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^ February 26, 1925
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HIGH LIFE
Page Three
THE PAINTER’S
DREAM
By Martha Broadhxjrst
The sun was rising pure and white
over Italy’s slopes, the hour was early;
the boat would be sailing presently. The
wharf was crowded with humble men and
women there to say farewell to friends
and relatives. Standing aloof from the
crowd was a beautiful woman who held
by the arm a tall, dreamy-looking young
man unquestionably her son, who re
mained by her side until the very last
moment—“Mother, farewell. I shall go
to the new country, the free country,
where there will be need of painters,
and there I shall become great. I will
paint in America. Bid me God-speed
and smile me a good-bye.”
Little did he know what it was to ask
a lonely mother in Bdorence to smile
him a good-bye. One’s own and only
son! To be dreaming of everything in
another country being so wonderful, so
perfect! Youth fancies that the “far
country” one longs to live in holds no
disappointments.
Thus did Lorenza Lairee come to
America. Thinking that new freedom
in life and money so easily made (how
many illusions the foreigner has of our
wealth!) would early help him to—in his
own words—“paint in America.”
Standing on the deck of the Italian
liner, the tall young man was first to
sight the Statue of Liberty. “Ah, I have
come, I have come—and here I will be
great—a great artist. I will paint in
America!”
The hundreds of men and women gath
ered their belongings and trooped off the
boat. One wondered where they would
set foot and at night find shelter for
their heads. “What can you do?” was
the hard, cold inquiry of the government
official. Being slight and more a dreamer
than a laborer, it was more difficult to
place this man. And so it happened that
he was settled out in a mixed colony of
truck farmers and flower gardens and
stone cutters. Everything imaginable
they did for home and bread. As life
grew to be a harder struggle, Lorenza
Lairee found it harder to paint.
Next door to his lodging place was a
truck farmer whose entire family did
the gardening. Were they from his old
country? “No,” the fair-haired, rosy-
cheeked, stalwart young girl said—“from
Holland.” And thus did the dreaming,
lonely, poor young painter work near
the garden, and, as youth draws youth,
one day he married Amina, the pretty
girl who had never dreamed a dream or
had a vision—who only saw the growth
of the lettuce, celery and radishes with
earthly eyes. Amina would never know
in the future why or how Lorenza suf
fered—so long as she, his faithful wife,
looked after the gardens and marketed
their products. Such natures never un
derstand, and “feet of clay” has been
their names.
The years slipped rapidly by, and in
the little, low-thatched house where Lo
renza and Amina lived there had been
born a blessed baby girl. She was grow
ing up so wonderfully beautiful that Lo
renza secretly longed to paint her face.
The years had been so hard. Long after
Amina had fallen asleep he would creep
up into the attic with a candle and paint,
paint, paint. The only notice his wife
ever gave to his slipping up there was
when she would say: “Prices are better
and better every day for everything in
our garden. Why do you not sleep at
night, the better to work tomorrow? Ugh,
lucky for the both of us my poor father
left us this little patch to call our own—
sure ’twould be none of ours for your
getting.”
Days wore along. The mornings found
Amina in the garden, wondering why
Lorenza was whiling away the sunny
hours and not working alongside her and
the hired man. She did not know that
up in his attic there was a trap-door
opening to the skylight, and when the
blue sky called in the morning to her,
it only said, “The plants, the gardens,
better truck, better prices.”
Not so with Lorenza. He heard only
the call to the attic window, “To paint—■
to paint—to paint in America!” This
he had said for all these misshapen years.
Amina only saw daubs of blue and red
and yellow in the sketches of her hus
band. Loving him, though, in a mater
nal sort of way; shielding him, yet fuss
ing—more to herself than to him—she,
by her toil and bustle, brought in the
living. Lorenza would spend hours try
ing to help her, and to Amina they were
golden hours, spent by her side in the
truck garden. He would often tell her
of Italy, and how some day he hoped
they could go, for she, too, was foreign-
born and would like a glimpse of Hol
land.
While the couple talked and worked,
little Willena would come home from
school and join them, working in the
gardens, growing in body and mind. She
was the pride of her teachers, not only
because of leading in all her classes, but
for her beauty—both physical and spiri
tual. And so at 17 she soon would,be
going into the city to study. She would
dream of fanciful things. She imagined
great clouds, sunlight, storms, flowers—
and always her own face vaguely mixed
with all these things. How was she to
know that some day and soon her face
would be but this later.
