The Call of the Cumberlands

"Hit hain't got many colors in hit," said the boy, slowly, indicating

with a sweep of his hand the symphony about them, "but somehow what

there is is jest about the right ones. Hit whispers ter a feller, the

same as a mammy whispers ter her baby." He paused, then eagerly asked:

"Stranger, kin you look at the sky an' the mountings an' hear 'em

singin'--with yore eyes?"

The painter felt a thrill of astonishment. It seemed incredible that

the boy, whose rude descriptives reflected such poetry of feeling,

could be one with the savage young animal who had, two hours before,

raised his hand heavenward, and reiterated his oath to do murder in

payment of murder.

"Yes," was his slow reply, "every painter must do that. Music and

color are two expressions of the same thing--and the thing is Beauty."

The mountain boy made no reply, but his eyes dwelt on the quivering

shadows in the water; and Lescott asked cautiously, fearing to wake him

from the dreamer to the savage: "So you are interested in skies and hills and their beauties, too, are

you?"

Samson's laugh was half-ashamed, half-defiant.

"Sometimes, stranger," he said, "I 'lows that I hain't much interested

in nothin' else."

That there dwelt in the lad something which leaped in response to the

clarion call of beauty, Lescott had read in that momentary give and

take of their eyes down there in the hollow earlier in the afternoon.

But, since then, the painter had seen the other and sterner side, and

once more he was puzzled and astonished. Now, he stood anxiously hoping

that the boy would permit himself further expression, yet afraid to

prompt, lest direct questions bring a withdrawal again into the shell

of taciturnity. After a few moments of silence, he slowly turned his

head, and glanced at his companion, to find him standing rigidly with

his elbows resting on the top palings of the fence. He had thrown his

rough hat to the ground, and his face in the pale moonlight was raised.

His eyes under the black mane of hair were glowing deeply with a fire

of something like exaltation, as he gazed away. It was the expression

of one who sees things hidden to the generality; such a light as burns

in the eyes of artists and prophets and fanatics, which, to the

uncomprehending, seems almost a fire of madness. Samson must have felt

Lescott's scrutiny, for he turned with a half-passionate gesture and

clenched fists. His face, as he met the glance of the foreigner was

sullen, and then, as though in recognition of a brother-spirit, his

expression softened, and slowly he began to speak.