Thomas Kinkade Christmas Cottage painting

Thomas Kinkade A Peaceful Retreat painting

skin was of a darker tone than mine but lighter than G. Herrold's, and all wore long yellow robes. Eight of them, lean as scarecrows, bore on their shoulders a two-poled platform whereon sat the well-fleshed ninth. His legs were folded tight before him, his hands pressed palm to palm above his belly; his eyes were closed (but not as in sleep), his lips smiled ever so slightly, his whole expression was of a serenity unbefitting the occasion. They crossed the beach -- without so much as a glance at the broken bridge, the bare-snatched maid, or our floundering friend -- and entered the river themselves. The cold current (which alas had pressed G. Herrold down until he clung now to a boulder for had as well been a sheep-dip tank for all they paused or faltered; already they were waist-high and about to pass two meters upstream from the boulder.
"So save G. Herrold!" Max shouted. And I too: "Snatch him! Snatch him!"
Surely they could have, either by returning their burden to our shore or by excusing for only a moment one of the bearers; they each had a free arm