ould not conceive why the boy should sometimes
leave his plough in the furrow, and sit upon a hillock, gazing
curiously and admiringly upon a simple wild flower. He knew not why
the youth should stand with his eyes fixed upon the western sky when
it was pavilioned with crimson, and gold, and purple; or later yet,
when, one by one, the stars came timidly forth and took their places
in the darkening heaven. He shook his head at these manifestations,
and confidently informed his help-mate that he feared the boy was "not
right"--significantly touching, as he spoke, that portion of his
anatomy where he fondly imagined a vast quantity of brain of very
superior quality was safely stowed away, guarded by a sufficient
quantity of skull to protect it against any accident. Neither he nor
the good wife imagined, for a moment, that Julian was a genius, and
that his talent, circumscribed by circumstances, was struggling for an
outlet for its development.

At last the divine spark within him was kindled into flame. An
itinerant portrait painter came round, with his tools of trade, and
did the dominie in brown and red, and the squire's daughter in
vermilion and flake white, and set the whole village agog with his
marvellous achievements. Julian cultivated his acquaintance, received
some secret instructions in the A B C of art, and bargained for some
drawing and painting materials. His aspirations had at length found an
object. Long and painfully he labored in secret; but his advances were
rapid, for he took nature as a model. At last he ventured to display
his latest achievement--a small portrait of his father. It was first
shown to his mother, and filled her with astonishment and delight. It
is the privilege of woman, however circumstanced, to appreciate and
applaud true genius. Of course, Moliere's housekeeper occurs to the
reader as an illustration. The picture was next shown to the old man.
He gazed at it with a sort of silent horror, puffing the smoke from
his pipe in short, spasmodic jerks, and slowly shaking his head before
he spoke.

"Do you know it, father?" asked the young artist.

"Know it!" exclaimed the old man. "Yes--yes--I see myself there like I
was lookin' into a glass. There's my nose, and eyes, and mouth, and
hair; yes, and there's my pipe. It ain't right--it can't be
right--it's witchcraft. Satan must ha' helped you, boy--you couldn't
never ha' done it without the aid of the evil one."

This was a sad damper. B