There was an artist once, and he painted a picture. Other artists hadcolours richer and rarer, and painted more notable pictures. He paintedhis with one colour, there was a wonderful red glow on it; and the peoplewent up and down, saying, "We like the picture, we like the glow."The other artists came and said, "Where does he get his colour from?" Theyasked him; and he smiled and said, "I cannot tell you"; and worked on withhis head bent low.And one went to the far East and bought costly pigments, and made a rarecolour and painted, but after a time the picture faded. Another read inthe old books, and made a colour rich and rare, but when he had put it onthe picture it was dead.But the artist painted on. Always the work got redder and redder, and theartist grew whiter and whiter. At last one day they found him dead beforehis picture, and they took him up to bury him. The other men looked aboutin all the pots and crucibles, but they found nothing they had not.And when they undressed him to put his grave-clothes on him, they foundabove his left breast the mark of a wound--it was an old, old wound, thatmust have been there all his life, for the edges were old and hardened; butDeath, who seals all things, had drawn the edges together, and closed itup.And they buried him. And still the people went about saying, "Where did hefind his colour from?"And it came to pass that after a while the artist was forgotten--but thework lived.St. Leonards-on-Sea.
