From the foundry I went up to the sculptor's studio on the third floor, in the front of the building. Now, children, this is a real place, and if any of you ever come to New York, you can go and see it, for the artist is a very good-natured man, and is always glad to see pleasant company.
What a place it would have been to play in! Oh, what fun I should have had calling on Miss Venus! and what a splendid coachman Apollo would have made! and the sailor lad we would have all claimed; and the girl with the shawl over her head would have been the soldier's sweetheart. But what would the sculptor have thought if he had known what use I was putting his beautiful works to? and so, my dears, let us play that all this has been said in a whisper, while he is dusting a chair for me, and go back to the studio as it really is.
To begin with, there was no carpet on the floor, and no paper on the walls, but a beautiful pier looking-glass without a frame leaned against the brick wall, and innumerable reliefs in plaster, photographs of people and places, an old army suit, and several costumes which the sculptor used in draping his model, hung in splendid confusion everywhere. One side of the room was of wood painted a dark brown, and over this the artist had drawn Cupids, angels, flowers, flags, and all kinds of beautiful designs in white. There was a stove in the room, and two or three chairs that needed constant dusting; several easels stood about, and at one a German artist, in a checked blouse or old-fashioned apron, was working on a beautiful relief, which told the story of a young farmer leaving home for the war. The artist said it was for a soldiers' monument in Massachusetts. Near him stood a bucket of water with a sponge in it, and every little while he would wet the clay he was working with.
A great many busts and statuettes of all kinds stood in every conceivable place—on tables, pedestals, and shelves; and on one shelf was the bust of a famous New York belle and the statuettes of a horse and cow, visitors' cards, photographs of famous actors and artists, old letters, and in a table glass a bouquet of roses and lilies that some one had sent to the sculptor that morning. While we were talking, the sculptor's model came in; that is, the man who stands for his figures, so that the artist may catch the proper motion of the body.
I had spent an hour very pleasantly in this queer, mussy place, and as it was growing dark, I was forced to say good-by to Miss Venus, and the Boy in Blue, and my new-found friend the German artist; but I took away with me many pleasant memories, and I hope I have interested my little readers enough for them to turn to the history of the Revolution, and tell me who our hero is. Many of you have already guessed, but I should like some of you to tell me his name, and if I have forgotten anything about him. Will you?
[IN, OUT OF THE STORM.]
It is high time that the poor little lamb was taken in, out of the storm, is it not, my young readers? The artist says that when he made the sketch from which this picture was drawn, the season was late in March, and the weather for a few days had been so warm that the children in the farm-house where he was staying thought old Winter had surely gone. He was still there, however, and to prove his presence he sent one of his very worst storms of snow and sleet, that lasted all day, and made people think that the almanacs were wrong, and that the month must be January instead of March.
THE RESCUED LAMB.—Drawn by W. M. Cary.