WILLIAM T. RICHARDS
It stood—a long, shingled house with a roof that tucked it snugly in, with porches overlooking the sea, and walks around about on the rocks, with the rich verdure of that coast running to the friendly threshold, and with its little detached gray studio in hailing distance as you approached it—it stood on a cliff made conspicuous from land and sea by a jagged white streak of quartz running up through the gray rock to the doorway. It looked out on the changeless blue horizon, on the curving granite coast, and on the dune-like "Dumplings," where an older generation had set the ancient fort of that name, now, alas, gone with "Gray Cliff." How well I recollect the somewhat rueful fun of Mr. Richards as he pointed to the adjoining "Marbella," where his old friend Joseph Wharton had built a massive wall in which great boulders were stuck at intervals. The artist's love of unhindered nature gave edge to his remark: "Wharton's Teeth."
Indoors there was comfort and the invitation to en-
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