''Very likely. There is not one man in a hundred, who can make shoes, who would ever become even a middling sort of artist.'
''Darn paintin'!' was the reply of my visitor, as he took up his club to depart—his hat had not been removed during the whole of the visit. 'Darn paintin'! I thought you did the thing with stencils, and finished it up with a comb and a scraper. Mister, I don't want to hurt your feeling—but cordin' to my way o' thinkin', paintin' as you do it, an't a trade at all—it's nothin' but a darned despisable fine art!'
'And with this candid statement of his views, my lost pupil turned to go. I burst out laughing. He turned around squarely, and presenting an angry front not unlike that of a mad bull, inquired abruptly, as he glared at me:
''Maybe you'd like to paint my portrit?'
'I looked at him steadily in the eyes, as I gravely took up my spatula, (I knew he thought it some deadly kind of dagger,) and answered:
''I don't paint animals.
'He gave me a parting look, and abscondulated.' When I saw him last, he was among the City Fathers! GALLI VAN T.'
A SONG OF THE PRESENT.
BY EDWARD S. RAND, JR.