By the time he had mixed the right shade of purple for the low-banked clouds the sun had disappeared and he’d put everything away until the next evening. The next evening the clouds that had been fat and fluffy were long and wispy, and the rose colored sky of the night before would be changed to gold.
Hurriedly mixing his colors, he’d attempt to change his canvas to match the changed sunset, but again the magic colors eluded him and darkness came before he was finished.
“Creepers, I never can work fast enough. I’ll never finish this thing.”
As the days went by the canvas became more and more covered with paint, but James wasn’t cast down. He was always certain that the next night would see the finished picture.
On this Saturday night there was no sunset, only a solid bank of black storm clouds.
“Make everything fast,” called Dad. “We’re going to have a blow,” and then the sun appeared between a crack in the clouds.
“Hurry, boy, hurry,” called Dad. “Finish your picture.”
James ran for the paints. The many-colored clouds of previous attempts were hastily covered with black and gray. The sun peeped through as always, and a few quick strokes with a clean brush made a golden halo. The trees at the horizon were greenish black, and he finished the broad sweeps of leaden gray that were the lake just as the first rain hit him.
“Hurray,” he exulted. “I’ve got it! I’ve got it,” as he ran for the cottage holding the masterpiece over his head.
“That’s wonderful,” beamed Aunt Claire. “You’ve got real stick-to-it-iveness. You have talent, too, but persistence is more important. Let’s prop your sunset here on the floor against the wall so that everyone can see it.”