oil painting artist

and now, only a few fields, almost as wild and unproductive as the
heath from which they were scarcely reclaimed, lay between me and
the dusky hill.
'Well, I would rather die yonder than in a street or on a
frequented road,' I reflected. 'And far better that crows and
ravens- if any ravens there be in these regions- should pick my
flesh from my bones, than that they should be prisoned in a
workhouse coffin and moulder in a pauper's grave.'
To the hill, then, I turned. I reached it. It remained now only
to find a hollow where I could lie down, and feel at least hidden,
if not secure. But all the surface of the waste looked level. It
and now, only a few fields, almost as wild and unproductive as the
heath from which they were scarcely reclaimed, lay between me and
the dusky hill.
'Well, I would rather die yonder than in a street or on a
frequented road,' I reflected. 'And far better that crows and
ravens- if any ravens there be in these regions- should pick my
flesh from my bones, than that they should be prisoned in a
workhouse coffin and moulder in a pauper's grave.'
To the hill, then, I turned. I reached it. It remained now only
to find a hollow where I could lie down, and feel at least hidden,
if not secure. But all the surface of the waste looked level. It