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Memory is the brush which can best lay on the true poetic colour. Nearness has too much of the compelling about it and the imagination is not sufficiently free unless it can get away from its influence. Not only in poetry, but in all art, the mind of the artist must attain a certain degree of aloofness the creator within man must be allowed the sole control.
Their course through the jungle had been devious and without much clearness as to a general direction, for first one would advise one way, and then the other another; and there were times when they had been compelled by the brush and gullies to go out of their way.
Presently, at the flash of a rifle from the brush where his companion had dismounted, Thornton pitched from his horse dead. They had done their best to kill him, they frankly swore, but it was his own deputy's shot that laid him low. All the collateral circumstantial evidence so fully corroborated this that the Indians were acquitted.
We had to stand by our teams and stock to prevent a stampede, for they all seemed to have a great wonder, and somewhat of fear at their relatives of the plains. After this we often saw large droves of them in the distance. Sometimes we could see what in the distance seemed a great patch of brush, but by watching closely we could see it was a great drove of these animals.
He possessed great facility of brush, which led him occasionally into careless drawing, and he lacked the refined grace of Reynolds and the simple charm of Gainsborough. Nevertheless, a superabundance of the qualities which go to make up a painter were his, and his art is less affected by influences foreign to his native soil than that of any painter of his time.
Bland's voice: " not as much as yuh might think, in all this brush. I've seen 'em hurt worse and get over it, and I've seen 'em die when you'd think " After that it was all mumble and buzz, and then more stars, and blackness and silence. Piecing together the fragments, as Johnny could not do, here is the interpretation.
I have seen some prowling fox or coyote, surprised by its sudden rising from behind the mountain wall, slink in its increasing glow, watch it furtively from the cover of near-by brush, unprepared and half uncertain of its identity until it rode clear of the peaks, and finally make off with all the air of one caught napping by an ancient joke.
It's yours. You shall have it when it's done." "It's done now," said the other brusquely. "Here sign." He picked up a brush, and, dipping it into a soft color on the palette, handed it to the painter. He took it doubtfully between his fingers, his eyes on the face. Slowly his hand moved toward the canvas.
She could see the clouds moving while they were being colored. The universal gray surrendered under some magic paint brush. The rifts widened, and the gloom of the pale-gray world seemed to vanish. Beyond the billowy, rolling, creamy edges of clouds, white and pink, shone the soft exquisite fresh blue sky.
Suddenly the cat looked up. It lifted its head and stared directly at the gallery above. Then it blinked, and stared again. I was amused. Not until it had got up on its feet, eyes still riveted on the balcony, tail waving at the tip, the hair on its back a bristling brush, did I glance casually over my head.
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