Standing in the fading sunlight with
Lorenza and Amina on a spring day,
suddenly she saw two men on horseback.
So handsome were they that Willena fan
cied they were knights in search of Beau
ty. How truly she guessed!
“My son,” spoke the older man of the
two, “my dream in life is over for my
self. In my work I have had great suc
cess, thank God! But my dream is for
you—to see you a great artist. My name
is heard and known a great way ’round
the world, but I crave for you the great
est name in your own native America.
I would give all my glory and success
as a portrait painter if by so doing you
could catch a new light, a new dream
for great buildings in our cities. My cup
of joy would be brimful, if you could
be deemed worthy to be commissioned
to paint upon the walls of America’s
Cathedral one living picture.”
“Ah, my dear, good father, how could
a son of yours—you, the great Sarjine—
be ever anywhere save in your shadow?”
“Son, I shall hope and pray that you
may find a new way, a new day, a new
face—a face never seen on canvas—some
day, please God, you will find in a byway
a face no artist has ever found—and
your time will come. You will find”—
“Father, look, look, look into the gar
den there in the valley—such a face!”
Drawing nearer, the great Sarjine
smiled and called to the man, who was
none other than Lorenza. Heaven seem
ed coming down to the hungry heart as
he looked into the face of the master
of whom he had heard so long. As like
meets like, and spirit answers to spirit,
the humble man said, “Will you not come
to my attic and see the sunset from my
skylight?” Of course he would. With a
look of discovery in his fine eyes as he
glanced around the walls, Sarjine said:
“My man, you have done what others
are striving everywhere to do. You’ve
mixed a blue. Little do you know what
you have done. Your blue! Your blue!
Come into my studio tomorrow, bring
ing these sketches with you.”
And so, on the glorious tomorrow, Lo
renza, Amina, and Willena set out for
the studio of Sarjine. The great joy that
filled Lorenza’s heart seemed to overbur
den his frail body. More money than
he had ever thought of had been paid
him for his sketches—just for his blue,
the blue that is the craving of every
young artist.
That night, calling Amina to his bed
side, he said: “I’m so tired, so tired! My
heart seems bursting with something
bound up for years. I see my mother.
She was young when I left Italy. I see
her again.” And, taking Amina’s strong,
working hand, he said, as in a dream,
“Mother, farewell. I shall go to the
new country, the free country. And
there I shall become great. I will paint
in America!”
Opening his eyes, he saw Amina and
not his mother. “I Avas dreaming of
starting to America. I’m so tired. I’m
so tired. But in just a little while, this
money will buy us passage and we will
go to—to . We are going now. Why,
I did not know we were going so soon!
Don’t you feel the boat starting?—the
slush of the water, listen, Amina, against
the wheels.”
The tired eyes closed. “We are going
now to Italy to tell mother I painted
in America!” And the silence of death
enveloped the little room in the lodging-
house that night.
In the upper room of Sarjine’s studio
the Commission of Selection for Ameri
ca’s Cathedral was gathering. The son
of Sarjine was exhibiting to them his
great effort. Would it fail? Would it
be worthy? Only God’s eyes saw the
anguish and His ear heard the prayer
of the renowned artist for his son’s suc
cess.
As the gauze was pulled aside by the
young painter, the men on the Commis
sion looked, and, doubting, looked again,
and again—until the silence grew tense
and choking. “Ah! My young man, you
have found a face never artist found
before. Surely this will be seen and
known as the great American picture.
We are at your feet to accept and honor
your work. How long you must have
dreamed to bring from canvas such a
face as that!” said the greatest connois
seur of all.
“Sir, it was the dreams and sufferings
of another longing soul whose face look
ed into this face”—going to a half-open
door, the young artist called, “Willena,
may I not show to my distinguished
friends, and above all, to my honored
father, the face in which I found my
new vision?”
A MIDNIGHT DISCUSSION
Last night I was awakened by a heat
ed “current event discussion” between
my text-books. The conversation was
something like this:
“Oh, that doesn’t compare with mine,”
said Geometry. “Listen to this: Once
a general in the French army was wrong
ly accused of a scandal that occurred
over some political paper. This man
was publicly dishonored and shipped to
‘The Duaible’ for life. Since he want
ed to apply his mind to science but was
given no books Avhatever, he made up
for himself the elements of the integral
and differential calculus. After five
years he was given his freedom, and nu
merous honors were publicly bestowed
upon him. This celebrated prisoner was
Captain Alfred Dreyfus.” Whereupon
the other book clamored for the rest of
the political episode, except a “Petite
Contis de France,” who piped, “Oh, you
took my current eA^ent!”
