Oh, to create! To feel a blind, vague, ineffable urge within you,
stealing out to tangibility in colour and form! Earth--nor Heaven,
either--can produce no finer rapture.
Missy's hat was duly admired. Miss Ackerman said she was a "real
artist"; when she wore it to Sunday-school everybody looked at her
so much she found it hard to hold down a sense of unsabbatical
pride; father jocosely said she'd better relinquish her dreams of
literary fame else she'd deprive the world of a fine milliner; and
even mother admitted that Mrs. Anna Stubbs, the leading milliner,
couldn't have done better. However, she amended: "Now, don't forget
your school work, dear. Have you decided on the subject of your
thesis yet?"
Missy had not. But, by this time, the hat business was moving so
rapidly that she had even less time to worry over anything still
remote, like the thesis--plenty of time to think of that; now, she
was dreaming of how the rose would look blooming radiantly from this
soft bed of violet straw; . . . and, now, how becoming to Aunt
Nettie would be this misty green, with cool-looking leaves and wired
silver gauze very pure and bright like angels' wings--dear Aunt
Nettie didn't have much "taste," and Missy indulged in a certain
righteous glow in thus providing her with a really becoming,
artistic hat.
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