'd know, to

gills, but he give Dick a year, a

divided, and it got red-hot 'round here. Some believed him innercent, and some believed him guilty. Lawyer White and fellers like him stuck to him, but Rankin's gang was down on him; and when he come into Chris's place for his paper same as before, all the bums that hang 'round there got up and left, and Chris told Dick he didn't want him there no more. That kinde

there was one with him

s and girls 'long with him; says nothin' ai

im his name he said out loud, Dick Sands, of Hell's Diggin's. This give him away, and the men wouldn't work with him, and he had to go. I see him the mornin' he got back. He come in and asked for me, and I went out, and he said, 'Uncle

e ham, and he grabbed a gun and started for him. Dick waited a-standin' in the road, and just as Chris was a-pullin' the trigger, he jumped at him, plantin' his fist in 'tween Chris's eyes. Then he took his gun and went off with the ham. Chris didn't come

do say that Polk never went out o' night when Dick was home, 'fraid he'd waylay him-though I knew Polk was givin' himself a good deal of worry for nothin', for Dick warn't the kind to hit a man on the sly. When Po

the ham and he never intended to pay for it, and

after they'd hunted him high and low and lay 'round his mother's cabin, and jumped in on her half a dozen times in the middle of the night, hopin' to get him,-for Polk had offered a reward of five hundred dollars, dead or alive,-Ike come in to my place all het up and his eyes a-hangin' out, and he say, 'Gimme your long gun, quick, we got Dick Sands.' I says, 'How do you know?' and he says, 'Some boys seen smoke comin' out of a mineral hole half a mile up the mountain above Hell's Diggin's, and Dick's in there with a bed and blanket, and we're goin' to lay for him to

d holler Dick was off again with the bread under his arm. Well, of course, nobody didn't believe him, for they knowed Dick warn't darn fool enough to be loafin' 'round a place within twenty foot of the room where Polk sentenced him. Some said the feller was crazy, and some said it was a put-up job to throw Ike and the others off the s

omfoolery than would run a circus. Dick lay low and never let on, and nobody didn't see him for another week, when a farmer comin' in with milk 'bout daylight had the life pretty nigh scared out o' him by Dick stopping him, sayin' he was thirsty, and then liftin' the lid off the tin without so much as 'by your leave,' and takin' his fill of the can. 'Bout a week aft

e no

r day when he told me what fun he had listenin' to Ike and the deputies plannin' to catch him. There ain't another man around here who'd been smart enough to pick out the belfry. He was right over the room in the court-house where they was, ye see, and he could look down 'tween

lose the money that he fired 'fore Dick got on his feet. The ball broke his leg, and they all jumped in and clubbed him over the head and carried him downstairs for dead in his blankets, and laid him on a butcher's table in the market, and a

night," I asked, "and why the dr

etimes he's all right, and then ag'in it hurts

they all bought things from Dick. He had a nice word for everybody, kind and comforting-like. He was the handiest feller you ever see. When he got out he had twenty-nine dollars. He give every cent to his mother. Warden told him w

rdly be traced to the dryness of the beef. I was conscious, too, of a peculiar affection of the eyes. Two or three la

ally, though I do not think even now that I had the slightest suspicion of his g

is Rankin's rum to remember it, and after Dick had been sent up for the second time, the second time now, mind ye, and had been in two years for walking off with Rankin's ham, a lot of school ch

ld he had with

with white eyes. Oh, I tell yo

CKY CIN

ortrait of a young girl in a costume of fifty years ago, whe

a Sunday," she said, with a slight bend of her knees. "I'll

brother brush, which began with "Here is an old Southern mammy who has seen

ninety-four, had told me of his own Aunt Mirey, who had died in the old days, but too far back for me to remember. And I had listened, when a boy, to the traditions connected with the plantations of my ancestors,-of the Keziahs and Mammy Crouches and Mammy Janes,-but I had never looked into the eyes of one of the old school until I saw Aunt Chloe, nor had I ever fully realiz

a faded wedding dress worn once by the original when she was a bride, and which ha

she put down her pail. "I see it las' Sunday when I come in, but she didn't had dem ruffles 'round her

