''Do you have to keep workin' it in, bit by bit, _slow_--like as a
gal works woosted-patterns?'

''Yes, and sometimes much slower, to paint well.'

''How long 'll it take to learn your trade?'

''Well, if you've any genius for it, you may become a tolerable
artist in two years.'

''Two--_thunder_! Why, a man could learn to make shoes, in that
time!'

''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.

Not to the Past whose smouldering embers lie,
Sad relics of the hopes we fondly nursed,
Not to the moments that have hurried by,
Whose joys and griefs are lived, the best, the worst.

Not to the Future, 'tis a realm where dwell
Fair, misty ghosts, which fade as we draw near,
Whose fair mirages coming hours dispel,
A land whose hopes find no fruition here.

But to the Present: be it dark or bright,
Stout-hearted greet it; turn its ill to good;
Throw on its clouds a soul-reflected light;
Its ills are blessings, rightly understood.

Prate not of failing hopes, of fading flowers;
Whine not in melancholy, plaintive lays,
Of joys departed, vanished sunny hours;
A cheerful heart turns every thing to pr