Read Online In the Face of Danger by Joan Lowery Nixon - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Joan Lowery Nixon
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real?”
“I drew what I saw with my own eyes.”
Megan smoothed down the curled edges of the pencil sketch in front of her, admiring the way Mr. Cartwright had drawn long shadows beside the rocks and pines. “I would love to see these places someday.”
“Someday you will,” he said seriously. “It won’t be long before the railroads will cross the West, and people won’t think anything at all of traveling all the way from the Atlantic Ocean to the Pacific.” He nodded importantly. “Why, I even predict that someday, probably when you are grown, Megan, travelers will be able to accomplish this feat within two weeks.”
Emma laughed aloud, and Ben slowly shook his head, a grin appearing on his face. “I think you’re asking us to believe in the impossible, Mr. Cartwright,” he said.
Megan tried to picture in her mind the faraway places in Mr. Cartwright’s drawings. What did it matter how long it would take to get to them? The important part was to see them, and someday she would.
Mr. Cartwright pulled another roll of drawings from his saddlebags and carefully untied the cord. “Here are some of my sketches of Indians,” he said as he laid the drawings on the table.
Megan was even more interested in these than in thebeautiful scenes of mountain country. She smiled at a sketch of an Indian baby peering with bright eyes from the pack on his mother’s back. There was an old man—“a tribal chieftain,” Mr. Cartwright explained—whose face was a mass of deep, squiggly wrinkles. And there was a girl with black eyes who made Megan think of the Indian girl she had seen on the road.
Megan was surprised when Mr. Cartwright suddenly lifted her chin with one finger and studied her face. “I would like to sketch you,” he said. “Would you sit very still by the fireplace where the light can shine on your hair? It will be just a sketch, so it won’t take long.”
Megan nodded, and Emma beamed with pleasure. “See, Megan,” she said. “Mr. Cartwright thinks you are beautiful, too.”
“Yes,” Mr. Cartwright said. “Megan’s a lovely young lady, but I see something more than just beauty. It’s the special look in her eyes I want to capture.”
“What look?” Megan asked, blushing because everyone was studying her.
“I’m not sure,” he answered. “I think I see a little sorrow, a little happiness, and some memories you’ve kept secret from all but yourself.”
Emma’s eyes widened and she nervously smoothed down her apron. “Would you like Megan to change to another dress?” Emma asked. “She has a lovely dark red one. Should I braid her hair?”
“I want to sketch Megan exactly the way she is now.” Mr. Cartwright pulled some pencils from his pack and attached a small sheet of paper to a flat, smooth board. He stationed Megan on a footstool near the hearth and tilted her head a little to the left so that a long strand of her dark hair fell over one shoulder. “Don’t move,” he said and went back to his chair.
With Emma standing behind him murmuring, “Oh, yes! Oh, that’s very like her!” and Ben leaning sideways now and then to sneak glances at the sketch, Mr. Cartwright worked with quick, sure strokes. In about fifteen minutes he said, “If you don’t mind holding the pose a while longer, Megan, we’ll have a sketch for you and one for me.”
“I don’t mind,” she said, trying not to move her head. Mr. Cartwright took the sketch off the board and handed it to an admiring Emma, who cooed and clucked over it. He attached another sheet and set to work again.
When he had finished, he put both sketches on the table and beckoned to Megan. “I’ll give you your choice,” he said.
Megan stared at the sketches, her heart beating faster. She had seen herself in mirrors or reflected in window glass, but now she was looking at a different Megan. The same pointed chin, the same dark, straight hair, but eyes that held their own story. In those eyes she could see some of
“I drew what I saw with my own eyes.”
Megan smoothed down the curled edges of the pencil sketch in front of her, admiring the way Mr. Cartwright had drawn long shadows beside the rocks and pines. “I would love to see these places someday.”
“Someday you will,” he said seriously. “It won’t be long before the railroads will cross the West, and people won’t think anything at all of traveling all the way from the Atlantic Ocean to the Pacific.” He nodded importantly. “Why, I even predict that someday, probably when you are grown, Megan, travelers will be able to accomplish this feat within two weeks.”
Emma laughed aloud, and Ben slowly shook his head, a grin appearing on his face. “I think you’re asking us to believe in the impossible, Mr. Cartwright,” he said.
Megan tried to picture in her mind the faraway places in Mr. Cartwright’s drawings. What did it matter how long it would take to get to them? The important part was to see them, and someday she would.
Mr. Cartwright pulled another roll of drawings from his saddlebags and carefully untied the cord. “Here are some of my sketches of Indians,” he said as he laid the drawings on the table.
Megan was even more interested in these than in thebeautiful scenes of mountain country. She smiled at a sketch of an Indian baby peering with bright eyes from the pack on his mother’s back. There was an old man—“a tribal chieftain,” Mr. Cartwright explained—whose face was a mass of deep, squiggly wrinkles. And there was a girl with black eyes who made Megan think of the Indian girl she had seen on the road.
Megan was surprised when Mr. Cartwright suddenly lifted her chin with one finger and studied her face. “I would like to sketch you,” he said. “Would you sit very still by the fireplace where the light can shine on your hair? It will be just a sketch, so it won’t take long.”
Megan nodded, and Emma beamed with pleasure. “See, Megan,” she said. “Mr. Cartwright thinks you are beautiful, too.”
“Yes,” Mr. Cartwright said. “Megan’s a lovely young lady, but I see something more than just beauty. It’s the special look in her eyes I want to capture.”
“What look?” Megan asked, blushing because everyone was studying her.
“I’m not sure,” he answered. “I think I see a little sorrow, a little happiness, and some memories you’ve kept secret from all but yourself.”
Emma’s eyes widened and she nervously smoothed down her apron. “Would you like Megan to change to another dress?” Emma asked. “She has a lovely dark red one. Should I braid her hair?”
“I want to sketch Megan exactly the way she is now.” Mr. Cartwright pulled some pencils from his pack and attached a small sheet of paper to a flat, smooth board. He stationed Megan on a footstool near the hearth and tilted her head a little to the left so that a long strand of her dark hair fell over one shoulder. “Don’t move,” he said and went back to his chair.
With Emma standing behind him murmuring, “Oh, yes! Oh, that’s very like her!” and Ben leaning sideways now and then to sneak glances at the sketch, Mr. Cartwright worked with quick, sure strokes. In about fifteen minutes he said, “If you don’t mind holding the pose a while longer, Megan, we’ll have a sketch for you and one for me.”
“I don’t mind,” she said, trying not to move her head. Mr. Cartwright took the sketch off the board and handed it to an admiring Emma, who cooed and clucked over it. He attached another sheet and set to work again.
When he had finished, he put both sketches on the table and beckoned to Megan. “I’ll give you your choice,” he said.
Megan stared at the sketches, her heart beating faster. She had seen herself in mirrors or reflected in window glass, but now she was looking at a different Megan. The same pointed chin, the same dark, straight hair, but eyes that held their own story. In those eyes she could see some of
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