T C

n her broom, her eyes sc

il low shoes wid de ribbons crossed on de ankles! She's de livin' pussonecation-she is so, for a fac'

now anybody lik

often tried to draw from her something of her earlier life, but she had always evaded m

a plenty o' people." Then her

herself: "You's de real quality, chile,

ied

e anybody you eve

wered critically. "De feet is

ho

leaned again on her broom a

e corner of my palette and flattened them f

relessly. I was afraid the thread

ney." A peculiar softn

you can remember her better. They don't look human enough

hoes on her footses when I fust see her, but she wore 'em when she lef' me. Dat she did." Her voice rose suddenly and her eyes bright

and tell me wonderful stories of her earlier life, but I must not appear too anxious. She had become r

ner of my studio and piling the chairs in a heap. This done, she stopped

e come down de stairs. But you got to put dat gold chain on it 'fore it gits to be

p a piece of chalk asked her to descr

ffin for her much. Let 'er go roun' barefoot half de time, an' her hair a-fiyin'. Only one good frock to her name, an' dat warn't nuffin but calico. I used to wash dat many a time for her long 'fore she was outen her bed. Allus makes my blood bile to dis day whenever I think of de way dey treated dat chile. But it didn't ma

hain as an unnecessary incentive, and had begun again with my palette knife, pottering away, nodding appreciatingly, and now and

' after dey'd called each other all de names dey could lay dere tongues to, Miss Ann, my own fust mist'ess, come in an' she say dem chillen tuk dat cake, an' 'tain't nary one o' ye dat's 'sponsible.' 'What's dis,' says Marse Henry-'chillen stealin' cake? Send 'em here to me!' When we all come in-dere was six or eight of us-he says, 'Eve'y one o' ye look me in de eye; now which one tuk it?' I kep' lookin' away,-fust on de flo' an' den out de windy. 'Look at me,' he says agin. 'You ain't lookin', Clorindy.' Den I cotched him watchin' me. 'Now you all go out,' he says, 'and de one dat's guilty kin come back agin.' Den we all went out in de yard. 'You tell him,' says one. 'No, you tell him;' an' dat's de way it went on. I kn

a cake; an' it's a big thing at de same time. Miss Ann has been right smart put out 'bout it, an' I'm gwine to see dat it don't happen agin. If you see a pin on de fl'or you wouldn't steal it,-you'd pick it up if you wanted it, an' it wouldn't be nuffin, 'cause somebody th'owed it away an' it was free to eve'body; but if you see a piece o' money on de fl'or, you knowed nobody didn't th'ow dat away, an' if you pick it up an' don't tell, dat's somethin' e

'thout askin' for it, Clorindy, an'

e now standin

. If he had beat me to death he couldn't 'a' done no mo' fo

mother find it

w; her face was radian

my jes' made one grab as I run pas' de kitchen door, an'

sides with laughter, fresh te

' he was dat po' he didn't know where de nex' mouf'ful was a-comin' from. I come out behind him so,"-Aunt Chloe made me her old master and my stool his rocking-chair,-"an' I pat him on the shoulder dis way, an' he say, 'Chloe, is dat you? How is it yo' looks so comf'ble like?' An' I say, 'It's

a lil bit like dat chile you got dere before ye"-and she pointed to the canvas-"wouldn't a been sot on an' 'bused like she was but for her. Dat woman warn't nuffin but a harf-strainer noway, if I do say it. Eve'body knowed dat. How

ed, stepping back from my easel to

en her mother died Marse Henry sent for her to come live wid him, 'cause he said Miss Rachel-dat was dat woman's own chile by her fust husband-was lonesome. Dey was bofe about de one age,-

's big's herse'f. Den she turned in de gate. ''Fo' God,' I says to ole Sam, who was settin' de table for dinner, '

. 'I heared de mist'ess say she was a

tricks; she didn't 'tend to let dat chile come no o

and she says: 'After dis when I come in I want you niggers to git up on yo' feet.' Think o' dat, will ye? Marse Henry never called nary one of us nigger since we was pickaninnies. I knowed den she warn't 'customed to nuthin'. But I tell ye she never put on dem kind o' airs when Marse Henry was about. No, suh. She was always mighty sugar-like to him w

le it was dat was a-comin' down de road I dr

I says. 'Gimme dat bag,

, an' ain't you Aunt Chloe

re, suh, as sweet as dat chile's face when she said dat to me. I loved her from dat fu

