I don't see how that hunter could stay on his back—I couldn't—to say nothin' to shootin' the arrows into the critter as he's a-doin'.
Or mebby my mind'll jump right over to the "Soldier of Marathon," or "Eve," no knowin' at all where my thoughts will take me amongst them noble marble figgers.
And as for picters, my revery on 'em now is a perfect sight; a show as good as a panorama is a-goin' on in my fore-top now when I let my thoughts take their full swing on them picters.
Amongst them that struck the hardest blows on my fancy wuz them that told stories that touched the heart.
There wuz one in the Holland exhibit, called "Alone in the World," a picter that rousted up my feelin's to a almost alarmin' extent. It wuz a picter by Josef Israel.
It wuz a sight to see how this picter touched the hearts of the people. No grandeur about it, but it held the soul of things—pathos, heart-breakin' sorrow.
A peasant had come home to his bare-lookin' cottage, and found his wife dead in her bed.
He didn't rave round and act, and strike an attitude. No, he jest turned round and sot there on his hard stool, with his hands on his knees, a-facin' the bare future.
The hull of the desolation of that long life of emptiness and grief that he sees stretch out before him without her, that he had loved and lost, wuz in the man's grief-stricken face.