Within a stone's throw, under a great branching of gnarled
trees, is a nook where the curious sun, peeping at you through the
interlaced leaves, will stencil Japanese shadows on your white umbrella.
Then the trap is unstrapped, the stool opened, the easel put up, and you
set your palette. The critical eye with which you look over your
brush-case and the care with which you try each feather point upon your
thumb-nail are but an index of your enjoyment.
Now you are ready. You loosen your cravat, hang your coat to some rustic
peg in the creviced bark of the tree behind you, seize a bit of charcoal
from your bag, sweep your eye around, and dash in a few guiding
strokes. Above is a turquoise sky filled with soft white clouds; behind
you the great trunks of the many-branched willows; and away off, under
the hot sun, the yellow-green of the wasted pasture, dotted with patches
of rock and weeds, and hemmed in by the low hills that slope to the
curving stream.
It is high noon. There is a stillness in the air that impresses you,
broken only by the low murmur of the brook behind and the ceaseless song
of the grasshopper among the weeds in front. A tired bumblebee hums
past, rolls lazily over a clover blossom at your feet, and has his
midday luncheon. Under the maples near the river's bend stands a group
of horses, their heads touching. In the brook below are the patient
cattle, with patches of sunlight gilding and bronzing their backs and
sides.
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