-totin' de things on behind, de

'll tell ye where to go,' an' she went straight in de h

d her say it, an' if he was

fter her; 'upstairs long wid Miss Rachel?' I was

eeds all de room she's got. You kin take her downstairs an' fix u

h like him to be his own chile. 'I'll hab ev'ything ready for ye,' I says. 'You wait here an' take de air,' an' I got a chair an' sot her down on de po'ch, a

lease her it warn't good 'nough for her. Why, do you know, when de other chillen come over from de nex' plantation Miss Rachel wouldn't send for Miss Nannie to come in de parlor. No, suh, dat she wouldn't! An' dey'd run off an' leave her, too, when dey was gwine picknickin', an' treat dat chile owdacious, sayin' she was po' white trash, an' charity chile, an' things like dat, till I would go an' tell Marse Henry 'bout

would again lose the thread. My picture had a new

fe chillen to go, but dat woman outdid him, an' she faced him up an' down dat dere warn't money 'nough for two, an' dat her daughter was de fittenest, an' all dat, an' he give in. I didn't hear it, but ole Sam did, an' his han' shook so he mos' spilt de soup. But law, honey, dat didn't make no diff'ence to Miss Nannie. She'd go

chillen of her own, an' she'd send for Miss Nannie to come an' keep her company, she was dat dead lonesome, an' dey was glad 'nough to let

t dat ornery dat you couldn't do nuffin wid her, jes' like her maw. De fust real out-an'-out beau she had was Dr. Tom Boling. He lived 'bout fo'teen miles out o' Lexin'ton on de big plantation, an' was de richest young man in our parts. His paw had died 'bout two years befo' an' lef him mo' money dan he could th'ow away, an' he'd jes' come back fr

sweet mos' make a body sick to see her, an' when he'd stay away she was dat pesky dere warn't no livin' wid her. Of co'se dere was plenty mo' gemmen co'rting Miss Rachel, too, but none o' dem didn't count wid de mist'ess 'cept de doctor, 'cause he was rich, da

de boy, an' slap his boots wid his ridin' whip, like he was a-dustin' off a fly. An' she'd act it all out for me an' Dinah, an' slap her own frock, an' den she'd laugh fit to kill herse'f an' dance all 'round de

t thing dey'd know dere would be a weddin' in de Gordon fambly. An' den agin dere was plenty mo' peopl

a hurry; I got somethin' on my mind.' Ole Sam was jes' a-gwine to open de do' for him when Miss Nannie come a-runnin' in de kitchen from de yard, her cheeks like de roses, her hair a-flyin', an' her b

en dat chile's face

bove her head, her mouth wide open i

oe, what did you let me go for?' she says. 'Oh! I wouldn't 'a' let

say to ye, h

, an' den I said I'd run an' tell her, an' when I come downstairs agin he was a-standin' in

no harm, chile,' I says;

m an' shet de do' Sam says, 'I'll lay if Marse Tom Boling had anythin'

o's dat young lady,' he says, 'dat opened de door for me

y come down an' riz Sam for not 'tendin' de door an' lettin' dat ragged fly-away gal open it. Den dey went for Mi

u, an' dat she is ve'y 'sclusive. I hope dat you'll 'suade her to come in de parlor,' he sa

mist'ess says, 'an' she's dat

o?' he says. '

, 'she's over t

dn't hear no mo' 'cause he had to go out. Purty soon out de Doctor come. Dese visits, min' ye, was

ome to see Mis' Morgan 'bout some land matters, an' dat Mis' Morgan interjuced 'em, but nuffin mo'. Lord bless dat chile! An',

fly when de mist'ess an' Miss

ter?' de mist'ess said. Dat was a lie, for he never said a word to Miss Rachel; ole Sam coul

