Or mebby my mind'll jump right over to the "Soldier of Marathon," or "Eve," no knowin' at all where my thoughts will take me amongst them n.o.ble marble figgers.

And as for picters, my revery on 'em now is a perfect sight; a show as good as a panorama is a-goin' on in my fore-top now when I let my thoughts take their full swing on them picters.

Amongst them that struck the hardest blows on my fancy wuz them that told stories that touched the heart.

There wuz one in the Holland exhibit, called "Alone in the World," a picter that rousted up my feelin's to a almost alarmin' extent. It wuz a picter by Josef Israel.

It wuz a sight to see how this picter touched the hearts of the people.

No grandeur about it, but it held the soul of things--pathos, heart-breakin' sorrow.

A peasant had come home to his bare-lookin' cottage, and found his wife dead in her bed.

He didn't rave round and act, and strike an att.i.tude. No, he jest turned round and sot there on his hard stool, with his hands on his knees, a-facin' the bare future.

The hull of the desolation of that long life of emptiness and grief that he sees stretch out before him without her, that he had loved and lost, wuz in the man's grief-stricken face.

It wuz that face that made up the loss and the strength of the picter.

I cried and wept in front of it, and cried and wept. I thought what if that wuz Josiah that sot there with that agony in his face, and that desolation in his heart, and I couldn't comfort him--

Couldn't say to him: "Josiah, we'll bear it together."

I wuz fearful overcome.

[Ill.u.s.tration: I cried and wept in front of it, and cried and wept.]

And then there wuz another picter called "Breakin' Home Ties."

A crowd always stood before that.

It wuz a boy jest a-settin' out to seek his fortune. The breakfast-table still stood in the room. The old grandma a-settin' there still; time had dulled her vision for lookin' forward. She wuz a-lookin' into the past, into the realm that had held so many partin's for her, and mebby lookin' way over the present into the land of meetin's.

The little girl with her hand on the old dog is too small to fully realize what it all means.

But in the mother's face you can see the full meanin' of the partin'--the breakin' of the old ties that bound her boy so fast to her in the past.

The lettin' him go out into the evil world without her lovin'

watchfulness and love. All the love that would fain go with him--all the admonition that she would fain give him--all the love and all the hope she feels for him is writ in her gentle face.

As for the boy, antic.i.p.ation and dread are writ on his mean, but the man is waitin' impatient outside to take him away. The partin' must come.

You turn away, glad you can't see that last kiss.

Then there wuz "Holy Night," the Christ Child, with its father and mother, and some surroundin' worshippers of both sects.

Mary's face held all the sweetness and strength you'd expect to see in the mother of our Lord. And Joseph looked real well too--quite well.

Josiah said that "the halos round his head and Mary's looked some like big white plates."

But I sez, "You hain't much of a judge of halos, anyway. Mebby if you should try to make a few halos you'd speak better of 'em."

I often think this in the presence of critics, mebby if they should lay holt and paint a few picters, they wouldn't find fault with 'em so glib.

It looks real mean to me to see folks find so much fault with what they can't do half so well themselves.

Then there wuz the wimmen at the tomb of the Christ. The door is open, the Angel is begenin' for 'em to enter.

In the faces of them weepin', waitin' wimmen is depictered the very height and depth of sorrow. You can't see the face of one on 'em, but her poster gives the impression of absolute grief and loss.

The quiverin' lips seems formin' the words--"Farwell, farwell, best beloved."

Deathless love shines through the eyes streamin' with tears.

In the British section there wuz one picter that struck such a deep blow onto my heart that its strings hain't got over vibratin' still.

They send back some of them deep, thrillin' echoes every time I think on't in the day-time or wake up in the night and think on't.

It wuz "Love and Death," and wuz painted by Mr. Watts, of London.

It showed a home where Love had made its sweet restin'-place--vines grew up round the pleasant door-way, emblematic of how the heart's deep affection twined round the spot.

But in the door-way stood a mighty form, veiled and shadowy, but relentless. It has torn the vines down, they lay witherin' at its feet.

It wuz bound to enter.

Though you couldn't see the face of this veiled shape, a mysterious, dretful atmosphere darkened and surrounded it, and you knew that its name wuz Death.

Love stood in the door-way, vainly a-tryin' to keep it out, but you could see plain how its pleadin', implorin' hand, extended out a-tryin'

to push the figger away, wuz a-goin' to be swept aside by the inexorable, silent shape.

Death when he goes up on a door-step and pauses before a door has got to enter, and Love can't push it away. No, it can only git its wings torn off and trompled on in the vain effort.

It wuz a dretful impressive picter, one that can't be forgot while life remains.

On the opposite wall wuz Crane's n.o.ble picter, "Freedom;" I stood before that for some time nearly lost and by the side of myself. Crane did first-rate; I'd a been glad to have told him so--it would a been so encouragin' to him.

Then there wuz another picter in the English section called "The Pa.s.sing of Arthur" that rousted up deep emotions.

I'd hearn Thomas J. read so much about Arthur, and that round extension table of hisen, that I seemed to be well acquainted with him and his mates.

I knew that he had a dretful hard time on't, what with his wife a-fallin' in love with another man--which is always hard to bear--and etcetry. And I always approved of his doin's.

He never tried to go West to git a divorce. No; he merely sez to her, when she knelt at his feet a-wantin' to make up with him, he sez, "Live so that in Heaven thou shalt be Arthur's true wife, and not another's."

I'll bet that shamed Genevere, and made her feel real bad.

And his death-bed always seemed dretful pathetic to me.

And here it wuz all painted out. The boat floatin' out on the pale golden green light, and Arthur a-layin' there with the three queens a-weepin' over him. A-floatin' on to the island valley of Avilion, "Where falls not hail nor rain, nor any snow."

And then there wuz a picter by Whistler, called "The Princess of the Land of Porcelain."