"If I do I will have you for one of the characters. You will be my hero."
"I see that you will not succeed as a novelist."
"Why?"
"You have already shown sufficiently poor judgment in selecting a character to condemn you as a novelist; however, you might succeed as descriptive writer. I will test you a little farther. Did the man Watson have any peculiarities?"
"Nothing that I remember, except he lisped slightly."
"Speaking of descriptions," he remarked, "there is a scene that I would like to have descriptive power to describe."
They were walking through the City's Natural Park and had come suddenly upon a little lake surrounded by wooded hills. It was the first of October, and nature's artist had tinted the foliage a rich golden hue. Two couples in row boats were rowing along the shaded side of the lake while shimmering light was reflected from the opposite side. The deep green of the grass which bordered the lake, the gold of the tree foliage, the blue of the sky above and the passing clouds mirrored in the water blended in a harmonious picture that no lover of beauty could fail to admire.
"Isn't it beautiful!" Ruth exclaimed.
"Yes, as Riley says, 'A picture that no painter has the colorin' to mock.'"
They walked on down a winding road, through the woods and around the hills. Ruth began humming, "There's a long, long trail a winding into the land of my dreams."