the brink of
independence in her arms, came up and said--

"D'yer mind me leaving my baby here, while I have a game with the
Tubbses? She'll be all right if I sit her on your jacket."

Nice thing when seeking material for a masterpiece for next year's
Academy to be asked to look after baby!

The remarks made by street loafers and errand-boys, too, who stand at
your elbow for half-an-hour at a stretch, are not encouraging, as a
rule. One boy, in what he considers a tone of confidence, will say to
another--

"S'elp me, Bob, aint 'e a doin' it a fair treat."

"Carry me out" (it is impossible to write "out" as _they_ pronounce it),
"'Arree, ain't it fine" (rising intonation on the "I")--"I wish I wos a
bloomin' hartist."

"Don't 'e fancy 'isself, just."

It is difficult to keep quietly on at work with every appearance of
indifference under such circumstances. It is also exasperating to be
called "Matey," as though you were a pal of theirs, and lived on the
same landing. Yet these are only a few of the indignities with which a
poor artist has to put up.

[Illustration: "D'YER MIND ME LEAVING MY BABY HERE."]

Who has not, when on a sketching tour, felt the contempt that the
bucolic mind has for a man who, day after day, and week after week, sits
out of doors on his camp-stool, doing his best to catch some of Nature's
mystery and fleeting beauty, and give it an abiding place on his canvas.

[Illustration: "AINT 'E A DOIN' IT A FAIR TREAT."]

My friend S---- is a big, healthy, bearded fellow, who looks as
though he could pick half-hundred weights up in each hand with the ease
that I pick up my palette. The following dialogue took place on one
occasion between him and an elderly rustic who had been standing
watching him for some time, as he sat by the roadside, painting.

"No offence, sir," said the agriculturist, "but is anything the matter
wi' yer?"

"No," answered S---- "What makes you ask?"

"Yer hain't lame, are yer?"

"Lame! Good gracious, no!"

"You hain't 'ad a misfortune in any way? The sciatics or lumbager,
that's kind o' laid yer by?"

"No, I'm as well as I have always been."

"An' yer call yerself a man and can sit theer a doin' o' that. Well, I'm
d----d!"

I never go out sketching without feeling this silent contempt, for it is
only rarely that it finds expression. The remarks made by villagers show
how utterly unable they are to grasp the idea of anyone valuing an
artist's efforts. The old