Their faces wan with tears—
One only smiled—a baby's smile—
To rectify the years.
DOROTHEA L. MOORE.
SEPTEMBER 5.
The harvesting of hops is the conjunction of the rude essentials of farm life with the highest effect in art. What artist but would note enthusiastically the inimitable pose of that young girl tip-toeing to bring down the tuft of creamy blossoms overhead; or the modest nudity of the wee bronze savage capering about a stolid squaw in a red sprigged muslin? Indeed, there is indescribable piquancy in this unconscious grouping of the pickers and their freedom from restraint. For each artistic bit—a laughing face in an aureole of amber clusters, a statuesque chin and throat, Indians in grotesquely picturesque raiment, and the yellow visages of the Chinese—the vines make an idyllic framing with a sinking summer sun in the background lending a shimmering transparency to leaf and flower.
NINETTA EAMES,
in Hop-Picking Time, The Cosmopolitan, November, 1893.
SEPTEMBER 6.