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"Such beauty, varying in the light, Of living nature, cannot be portrayed By words, nor by the pencil's silent skill; But is the property of him alone Who hath beheld it, noted it with care, And in his mind recorded it with love." Leave the prairie and enter the forest which crowns the neighboring ridge. Here are more of those blue shadows on the snow.
At intervals, her auburn tresses would fall on the paper, and sweep the pencil's efforts. At such times, she would remove them with her small hand, with such a soft smile, and gentle grace, that the very action seemed to speak volumes for her feminine sympathies. Delme disturbed them not, but making a tour through the grove of beech trees, reached Leamington in thoughtful mood.
Mason, noticing his mediocrity as a painter, pays this fine tribute to his excellence in the decoration of rural scenery: "He felt The pencil's power but fir'd by higher forms Of beauty than that pencil knew to paint, Work'd with the living hues that Nature lent, And realiz'd his landscapes.
This jug's of use because one can pour water into it. This pencil's of use because you can write anything with it. But that woman's face is inferior to any face in nature. Try drawing an apple, and put a real apple beside it. Which would you take? You wouldn't make a mistake, I'm sure. This is what all our theories amount to, now that the first light of free investigation has dawned upon them."
"The lead in this pencil's worn clean down into the wood." "Hand it over here an' I'll sharpen it," said the jailer, drawing his pocketknife. Rathburn walked to the bars and held out the pencil. An amiable smile played on his lips. "You'll have to excuse me," he said contritely. "I forgot it wasn't jail etiquette to ask for a knife. But I ain't had much experience in jail.
But Quarrier, if he heard, made no motion of understanding. Perhaps it had not been necessary to convince him of the conspiracy. When he had finished his figures he reviewed them, tracing each total with his pencil's point; then quietly handed the pad to Mortimer who went over it, and nodded that it was correct. Lydia rose. Quarrier said, without looking at her: "I have a blank cheque with me.
But he had not finished his outline sketch before he leaned back in his chair, and as if overcome by the insidious warmth of the fire, lapsed into firelight attitudes and meditations. Nibbling his pencil's point, he looked into the glare. Wavering light and wavering shade flickered fast over the Roman profile, flowed fitfully fitfully as his thoughts.
She arranged her paper and took up her pen, only to discover that in her haste she had forgotten to bring any ink. "But it doesn't matter," she thought, cheerfully, "for it would have upset in my dress probably, and, anyway, I can just as well use a pencil." But the pencil's point was broken, and, of course, it had not occurred to her to bring a knife.
Curiously enough, it carried her mind back to Patten's incompetence. For it suggested the fountain pen which of old occupied the pencil's place and which the sheriff had taken in his haste to secrete a bit of paper with Patten's scrawl upon it. She wondered again just what had been on that paper, and if it were meant to help Norton prove that Patten had no right to the M.D. after his name?
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