rkened and surrounded it, and you knew that its
name wuz Death.

Love stood in the door-way, vainly a-tryin' to keep it out, but you
could see plain how its pleadin', implorin' hand, extended out a-tryin'
to push the figger away, wuz a-goin' to be swept aside by the
inexorable, silent shape.

Death when he goes up on a door-step and pauses before a door has got to
enter, and Love can't push it away. No, it can only git its wings torn
off and trompled on in the vain effort.

It wuz a dretful impressive picter, one that can't be forgot while life
remains.

On the opposite wall wuz Crane's noble picter, "Freedom;" I stood before
that for some time nearly lost and by the side of myself. Crane did
first-rate; I'd a been glad to have told him so--it would a been so
encouragin' to him.

Then there wuz another picter in the English section called "The
Passing of Arthur" that rousted up deep emotions.

I'd hearn Thomas J. read so much about Arthur, and that round extension
table of hisen, that I seemed to be well acquainted with him and his
mates.

I knew that he had a dretful hard time on't, what with his wife
a-fallin' in love with another man--which is always hard to bear--and
etcetry. And I always approved of his doin's.

He never tried to go West to git a divorce. No; he merely sez to her,
when she knelt at his feet a-wantin' to make up with him, he sez, "Live
so that in Heaven thou shalt be Arthur's true wife, and not another's."

I'll bet that shamed Genevere, and made her feel real bad.

And his death-bed always seemed dretful pathetic to me.

And here it wuz all painted out. The boat floatin' out on the pale
golden green light, and Arthur a-layin' there with the three queens
a-weepin' over him. A-floatin' on to the island valley of Avilion,
"Where falls not hail nor rain, nor any snow."

And then there wuz a picter by Whistler, called "The Princess of the
Land of Porcelain."

You couldn't really tell why that slender little figger in the long
trailin' silken robes, and the deep dark eyes, and vivid red lips
should take such a holt on you.

But she did, and that face peers out of Memory-aisles time and time
agin, and you wake up a-thinkin' on her in the night.

Mr. Whistler must a been dretful interested himself in the Lady of the
Land of Porcelain, or he couldn't have interested other folks so.

And then there wuz another by Mr. Whistler, called "The Lady of the
Yellow Buskin."

A poem of glowin'