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As Lescott wandered through the hills, his unhurt right hand began

crying out for action and a brush to nurse As he watched, day after

day, the unveiling of the monumental hills, and the transitions fro riot of color,

this fret of restlessness beca wonderful

opportunity and the creative instinct in hi, when he came out just after sunrise to the tin wash basin

at the well, the desire to paint was on hi force The

hills ended near their bases like things bitten off Beyond lay

liaze, the filher Trees and host-like disc of polished alue and verh the Creator were breathing on a formless void to

kindle it into a vital and splendid cos

and the radiance of full day lay a dozen h rifts in the

streamers, patches of hillside and sky showed for an ethereal moment or

two in tender and transparent coloration, like spirit-reflections of

emerald and sapphire Lescott heard a voice at his side

"When does ye 'low ter commence paintin'?"