Viney

Such has been the demand in the east for the true-to-nature productions of Becket & Von Hillern that few, if any, have strayed west of the Alleghanies yet; but if in the near future you see a particularly woodsy, hemlocky, viney bit of painting on exhibition anywhere—one that has a tendency to make you want to rush on to Devil’s lake, Shawno, Lake Gobebic, or some other place as yet unmarred by the hand of man—a scene that carries you back to boyhood when you went bare-footed, stubbed your toes, had stone-bruises, and got walloped for going in swimming so constantly—just look in the lower corner and see if you don’t find the initials “M. J. C. B.” or “B v. H.”

Often he would draw back one huge handful (or footful) of viney soil, only to leave it there while he looked and listened.

The walls were covered with faded green paper patterned with barely discernible viney flowers.

[…] she’d decided the wrapping paper was too feminine. It had a viney pattern that wasn’t anything sissier than you’d see in the old Arabian Nights illustrations. But Richard might think they were flowers.

The tide left curving trails of things, pickled-looking viney plants, luminous stones, and branches gnarled in artful shapes and blunted by the sea.