Pen Pricks 



that very different is our attitude when we in- 

 vade each other's province. Let my brother bring 

 a caption he has written for a drawing and I do 

 not carp or criticize. At most I twist a clause 

 or clip a participle and not before I tell him that 

 I like his use of words. Or happier times there 

 are on Sunday mornings when I too go sketch- 

 ing, a pleasant fiction on our part, sustained 

 chiefly as it brings companionship. At most I 

 have what in music would be called a natural 

 touch and surprise as one of those prodigies who 

 "has never had a lesson." But for all that I do 

 not fear my brother's comments. Inevitably at 

 the end of a long silent morning in which we sit 

 just out of sight, yet warmly conscious of each 

 other's nearness, a shadow falls across my work 

 and I hear a voice exclaim, "You've hit on a nice 

 composition." In a moment my brother is cross- 

 legged on the grass beside me. "You don't 

 mind." He lays an accent on my walls, picks 

 out the high-hghts on my haystacks, sweeps in a 

 sky. Nor does his generosity refuse me a whole 

 foreground. Before I know it, he has pulled the 



[31] 



