“Haven’t the pleasure,” said Phidias.
The poet and the sculptor were introduced, after which Phidias seated himself at Homer’s side.
“Are you any relation to Burns the poet?” the former asked, addressing the Scotchman.
“I am Burns the poet,” replied the other.
“You don’t look much like your statues,” said Phidias, scanning his face critically.
“No, thank the Fates!” said Burns, warmly. “If I did, I’d commit suicide.”
“Why don’t you sue the sculptors for libel?” asked Phidias.
“You speak with a great deal of feeling, Phidias,” said Homer, gravely. “Have they done anything to hurt you?”
“They have,” said Phidias. “I have just returned from a tour of the world. I have seen the things they call sculpture in these degenerate days, and I must confess—who shouldn’t, perhaps—that I could have done better work with a baseball-bat for a chisel and putty for the raw material.”
“I think I could do good work with a baseball-bat too,” said Burns; “but as for the raw material, give me the heads of the men who have sculped me to work on. I’d leave them so that they’d look like some of your Parthenon frieze figures with the noses gone.”