DUNE PARK 153 



once a pine forest, standing stark and bare as it 

 emerges from its long burial in the devouring 

 sand, the polished trunks still erect and unyield- 

 ing ; ghostly skeletons of proud forest kings. 



I push eagerly on, for at the top oi an especially 

 high wave I shall find what I came for, the won- 

 derful clear color panorama of the blue water of 

 the lake, the tawny hills of sand, and the blue 

 sky over all. There may be white caps on the 

 lake and white clouds in the sky. Other color 

 there is none. The blue is so intense and vivid 

 that by its very purity it grasps you and lifts 

 you up, out of yourself. 



I have taken artist friends to see, but in vain. 

 They do not paint it; they do not seem to see it. 

 They want "atmosphere" where there is nothing 

 but pure clear air, and they give me curious 

 gray-green things when I want tawny yellow and 

 brilliant blue. Vereshchagin has painted such 

 things right. I do not know who else has. My 

 artist friends have not. I am resolved to do it 

 myself some day, though I know not brush or 

 colors. It will be poster style, just blue and 

 yellow splashes, but it will be truer than theirs. 



I always stop here and let the picture sink 

 through my eyes into my brain. Some tired day 

 next winter when the child-garden seems chiefly 