' so I tuk her over to Mis' Morgan, an' den I ups an' tells her eve'ything dat woman had done to

an' brought her home, an' dat night when Dr. Boling come he made her sit down in de parlor, an' 'fo' he went home dat night de Doctor he say to Marse Henry, 'I want yo' permission, Mister Gordon, to pay my addresses to Miss N

git white in de face at de scand'lous way dat Miss Barnes was bein' treated, until Miss Nannie put bofe her leetle han's on his'n, soothin' like, an' den he'd grab 'em an' kiss 'em like he'd eat 'em up. Sam cotched him at it, an' done tole me; an' den dey'd sa'nter o

d 'a' got her if Miss Rachel, jes' for spite, I spec', hadn't 'a' took up wid Colonel Todhunter's son dat was a

s an' nights she knowed he was comin', an' she wid jes' one white frock to her name. An' we all felt jes' as b

o' dressin' her now dat she was a-gwine to marry dat wo'thless young doctor, Tom Boling, dat nobody wouldn't hab in de house, but dat if dey didn't she'd gin her some of Miss Rachel's clo'es, an' if dem warn't 'nough den she'd spen' de money to de best advantage.' Dem was her ve'y words. Sam heared her say 'em. I knowed dat meant dat de chil

see ye yo' was purty nigh barefoot. It's you he wants, not yo' frocks, honey;' an' den de sun com

s'mas. Well, suh, de mawnin' 'fore Chris'mas come, an' den de arternoon come, an' den de night come, an' mos' ev'y hour somebody sent somethin' for Miss Rachel, an' yet not one scrap of nuffin big as a chink-a-pin c

' when we got to de trunk mos' all de niggers was thick 'round it as flies, an' Miss Nannie was standin' over it readin' a card wid her name on it an' a 'scription sayin' dat it was 'a Chris'mas gif', wid de compliments of a friend.' But who dat friend was, whether it was Marse Henry, who sent it dat way so dat woman wouldn't tear his hai

ot in dat picter 'fore ye,-an' a change'ble silk, dat heavy! an' a plaid one, an' eve'ything a young lady could git on her back from her skin out, an' a thousand-dollar watch an' chain. I wore dat watch myse'f; Miss Nannie was standin' by me, a

nt of de po'ch, an' out he stepped in his blue coat an' brass buttons an' a yaller wais'coat,-yaller as a gourd,-an' his bell-crown hat in his han'. She was a-waitin' for him wid dat white satin dress on, an' de chain 'round her neck, an' her lil footses tied up wid silk ribbo

uldn't come out to de coach where de horses was a-champin' de bits an' de froth a-dr

at mean she wouldn

Henry, an' whispered somethin' in his ear dat nobody didn't hear, only de tears gin to jump out an' roll d

th'owed her arms roun' my neck an' hugged an' kissed me, an' den I see an arm slip '

ever seen. I know, 'cause Marse Henry gin me to her, an' I l

er hand as if to steady herself. The

er eyes on the portrait, and in a

r yo' ole mammy? Keep a-watchin', honey-keep a-watchin

RLOGGE

n gondoliers can. He had a half-defiant look, like a cornered stag, as he stood there protecting a small wizen-faced woman of an uncertain a

gon-do-la; I got one somewhere

clearly defined features had not located him inst

ndola at the next landing," I

y the arm, as if she had been under arre

uch on my shoulder. "Neighbor

ded m

n land!" and he disap

r a cup, at a table opposite. Then six feet and an inch or two of raw untilled American rose in the air, picked up h

e in to dinner last night. Eliza-beth said it was you, but you was so almighty rigged up in that s

with you-y

ED FULL OF HIFA

and early masters and Mont Blancs and Bon Marchés,-with just enough French to make a muddle of everything she wants to get. Well, that's Eliza-beth. First it was a circulating library, at Unionville, back of Troy, where I live; then come a course of lectures twice a week on old Edinburgh and the Alps and German cities; and then, to cap all, there come a cuss with magic-lantern slides of 'most every old ruin in Europe, and half our women were crazy to get away

ou?" I asked inquiringly, in m

the top floors so leaky that you go to bed under an umbrella; and they all braced up with iron clamps to keep 'em from falling into the canal, and not a square inch on any one of 'em clean enough to dry a shirt on! What kind o