“But listen to mine!” interrupted Eng
lish. “Anatole France, recognized paci
fist, Avhose writing for the last ten years
was all directed against militarism, was
buried to martial music rendered by a
cavalry band, and other military honors.
Mitronce, in all of his wills, specified
his desire for a simple funeral, with no
demonstrations, no floAvers, no speeches.
His bier Avas completely covered Avith
floAvers, unequaled by any in Paris. Ora
tors spoke for three hours continuously,
seAxn speakers rendering homage to the
famous writer.”
Science, Avho is ever on the alert for
new discoveries, chimed in with: “Let
me tell you of an interesting article I
read recently concerning me. A noted
scientist, in proof of cures by radiation,
took a case of rats that had been fed
on a diet producing rickets and they
had developed the disease. He put half
of them in a cage and fed them radiated
food until they got well; he then put the
rats that had been cured in with those
that had not. The cured ones radiated
those uncured and in that way cured
them. Foods are radiated by exposing
them to sunlight or to ultra-violet rays;
the light acts on phosphorus, causing it
to radiate similar to the Avay radium
acts. Phosphorus is present in all liv
ing matter. This proves that all living
things require an abundance of sun
light.”
By now, old Morpheus’ wile had be
come stronger than mine, and I wan
dered back into Dreamland with French,
History, Science, Geometry and English
contending for first place in my con
sciousness.
Elizabeth Umbergeb.
Mother (solicitously): “What did you
have for your luncheon today, dear?”
Daughter: “I don’t know—I ate at
the Cafeteria.”
One: “Is he from the jungles?”
Another: “Sure; he thinks Wheeling
West Virginia is a hard job.”
“To err is human,” but many a guy
gets slapped in the face just the same.
A VALENTINE
TRAGEDY
By Elizabeth Stoxe
In dear old KingsMre town there lived,
full fifty years ago,
A maid whom I shall designate as Mis
tress Phoebe Snow.
She loved a lad who had his home in this
sam.e Kingshire town;
His name I shall announce to you was
Mister Thomas Brown.
One wintry day as Mistress Snow was
walking down the street,
A merchant’s window, filled with hearts,
her pretty eyes did greet;
She viewed it long, and pondered deep.
her face drawn in a frown.
And tried to find a valentine to send to
Mister Brown.
So many pretty hearts were there, she
coidd not well decide.
Until she saw two dainty ones that sat
there, side by side;
Inside, ’mid lace and paper frills, there
was a little sign—
“If yon won’t have me for your love,
return this valentine!”
She took it home, and tied it %ip. with
ribbon blue and sweet,
.lust as this Mister Thomas Brown was
strolling down the street.
He spied the twin of that fair heart that
she for him had bought;
“A valentine for Phoebe!” was the ardent
lover’s thought.
The morning dawned both bright and
fair, when lovers were to send
A vcdentine to their true love, or to their
dearest friend.
Our lovers sent their missives sweet, not
knowing Pate’s intent;
Each thought the heart he got was that
same one that he had sent!
When Mistress Snow received her heart,
she wept, she sobbed, she cried,
While Mister Thomas Brown resolved
she’d hurt his manly pride.
So now the erstwhile lovers hate; no
more fair hearts they send;
Their rosy dreams have all collapsed,
their romance met an end.
SOUNDS IN THE WOODS
»
Once my section of the Girl Scouts
chapter in Badin, a town where I once
lived, decided to go on an overnight hike.
It was to be the last one of the summer.
School had begun and at the end of the
first week we felt so tired and abused
that we thought Ave needed the rest.
Accordingly, we set out on Friday aft
ernoon and after about three hours of
tramping we came at last to a finger of
land jutting out into the lake, which
uromised to be a good camp site. It
was covered with fir and balsam trees
and was very lovely. The ground was
thickly padded Avith needles, Avhich gave
no sound but a slight rustle Avhen walked
upon.
