An old man came by, saw the sign, wondered “where that photograph was,” and walked all around the gallery trying to find out. It was hardly a successful exhibit, but it was only to attract attention—there was a good display of regular work near it.
The boys at first stopped everywhere; but soon they began to remember what a task was before them, and they quickened their pace.
Philip entered but few items in his note-book, and among them was a booth entirely covered outside with ordinary playing-cards, which gave it an Eastern effect. One object that called for more than a glance was an old English clock—the Earl of Pembroke’s clock; it was set in a high case of carved wood, most elaborate in design and executed with minute skill and care. They saw also a show-case that imitated a great trunk some fifteen feet high, with glass sides. But they were making slow progress, and hurried on until they reached a carved altar made by the inmates of St. Joseph’s Orphan Home—a piece of woodwork worthy of any hand.
Then began a long array of exhibits meant to illustrate the progress of scholars in lessons and manual arts. Each compartment was allotted to a certain school. For a few rooms the boys kept seriously at work examining drawings, carvings, forgings, and compositions; but soon they heard a rollicking pianist down-stairs dashing off “St. Patrick’s Day in the Morning,” and it brought memories of home to their minds. A lively jig-step was heard, followed by clapping and cheering.
“See here, Phil,” Harry broke out, facing about, “it may not be St. Patrick’s Day, but it certainly is Saturday, and I’m not going to be hood-winked into school work to-day. If there are any more compositions, kindergartens, and maps drawn by Bertie Wilhelmina Marie Jones, you may see them if you like. I am going to skip them.”
“I’ve seen enough; we’ll never get through this way,” said Philip, looking despairingly at his watch. “So we’ll go on to something else.”
“Good-morning, boys,” said a slightly husky voice.
“Good-morning, sir,” they replied, turning to find an old Irishman, a respectable quiet-looking man.
“I tell you this is a very wonderful show,” he went on, evidently feeling that he must talk to some one. And from that beginning he went on to tell them that he was over sixty years old, had come to America in 1847, and had gone West by the Erie Canal, soon after.
“Boys,” said he, impressively, “you’ve no idea of what a country you live in. I’ve lived to see wonders in the last thirty years, and they’ve changed the whole world, so they have. You can have no idea of it, not as I have. And it’s not in the East or in Chicago alone: it’s in the whole land. And there’ll be no telling what a country it’ll be. I’m over sixty, and I went out forty years ago and took up a hundred and sixty acres of bare land, and now there’s people all around me: Norwegians, many of them; and it’s good people and good neighbors they are!”