If I could paint I'd paint the grass green, the skies blue, the mountains too and dab the clouds white because they looked so awfully good that way in the light.

If I could paint I'd paint a cold, clear stream trickling past my house in the hills, and up above the green grass on the hill there'd be a cluster of oak trees all gnarled and old giving the impression of strength, patience, and a strange kind of lonely wisdom.

And somewhere in there, probably walking up the grassy hill to the trees, I'd put a girl, a most beautiful girl in some kind of white, off the shoulder peasant blouse and a long blue skirt. She'd have the happiest of faces, her eyes would shine, her hair would gleam and she'd be there waiting for me. And as she walked there up the hill the thick green grass would give way to increasingly numerous clusters of wild flowers, white daisies and huge yellow poppies would take over from the tall, green grass. Then just at the tree line she'd spread a large, well worn, blue blanket out among the flowers, set down the picnic basket she'd been carrying all this time and with the last stroke of my brush she’d settle herself there among the flowers, before the trees, just past the thick green grass.

And then I'd put down my paints, my brushes, lay my easel against the wall, walk out my front door and up that hill to a girl just as pretty as I could please.