The noon sun shone down upon the harbor. The warmth of early summer was in the air. A little breeze ran through it, ruffling1 the surface of the water. The artist, from his perch2 on the rock, looked out over it with kindling3 eye.
His easel, on the rock before him, had held him all morning. He had been trying to catch the look of coming summer, the crisp, salt tang of the water, and the scudding4 breeze. When he looked at the canvas, a scowl5 held his forehead, but when he glanced back at the water, it vanished in swift delight. It was color to dream on, to gloat over—to wait for. Some day it would grow of itself on his palette, and then, before it could slip away, he would catch it. It only needed a stroke—he would wait. His eye wandered to the horizon.
A face appeared over the edge of the cliff and cut off the vision. It was Uncle William, puffing6 a little and warm. “Hello.” He climbed up and seated himself on the rock, stretching his legs slowly to the sun. “I reckoned I’d find ye here. Been doin’ her?” He nodded toward the horizon.
The artist looked into the distance with puzzled eyes. “Her?” He put the word doubtingly.
Uncle William glanced at him sharply. “Don’t you see nuthin’ over there?” He waved a huge arm at the horizon.
The artist looked again and shook his head slowly. “I see a color I’d give my eyes to get.”
Uncle William chuckled7 a little. “Reckon they ain’t wuth much to ye.” His hand slid into the pocket of his coat and brought out a small spy-glass. He slipped the parts into place and adjusted it to his eye. “There!” He handed it to the young man. “See if that’ll help ye any.”
The young man took it, looking out over the bay. “Yes, I see her now. She’s a schooner8.” He put down the glass. “Do you mean to say you can see that with the naked eye?”
“Al’ays could.” Uncle William held out his hand again for the glass. “I don’t make her out a schooner, though.”
“She’s two-masted.”
“Yes.” Uncle William’s eye was glued to the glass. “But she’s lighter9 built, trimmer. Some pleasure-craft, like enough. You can see her walk—same as if she was a lady—a-bowin’ and bobbin’.” He laid down the glass, a look of pleasure in his face. “She’s comin’ right in, whoever she is. She’ll drop anchor by noon-time.” He glanced at the easel. “You been paintin’?”
“Trying to.”
“‘Bout a thousand dollars’ wuth, I s’pose?”
“Not ten cents’ worth.”
“Sho, now! Is that so?” He got up and looked down at the canvas, bending above it like some genial10 giraffe. He straightened himself, smiling. “‘Tis kind o’ dobby,” he admitted. “Mebbe you’ll do better to-morrow.”
“Maybe. Was there a letter for me?”
The old man shook his head. “Nary letter.—I reckon ’t ain’t time yet,” he added consolingly.
The young man looked gloomily at the water. “She must be ill.”
“Busy, more likely,” said Uncle William.
“It’s been six weeks.”
“You’re feelin’ putty well,” said Uncle William.
“I shall go down to-morrow,” said the young man. He had begun to gather up his brushes. The hands that lifted them were firm and strong. A clear color ran beneath the tan of his face.
Uncle William watched him with a little smile. “I dunno’s I’d go to-morrow. You could go next week if you don’t hear nuthin’.”
“I shall go to-morrow. I’ve been a fool to wait so long.”
Uncle William’s eye twinkled. “You’ve been gettin’ well,” he said.
“I’m well now.”
“Yes, you’re—Hello, there’s Andy.” He leaned over the edge of the cliff. “What d’ye make her?” he called down.
“Come up here and take a look at her.”
Andy climbed slowly up the cliff. “Got your glass?” He took it and fixed13 the moving speck14. “‘T ain’t a coaster,” he muttered. “What you folks been doin’ all the mornin’?”
“Well, I’ve been for the mail and some things, and Mr. Woodworth here he’s been paintin’.”
Andy cast a side glance at the easel. Then he gazed fixedly15 at the bay. He seated himself on a rock. “It’s time for me to go home,” he said.
