CHAPTER XIII
HOW NELSON CAME HOME
Through the long summer the mountains and the pines were with me. And
through the winter, too, busy as I was filling in my Black Rock sketches
for the railway people who would still persist in ordering them by the
dozen, the memory of that stirring life would come over me, and once
more I would be among the silent pines and the mighty snow-peaked
mountains. And before me would appear the red-shirted shantymen or
dark-faced miners, great, free, bold fellows, driving me almost mad with
the desire to seize and fix those swiftly changing groups of picturesque
figures. At such times I would drop my sketch, and with eager brush
seize a group, a face, a figure, and that is how my studio comes to be
filled with the men of Black Rock. There they are all about me. Graeme
and the men from the woods, Sandy, Baptiste, the Campbells, and in many
attitudes and groups old man Nelson; Craig, too, and his miners, Shaw,
Geordie, Nixon, and poor old Billy and the keeper of the League saloon.
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