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Page 5 of Call of the Cumberlands / by Charles Neville Buck.

THE CALL OF THE CUMBERLANDS from her lips. She star-d a moment, then dropped to the moss-covered rock, leaning back on her brown hands and gazing intently. She sat there forgetful of every- thing except the sketch which stood on the collapsible easel. "Hit's purty !" she approved, in a low, musical mur- mur. "Hit's plumb dead beautiful!" Her eyes were glowing with delighted approval. She had never before seen a picture more worthy than the chromos of advertising calendars and the few crude prints that find their way into the roughzst places, and she was a passionate, though totally unconscious, devot6e of beauty. Now she was sitting before a sketch, its paint still moist, which more severe critics would have pronounced worthy of accolade. Of course, it was not a finished picture merely a study of what lay before her-but the hand that had placed these brush- strokes on the academy board was the sure, deft hand of a master of landscape, who had caught the splendid spirit of the thing, and fixed it immutably in true and glowing appreciation. Who he was; where he had gone; why his work stood there unfinished and abandoned, were details which for the moment this half-savage child-woman forgot to question. She was conscious only of a sense of revelation and awe. Then she saw other boards, like the one upon the easel, piled near the paint-box. These were dry, and represented the work of other days; but they were all pictures of her own mountains, and in each of them, as in this one, was something that made her heart leap. To her own people, these steep hillsides and "coves" and valleys were a matter of course. In their stony 5

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