About six o'clock in the afternoon, Mildred Brown went down through the
fields to the lower pasture. She wore a gingham apron which covered her
from neck to high-topped boots. She carried in one hand an easel and
stool and in the other hand a box of colors. Mildred came each day to a
particular spot in this lower pasture and set up her easel and stool in
the shade of a black willow bush to paint a particular scene. She did
her work as nearly as possible at the same time each afternoon to get
the same effect of light and shade and the same stretch of reflected
sunlight on the open water spaces in the marshland.
And the scene before her was worthy of a master hand, which, of course,
Mildred Brown was not as yet. From her position in the shade of the
willow, she looked out over the flat marshlands toward the west. Nearby,
at the edge of the firmer pasture lands, the rushes grew luxuriously,
now crowned with large, glossy-brown "cat-tails." The flats to the left
were spotted by beds of white and black saleratus and bunches of course
salt grass. Openings of sluggish water lay hot in the sun, winding in
and out among reeds, and at this hour every clear afternoon, shining
with the undimmed reflection of the burning sun. The air was laden
with salty odors of the marshes. A light afternoon haze hung over the
distance. Frogs were lazily croaking, and the killdeer's shrill cry came
plaintively to the ear. A number of cows stood knee-deep in mud and
water, round as barrels, and breathing hard, with tails unceasingly
switching away the flies.
Dorian was in the field turning the water on his lucerne patch when he
saw Mildred coming as usual down the path. He had not expected her that
afternoon as he thought the picture which she had been working on
was finished; but after adjusting the flow of water, he joined her,
relieving her of stool and easel. They then walked on together, the
big farm boy in overalls and the tall graceful girl in the enveloping
gingham.
Mildred's visit had now extended to ten days, by which time Dorian had
about gotten over his timidity in her presence. In fact, that had not
been difficult. The girl was not a bit "stuck up," and she entered
easily and naturally into the home life on the farm. She had changed
considerably since Dorian had last seen her, some two years ago. Her
face was still pale, although it seemed that a little pink was now
creeping into her cheeks; her eyes were still big and round and blue;
her hair was now done up in thick shining braids. She talked freely to
Dorian and his mother, and at last Dorian had to some extent been able
to find his tongue in the presence of a girl nearly his own age.
The two stopped in the shade of the willow. He set up the easel and
opened the stool, while she got out her colors and brushes.
"Thank you," she said to him. "Did you get through with your work in the
field?"
"I was just turning the water on the lucerne. I got through shocking the
wheat some time ago."
"Is there a good crop! I don't know much about such things, but I want
to learn." She smiled up into his ruddy face.
"The wheat is fine. The heads are well developed. I wouldn't be
surprised if it went fifty bushels to the acre."
"Fifty bushels?" She began to squeeze the tubes of colors on to the
palette.
Dorian explained; and as he talked, she seated herself, placed the
canvas on the easel, and began mixing the colors.
"I thought you finished that picture yesterday," he said.
"I was not satisfied with it, and so I thought I would put in another
hour on it. The setting sun promises to be unusually fine today, and I
want to put a little more of its beauty into my picture, if I can."
The young man seated himself on the grass well toward the rear where he
could see her at work. He thought it wonderful to be able thus to make a
beautiful picture out of such a commonplace thing as a saleratus swamp.
But then, he was beginning to think that this girl was capable of
endless wonders. He had met no other girl just like her, so young and so
beautiful, and yet so talented and so well-informed; so rich, and yet
so simple in manner of her life; so high born and bred, and yet so
companionable with those of humbler station.
The painter squeezed a daub of brilliant red on to her palette. She
gazed for a moment at the western sky, then turning to Dorian, she
asked:
"Do you think I dare put a little more red in my picture?"
"Dare?" he repeated.
The young man followed the pointing finger of the girl into the flaming
depths of the sky, then came and leaned carefully over the painting.
"Tell me which is redder, the real or the picture?" she asked.
Dorian looked critically back and forth. "The sky is redder," be
decided.
"And yet if I make my picture as red as the sky naturally is, many
people would say that it is too red to be true. I'll risk it anyway."
Then she carefully laid on a little more color.
"Nature itself, our teacher told us, is always more intense than any
representation of nature."
She worked on in silence for a few moments, then without looking from
her canvas, she asked: "Do you like being a farmer?"
"Oh, I guess so," he replied somewhat indefinitely. "I've lived on a
farm all my life, and I don't know anything else. I used to think I
would like to get away, but mother always wanted to stay. There's been a
lot of hard work for both of us, but now things are coming more our way,
and I like it better. Anyway, I couldn't live in the city now."
"Why?"
"Well, I don't seem able to breathe in the city, with its smoke and its
noise and its crowding together of houses and people."
"You ought to go to Chicago or New York or Boston," she replied. "Then
you would see some crowds and hear some noises."
"Have you been there?"
"I studied drawing and painting in Boston. Next to farming, what would
you like to do?"