“The site has not been decided,” replied the artist. “A Swedish friend of mine, Mr. Lundquist, has drawn some very noble plans for the building, which he has sent to Washington. We need only ten million dollars. You will note that the figures representing the various nations are made in sections so that any one may be removed in case of war. The bosom of Bulgaria has been much admired.”
“I never have been to Bulgaria,” said Rollo.
“This group here,” continued Mr. Pryzik, “is an idea of mine for the pylons of the proposed Hudson River bridge. The figures at the New York end symbolize the four boroughs of Greater New York, those on the Jersey side the great commonwealths of Hoboken, Jersey City, Englewood and Hohokus. My commission alone will amount to over two hundred thousand dollars. But there is a powerful political influence working against me. In the meantime I have some immediate work on hand, small but useful, some amusing button hook handles for one of the big silversmiths and a new radiator cap for Ford cars which will give them great distinction. An advantage is that any tinsmith can make them.”
“You are indeed a genius,” said Uncle George, “and make no mistake, you will be recognized as such. But we have other calls to make, I thank you for your courtesy.” And bowing to Mr. Pryzik, Rollo and his uncle descended to the street.
“And now, Rollo,” said Uncle George—“you shall see another kind of artist—the great poetess, Miss Myra Stark. She is an old friend of mine. She lives in a cellar—there we are, down these steps.”
Never in his life had Rollo seen such a strange woman as Miss Myra Stark. She was very pale except her lips, which were painted a rich prune colour; her yellow hair was cut very like Rollo’s except that it had no curl. Her smock was of coarse burlap with a skirt of yellow wool.
“Come in, Man. Come in, Boy,” she said, in answer to their knock. “Take off your shoes if you like. My cellar is near the earth. I never wear shoes at home. I like to feel my feet on the face of Mother Earth.”
“I wonder if Mother Earth likes it,” said Rollo.
“She loves it,” said Miss Stark. “Boy, you have the soul of a poet. Are you a poet?”