No one paid any attention to it—Andy least of all. He sat with one leg swinging over the other, chewing a bit of grass and staring gloomily out to sea. The look of baffled humility16 in his face made it almost tragic17. The artist fell to sketching19 it under cover of his hand. Uncle William studied the approaching boat. “She’s never been in these waters afore,” he announced. “She’s comin’ in keerful.” No one replied. Andy stared at fate and the artist worked fast. Uncle William reached out for the glass. He took a long look. He dropped it hastily and glanced at the young man, who was working with serene20 touch—oblivious to the bay. Uncle William looked through the glass again—a long, slow look. Then he slipped it into his pocket and got up, decision in his face. “Comin’ in to dinner, Andy?”
Andy looked up mildly. “I reckon Harr’et’s waitin’ for me.” He got slowly to his feet. “You’ve got another done, I s’pose?” He glanced enviously21 at the easel.
The artist laughed out. “Want to see it?” He withdrew his hand.
Andy shambled across. He looked down at it casually22. A sheepish grin crept into this face, and spread. “You’ve made me look kind o’ queer, hain’t you?” He gazed, fascinated, at his tragic face.
Uncle William came over and bent23 to the canvas. He drew out his spectacles and peered at it, almost rubbing the paint with his great nose. “It’s Andy!” he said with shrewd delight. “It’s Andy! And it’s the spittin’ image of him!” He pushed up the glasses, beaming upon Andrew.
“Fust-rate, Andy, fust-rate; couldn’t be better.” Uncle William laid an affectionate hand on his shoulder. “It looks jest as mean as you do—and jest as good, too, Andy.”
Andy cast a glance at the young man. “How long was ye makin’ it?”
“Half an hour, perhaps; while we’ve been sitting here.”
Andy sighed heavily. “Wuth more’n I be, too, I reckon?”
The artist stared at him.
“I mean—” Andy was almost apologetic. “I know they come high—picters. I don’t suppose I could afford to buy it of ye—”
The artist’s face lighted. “Do you want it?”
“Harr’et might,”—cautiously,—“if ’t wa’n’t too high. She’s got an easel for it. She al’ays cal’ated to have me done, and she’d got as fur as the easel.” His eye returned almost wistfully to the canvas. “Willum says it’s a good likeness.” He spoke26 with a kind of dubious27 pride.
“It is good.” The young man’s eye rested on it affectionately. “It’s a ripping good sketch18—and you may have it and welcome.”
Andy drew back a step. “You mean—”
“I’ll give it to you, yes.” The artist was holding it out laughingly. “And some day you’ll sit for me again. That’ll be pay enough.”
Andy rubbed his hands carefully on the sides of his trousers. He reached them out for the canvas. “It’s kind o’ wet,” he said. “I’ll have to hold it keerful.” He took it in both hands, beaming upon it with a kind of somber24 joy. Carrying it at arm’s-length, he bore it away over the rocks. The artist watched the stern, angular figure loom11 against the sky and dip down over the cliff out of sight.
“I shall do a sketch of him some day that will make us famous,” he said quietly.
“It’s time for dinner,” responded Uncle William.
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收听单词发音
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1
ruffling
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| 弄皱( ruffle的现在分词 )； 弄乱； 激怒； 扰乱 | |
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2
perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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3
kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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4
scudding
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| n.刮面v.（尤指船、舰或云彩）笔直、高速而平稳地移动( scud的现在分词 ) | |
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5
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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6
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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7
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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8
schooner
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| n.纵帆船 | |
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9
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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10
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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11
loom
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| n.织布机，织机；v.隐现，(危险、忧虑等)迫近 | |
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12
squinted
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| 斜视( squint的过去式和过去分词 )； 眯着眼睛； 瞟； 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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13
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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14
speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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15
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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16
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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17
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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18
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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19
sketching
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| n.草图 | |
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20
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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21
enviously
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| adv.满怀嫉妒地 | |
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22
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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23
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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24
somber
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| adj.昏暗的，阴天的，阴森的，忧郁的 | |
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25
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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26
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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27
dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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