es

ng years,

ded m

wered his voice,-"what does a sensible man

he picturesque life of the lagoons; the beauty of her palac

first-class cast-iron idiot I am wandering around here"-- He gazed abstractedly at the ceiling for a moment as if the thought overpowered him, and then went on, "I've got a stock-farm six miles from Unionville, where I've got some three-year-olds can trot in 2.23-Gardens!"-suddenly remembering his first train of thought,-"they simply ain't in it. And as for ler-goons! We've got a river sailing along in front of Troy that ma

his trunks. His face expressed supreme content, illumined by a sort of grim humor, as if some master effort of his life had bee

said in

u b

ch w

en a bee-line

hour too early

to his lips and k

eorge, please ask the gentleman to tell the gondolier to take us to Salviate's;

jammed full of wooden goats, glass bottles, copper buckets, and old church rags that I had to jump on my trunk to lock i

IN THE C

seeking some face in the hurrying crowd at the station. I remembered distinctly the cloth cap pulled down over his ears,

en't a minute," and I hand

ed, the drifts glistening white i

tattoo with my feet. The storm had delayed the train, and I had

t rattled every spoke in the wheels. It was my trunk, and c

se, did you

on the dou

, pleading voice, too low and indistinct

ich only one side is heard. "To the orphan asylum? Why, that's three miles from here....

had filled t

nd there all night! Wha

a foot high, wants to w

s hi

covered by the same cloth cap I had seen on the platform. I caught him, feet first, and helped land him on the front seat, where he sat looking at me with staring eyes that shone all the br

asked-a wholly thoughtl

s,

ather nor

a of the saving of valuable minutes. As long as he stood outside in the snow, he

sir, but my m

ighting up and growing pitch dark by turns, d

s your

hange in his voice, neither abashed nor too bold, but with a

t to go to

s,

hy

there is to learn, and there isn

an' I ain't had nothin' to eat all day," etc. Not that air about him at al

s your

ed

d w

ankin,

ld are

thoughtfully-"no,

do yo

nt look on the faces of the audience, and the consulted watch of the chairman of the committee, followed by the inevitable: "You are not very prompt, sir,"

d. "I live in-- Do you me

es

"I don't know, sir; maybe

home for good, and was now on his way to the asylu

ectness, and were so calm, and gave so full a statement of the exact fa

h as the jacket, and that both were the work of some inexperienced hand, with uneven, unpressed seams-the se

y brothers and s

s,

e are

ir; I was too li

is answer stirre

e your father left you?" I had lowered m

rman

you leav

, and he took m

he

week

d the pr

ey're nice? The priest's sister made them for

I thought they fitted him very well, and I felt his chubby knees and calves as I spoke, and ended by getting hold of his soft wee hand, which I held on

riest send

he free one-fumbled under the jacket, loosened the two lower

the asylum. But I can't un

my boy. Leave i

pretty rough on you. You ought to be tucked up i

cket. I looked out of the window, and caught glimpses of houses flying by, with lights in their windows, an

ust have some one soul who cares for hi

re, my boy?" I had

he train, and a lady to

as not so desolate; a lady had looked after him.

n't tell

the sea, sailing from no port and bound for no haven. I got hold of his other hand, and looked down into his eyes, and an almost irresistible desire seized me to pick him up in my arms and hug him; he was too big to kiss, and too little to shake hands wi

jerk that I had to catch him by the ar

Goin's awful, or I'

any show of uneasiness, only a calm patie

is it to the a

mile an

ff and drive on. Th

ake him

e him myself.

t, but the dinner must be brief. There came a seesaw rocking, then a rebound, and a heavy thud told where t

d in a creeping chill. Where was his trunk? In m

y to the window

dn't leave the boy's

from the seat, and began f

;" and he held up the colla

all?" I

me. Do you want to see it?" and he began c

I don't wan

couldn't, really. My eyelashes somehow had got tangled up in each other

ombre-looking, like a jail, loomed up on a hill. Then we entered a gate between flickering lamps, and tugged up a steep road, and stopped. Cabby sprang down and rang a bell, which sounded in the

