“Do let us hear it,” said Uncle George.
“I will,” replied the poetess. “It is called Brain-ticks. Listen:
“In the midnight of day
Myself came to me
Saying, ‘See,’—
‘See,’ I said,
In my hand,
I hold the brain of my head!
How it ticks, ticks, ticks,
‘What does it mean?’ I cried.
‘What is it all about?
Why is it out?
Why was it ever inside?
I don’t understand.’”
“I don’t understand,” said Rollo.
“Of course you don’t,” cried Miss Stark. “We none of us do. We were just meant to live quietly and simply near Mother Earth. But you must come again. I am sorry you will not stay. Good-bye, good-bye.”
“Our next visit, and I think it must be our last,” said Uncle George, “will be to a gentleman friend of mine who is a painter. In a way he is quite a genius. His name is Wilkins. Wilkins’ idea is that it is very wrong for a man to be limited to one form or school of art, to be exclusively a landscape painter or a portrait painter, a radical or a conservative. He goes in for all forms of art. But you shall see for yourself, for here is his studio.”
“Never in his life had Rollo seen such a strange woman”
Mr. Wilkins’ studio was by far the pleasantest place Rollo had yet seen in the Village. And it was even as Uncle George had said; all about the walls were pictures, no two alike, but all, Rollo thought, very beautiful. Mr. Wilkins, a tall, handsome man, was very cordial to his visitors and showed Rollo the various pictures, explaining carefully just how they were made.