I began to feel less hot and tired, as I passed a wash of clean water over my outline, and laying it in the sun to dry, got out my colours and brushes.
As I did so, one of the little gusts of wind which had been an unpleasant feature of this very fine day, and which, threatening a change of weather, made us anxious to finish our sketches at a sitting, came down the sandy road.

In an instant the damp surface of my block looked rough enough to strike matches on.

But impatience is not my besetting sin, and I had endured these little catastrophes before.

I waited for the block to dry before I brushed off the sand.

I also waited till the little beetle, who had crept into my sky, and was impeded in his pace by my first wash, walked slowly down through all my distances, and quitted the block by the gate in the foreground.