d cabby, throwing

the seat, caught up the box and bundle,

too far

ible mothers nor friends. This talk about boys going swimming, and catching bull-frogs, and robbing birds' nests, and playing ball, and "hooky," and marbles, was all moonshine. Boys never did such things, except in

was in

audience, I was dinnerless, half an hou

n as f

ve kept you waiting, but I could not help it. I was occupied in esco

his box and bundle, and his patient, steady eye

forg

SHOWER

nns. The Bellevue at Dort is one, and the Holland Arms is another, and the-n

and private bathroom-one for the whole house-what was lacking in porticos and sea view. Then followed a slight skirmish in paint,-red for the Arms and yellow-white for the Bellevue; and a flank movement of shades and curtains,-linen for the Arms and lace for the Bellevue. Scouting parties were next ordered out of porters in caps, banded with silk ribbons, bearing the names

't care. The groundhog knows enough to go into his hole when the snow begins to fly, and to st

EETS EMBOWE

er, I say, who has come to the train to meet me, has swung my belongings over his shoulder, and Johan, the porter of the Bellevue, with a triumphant glance at Yacob of the Arms, has stowed the trunk on the rear platform of the street tram,-no cabs or trucks, if you please, in

e steps, takes me by the hand and says the

Mine own inn is the Bellevue, and my old friend of fifteen years, Heer Boudier, is host, and so lo

ed, mild-eyed as an Alderney heifer, and as strong as a three-year-old. Her back and sides are as straight as a plank; the front side is straight too. The main joint in her body is at the hips. This is so flexible that, wash-cloth in hand, she can lean over the floor without bending her knees and scrub every board in it till it shines like a Sunday dresser. She wears a snow-white cap as dainty as the finest lady's in the land; an apron that

il to my room,-the room on the second floor overlooking the Maas,-in which certain personal statements were made. When I spoke to Tyne about them the next day, she looked at me with her big blue eyes, and then broke into a laugh, opening her mouth so wide that every tooth in her head flashed w

behind as square as the end of a whisk-broom, his thin, parenthesis legs and Vienna guardsman waist,-each detail the very opposite, you will no

of Boughton's Dutchman and see only the cosmopolitan. The transformation is due entirely to continental influences-Dort being one of the main highways be

ckers; painters, with large kits and small handbags, who talk all the time and to everybody; gray-whiskered, red-faced Englishmen, with absolutely no conversation at all, who prove to be distinguished persons attended by their own valets, and on their way to Aix or the Engadine, now that the salmon-fishing in Norway is over; school teachers from America, just arri

makes life miserable, and the shams that make it vulgar, and I go bac

S LEAN IN

s green?-doze under the trees, their mooring lines tied to the trunks; the girls and boys, with arms locked, a dozen together, clatter over the cobbles, singing as they walk; the steamboats land and hurry on-"Fop Smit's boats" the signs read-it is pretty close, but I am not part owner in the line; the gossips lean in the doorways or under the windows banked with geraniums and nasturtiums; the cumbersome state carriages with the big ungainly horses with

shes of blinding rain, the next piled high with great domes of silver-white clouds inlai

enbeck nor Kever. It was a fresher, sweeter, more wholesome land, and with a more breathable air. These Dutch painters had taught me to look for dull, dirty skies, soggy wharves, and dismal perspectives of endless dikes. They had shown me countless windmills, sca

te of a public who want something that is not in preference to something that is. Ziem, for instance, had, up to the time of my enlightenment, taught me t

e beauty and dignity of Venetian architecture-an architecture which has delighted many appreciative souls for centuries-finds no place in his canvases, either in detail or in mass. The details may be unimportant, for the soft vapor of the lagoons ofttimes conceals them, but the correct outline of the mass-that is, for instance, the true proportion of the dome of the Salute, that incomparable, incandescent pearl, or the vertical li

the more modern group of men who paint their native skies with zinc-white toned with London fo

chor, their red and white sails reflected in the water. I love these boats of Clays. They are superbly drawn, strong in color, and admirably painted; the water treatment, t

that vague trees, and black houses with staring patches of whitewash, and Vandyke brown roofs are

LEAVES

intermittent downpours, floods, gushes of water-not once a day but every half hour. Then comes the quick drawing of a gray curtain from a wide expanse of blue, fra