Explore "Auntie Robbo" by Ann Scott-Moncrieff on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
"I can't get it quite right," mumbled Auntie Robbo. She was perched on her shooting-stick by the side of a burn with a sketching block on her knee. A paint-brush was clenched in her teeth like the knife of an ancient warrior; there was a green gash on her cheek and her hands were dabbled with crimson.
"I ought to have an easel," she said plaintively, and fixed her attention again on the old mossy bridge that spanned the burn a hundred yards farther up. It leaned drunkenly on its twin chunky arches; ferns and briars protruded from it in bewildering profusion; a waterfall splashed behind it. It was a difficult subject to paint, and Auntie Robbo had made it more difficult by putting in an imaginary cow paddling in the burn. There was something wrong with the cow; Auntie Robbo admitted that to herself. But still she would not forgo it because all the pictures she had ever seen of Highland scenery had had a cow in the foreground--or a stag; but a stag was even worse.