And Dick picked up a clod and threw
it in his wife's face, between the eyes. She cursed him, in a
perfunctory way, and walked off, down the wood, to look after her
stew.
But now, Meg having pinned her enemy again, we soon dug them out: and
I held the sack while Dick took the badger by the tail and dropped
him in. His teeth snapped, a bare two inches from my left hand, as
he fell. After a short rest, he was despatched. The method need not
be described. It was somewhat crude, and in fact turned me not a
little sick.
"One o'clock," Dick observed, glancing up at the sun, and resuming
his care of Meg. "What're ye trying to do, youngster?"
"Trying to put on paper what a badger's like when he's dead. If only
I had colours--"
"My son, there's a kind of man afflicted with an itch to put all he
sees on paper. What's the use? Fifty men might sit down and write
what the grey of a badger's like; and they can't, because there's no
words for it. All they can say is that 'tis badger's-grey--which
means nought to a man that hasn't seen one; and a man that _has_
don't want to be told. Same with your pencils and paints. Cast your
head back and look up--how deep can you see into the sky?"
"Miles."
"Ay, and every mile shining to the eye. I've seen pictures in my
time, but never one that made a dab of paint look a mile deep.
Besides, why draw a thing when you can lie on your back and look up
at it?"
I was about to answer when Dick raised his head, with a queer
alertness in his eyes.
Pages:
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150