After the sun went down it was chilly,
so we decideci to appoint different pa
trols to watch our “grub” and replenish
the fire. It was during my patrol that
I slipped quietly away down to the lake
shore alone, and sat watching the water
to listen and think. The wind Avas blow
ing through the reeds which tAvanged
and clanked against each other. The
wind also swept along under the low-
hanging boughs of the trees, causing a
melancholy, plaintive, moaning sound
like weeping. Across the lake I could
actually hear nuts dropping from the
trees to the ground, the night was so
clear and cold and the Avater so calm.
Evidently it was a lone wildcat that
screeched madly from a thicket, for in
a moment I saw a long, sleek body move
noiselessly about a few seconds, then
vanish into the thick Avoods that were
just behind. A dog hoAvled dismally at
regular intervals and gave one a creepy
feeling that something Avas lurking in
the shadows and underbrush. I could
hear the other girls around the fire talk
ing in a monotonous, steady, droning
Avay. Occasionally a half-suppressed
burst of laughter broke the smooth still
ness. Many insects hummed, and this,
blended Avith the gentle dashing of the
Avaves against each other, made a sort
of hissing sound. A cold, pale moon
shone on the scene, giving it the aspect
of being the land of a half-stupefied,
half-living race.
Milbred Nash.
HIRAM’S LETTER
♦
Dear ma.
I aint hed time to rite you I been a
stud in so hard.
They is gettin along fine Avith our neAV
stable. They got the rafters up already.
Say ma did I ever tell you bout that
railroad what us back of the school
house? Well hits the cutest thing. Hit
comes along and blows nearly ever time
AA'hen I aint got my lessons Avitch is sure
comfortin.
I sure am glad pa aint here cause hit
is so damp it would make his rumatism
hurt.
See ef you kin read this.
“Parly-vow BYansais.”
Well thet is french.
vSay ma aint you ever gonna rite me?
Your sophisticaly inclined son,
HIRAM.
P.S.—I Avisht you Avould give this here
potry to Hank sos he kin say hit to
Mandy. I found hit on the floor at the
school house.
(Enclosure)
Do you love me
Or do you not?
You told me once.
But I forgot.
But now I ask you,
If not before.
So tell me now
Whom you adore.
Maybe I d.o.
Maybe I don’t.
I thought I told you.
Blit now I won’t.
Well, if you don’t.
IIow will I know
Which way that I
Should ought to go?
If you had asked me,
I might have told.
But now I woiddn’t
For love nor gold.
AT THE FOOT OF THE RAINBOW
Once upon a time Faerie Captain Kidd
had no hiding place for a bag of star
dust which he had stolen from the Sand
man.
Lie sat perched on a toadstool, the bag
carefully guarded by two Fairy Pirates,
Avhile he thought and thought for a place
to hide his stardust. It was raining in'
big shining drops, and a big one strik
ing him on his nose caused him to start,
and look up. Just then the sun came
out radiantly, and a huge rainbow, re
cently painted by an elfin artist, hung
across the sky. Captain Kidd sprang
to his feet.
“I knoAv!” he shouted joyously, turn
ing a handspring over the back of a
shiny black beetle, “we’ll hide it at the
foot of the rainbow!”
And that’s how stardust, which of
course you know is the fairies’ gold, may
still be found at the foot of the rainbow.
Marjorie Vahkemah.
THE PLOT
It- is dusk. A dark-skinned man with
a bolshevik look creeps upon the porch
very quietly. In his hand he holds an
object, Avhich in the shadoAvs resembles a
bomb. What plot can be afoot this
night? And who is to be the unsuspect
ing victim? See! The mystery man
drops the thing and flees. A dark hand
stretches out from the doorway. Will
the thing explode? But wait! A dusky-
skinned girl is standing inside the door
holding it in her hand. “Mah Sambo
am per’lous timid when Valentine Day
comes!” she cries ecstatically.
' Heleh Felder.
“Waiter, bring me the nine things I
like.”
“What are they, sir?”
“Hash.”
Dumb: “What’s your roommate like?
Bell: “Darn near everything I’ve got.
Q.: “What can I do to avoid falling
hair?”
A.: “Jump out of the way, dumbell.”
“Mother, am I a canoe?” asked little
Harry.
“Certainly not, Harry. What ever put
that idea into your head?”
“Well, you are always saying you like
to see folks paddle their own canoes,
and I thought I must be yours.”
Love is like a trunk—if you don’t
check it in time, you have to express it.
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