Dorian | Page 9

for a moment--"When I was a little fellow--"
"Which you are not," she interrupted as she changed brushes.
"I thought that if I ever could attain to the position of standing behind a counter in a store where I could take a piece of candy whenever I wanted it, I should have attained to the heights of happiness. But, now, of course--"
"Well, and now?"
"I believe I'd like to be a school teacher."
"Why a teacher?"
"Because I'd then have the chance to read a lot of books."
"You like to read, don't you? and you like candy, and you like pictures."
"Especially, when someone else paints them."
Mildred arose, stepped back to get the distance for examination. "I don't think I had better use more color," she commented, "but those cat-tails in the corner need touching up a bit."
"I suppose you have been to school a lot?" he asked.
"No; just completed the high school; then, not being very strong, mother thought it best not to send me to the University; but she lets me dabble a little in painting and in music."
Dorian could not keep his eyes off this girl who had already completed the high school course which he had not yet begun; besides, she had learned a lot of other things which would be beyond him to ever reach. Even though he were an ignoramus, he could bask in the light of her greater learning. She did not resent that.
"What do you study in High School!" he asked.
"Oh, a lot of things--don't you know?" She again looked up at him.
"Not exactly."
"We studied algebra and mathematics and English and English literature, and French, and a lot of other things."
"What's algebra like?"
"Oh dear, do you want me to draw it?"
"Can you draw it?"
"About as well as I can tell it in words. Algebra is higher mathematics; yes, that's it."
"And what's the difference between English and English literature?"
"English is grammar and how sentences are or should be made. English literature is made up mostly of the reading of the great authors, such as Milton and Shakespeare,"
"Gee!" exclaimed Dorian, "that would be great fun."
"Fun? just you try it. Nobody reads these writers now only in school, where they have to. But say, Dorian"--she arose to inspect her work again. "Have I too much purple in that bunch of salt-grass on the left? What do you think?"
"I don't see any purple at all in the real grass," he said.
"There is purple there, however; but of course, you, not being an artist, cannot see it." She laughed a little for fear he might think her pronouncement harsh.
"What--what is an artist?"
"An artist is one who has learned to see more than other people can in the common things about them."
The definition was not quite clear to him. He had proved that he could see farther and clearer than she could when looking at trees or chipmunks. He looked critically again at the picture.
"I mean, of course," she added, as she noted his puzzled look, "that an artist is one who sees in nature the beauty in form, in light and shade, and in color."
"You haven't put that tree in the right place," he objected! "and you have left out that house altogether."
"This is not a photograph," she answered. "I put in my picture only that which I want there. The tree isn't in the right place, so I moved it. The house has no business in the picture because I want it to represent a scene of wild, open lonesomeness. I want to make the people who look at it feel so lonesome that they want to cry!"
She was an odd girl!
"Oh, don't you understand. I want them only to feel like it. When you saw that charcoal drawing I made the other day, you laughed."
"Well, it was funny."
"That's just it. An artist wants to be able to make people feel like laughing or crying, for then he knows he has reached their soul."
"I've got to look after the water for a few minutes, then I'll come back and help you carry your things," he said. "You're about through, aren't you?"
"Thank you; I'll be ready now in a few minutes. Go see to your water. I'll wait for you. How beautiful the west is now!"
They stood silently for a few moments side by side, looking at the glory of the setting sun through banks of clouds and then down behind the purple mountain. Then Dorian, with shovel on shoulder, hastened to his irrigating. The blossoming field of lucerne was usually a common enough sight, but now it was a stretch of sweet-scented waves of green and purple.
Mildred looked at the farmer boy until he disappeared behind the willow fence, then she began to pack up her things. Presently, she heard some low bellowing, and, looking up, she saw a number of cows,