Evening Star Newspaper, October 11, 1936, Page 84

8 UE FRANKLIN was a very determined young woman. She was also saucy, chestnut-haired, slim, wide-eyed. ‘‘Please don’'t squirm,” she com- manded the young blacksmith, ‘‘and try not toscowl.” ‘“You try holding an eight-pound hammer in this position for half an hour,” suggested John Braithwait. ‘‘And you try painting those mocking eyes of yours and that bewildering mouth.”’ She dabbed at her canvas, getting nowhere with the portrait. Braithwait put down his blacksmith ham- mer, stretched like a big dog, and strode across the smithy. He looked at the portrait with a sarcastic grin. “Terrible!" he said. ““Why, what's wrong with it?’’ asked the astonished girl. “‘Your values for one thing." ‘““What do you know about painting?"’ stormed the young woman. She was angry, curious, and suddenly a trifle shy, standing before this tall, sun-browned fellow who was obviously laughing at her work. “Your perspective is cockeyed,” he said. “Everything is out of proportion. Here, give me a brush!” Sue watched, amazed, angry, and incred- ulous, while John Braithwait slashed away at the canvas with quick, sure, masculine strokes. The limp appendages which she had meant for arms took on a new, muscular life. The background receded. The figure came for- ward, took on a quality of three-dimensional reality. Suddenly the face was alive. . “Why, it's . . . it's good,” the girl sai against her will. The man did not show that he had heard. A strange intensity had come into his face; his eyes glowed. Then he let his hand drop. The light went out of his eyes. He turned to the girl and handed her the brush. Tears sprang into her angry eyes. She snapped open her purse and thrust two bills into his hand. ‘‘Here are the two dollars for “Keepit! The pleasure was mine."’ +Of all the difficult models,”” Sue cried. She had an unreasonable desire to slap the man'’s face. Instead she went to her car. Speeding back to her big summer home on Lake Geneva — playground of the rich in southern Wisconsin — the girl reviewed the humiliating events of the morning. She and her father, Conrad Franklin, a well-to-do wholesaler of quality hardware, came each year from Chicago to Lake Geneva. She had often driven about the countryside looking for ‘‘types.” If she came upon a farmer plowing, or a lineman fixing telephone wires, she ordered the fellow to pose. Usually the amazed man did her bidding. But this morning in a blacksmith shop in Milton Junction she had met her matctr. Her model had made her feel young and silly. Although the wrought iron he was fashioning when she drove up was undoubtedly good, she had had no idea that he was an artist. Sue told herself that she would never go to Milton Junction again. She would never finish the portrait. For three days she kept that resolve. Then one bright summer morning she drove across country to the small Wisconsin town, drew up beside the shop, and entered the wide front door unnoticed. Two forges glowed blue-yellow in the dusty, clanging smithy. John Braithwait’s father was shoeing a team of dapple-grays. Sparks flew as he beat the white-hot shoes; the iron sizzled and steamed as he dipped it into a wooden tub of water. At the other anvil John was fashioning a Colonial lock. The girl crossed the floor of worn oak planks to the young man's side. He looked up, startled — then smiled. ‘‘Want another lesson in painting?’’ he asked. ““You're horrid,"’ she said. I suppose you want to offer me another two dollars to pose?”’ His voice was hard. “We're rather busy this morning.”’ “I'm sorry,” she fluttered. ‘I didn’t mean to intrude.” She walked quickly out into the sunshine. In a half dozen strides John Braithwait had overtaken her. “*Wait,”” he said humbly. “‘I'll pose.”’ “Oh no, you won't,"” she blazed. She tried to get into her car, but the young man’s hand was on the door. I hate you,” she cried. “I wish I had never seen this dirty little town!" Meadowlarks were singing somewhere and the brown young man was laughing at her ———_——_'— THIS WEEK Magazine Section' O« lliustration by W. Baumgartner THE YOUNG BLACKSMITH LOOKED AT THE UNFINISHED PORTRAIT. “TERRIBLE!" MIGHTY Man A gay little love story in which the model proves to be the better artist with that mocking smile, and suddenly she slumped down on the running board and'he beside her. “I once thought it was a dirty little town,"” he said. ‘I wanted to get away from this shop where my father and grandfather both made their living. I wanted to be somebody.’’ He seemed to be groping out toward her with his words. And against all her wishes, she turned to him, listening. It did not matter that his shirt was torn, his brown intelligent face smeared with soot. She was suddenly glad that he was poor, and unknown, and unavailable to any other girl she knew. “I went to Chicago for a couple of years, studied at the Art Institute for a while . .. " “Why didn't you go on with your studies? If it’s only a question of money, I — " There she had hurt him again. He was cold and remote once more. “It wasn't money,” he said, fiercely. ‘It was that damn dirty city of yours — the poseurs; the little, would-be artists prating ’ by STERLING NORTH theories and copying Picasso; the cheap Bohemians; the patronizing society women with their teas and exhibits for artists, where a man is paraded like something from the zoo. I'm sorry, but I hate the city. I kad to get back to Wisconsin, where it's clean, where a man can use his hands, do something hard.” He laughed. ‘‘Come, I'll show you the wrought iron I've been doing.” Sue followed him meekly up steep stairs where, to her amazement, was a studio. Some really good water colors he had done hung on the walls. And on a broad maple table he had built was a display of locks, hinges and other hand-made hardware whose symmetry and beauty took Sue's breath away. She stood fingering a sturdy, beautiful butterfly hinge, delight shining in her eyes. “I'm beginning to get orders,” John said shyly, proudly. *It isn’t all Colonial replica stuff. I'm creating some new designs.” She looked up at him, proud and tender —and John Braithwait gathered her into his arms and kissed her long and tenderly. ‘‘Why, I don’t even know your name!" The big blacksmith grinned. ‘‘The name,” he said, ‘‘is Braithwait, John Braithwait. I hope you like it — because you'll be using it for a long, long time."’ ‘‘And mineis Sue — "' ‘‘Sue Braithwait is a pretty name.” They stood silent in the sunlight from the window, listening to the sparrows fighting in the eaves, smelling the breath of crab-apple blossoms floating up from below, but thinking only of themselves. “I'm not much of an artist,” Sue said at last, *‘but I'm a good business man. My father is in the wholesale hardware business. . . . " And that's how Braithwait Wrought Iron hardware became famous in the Middle West. The End