he village--a
saloon on either side, and a lumberman's boarding house across the
way, where the "artist" was at dinner, pending which I waited for him
at the door of his canvas gallery. He evidently seeks to magnify
his calling, does this raw youth of the camera, by affecting what he
conceives to be the traditional garb of the artistic Bohemian, but
which resembles more closely the costume of the minstrel stage--a
battered silk hat, surmounting flowing locks glistening with hair-oil;
a loose velveteen jacket, over a gay figured vest; and a great brass
watch-chain, from which dangle silver coins. As this grotesque dandy,
evidently not long from his native village, came mincing across the
road in patent-leather slippers, smoking a cigarette, with one thumb
in an arm-hole of his vest, and the other hand twirling an incipient
mustache, he was plainly conscious of creating something of a swell in
Derby.

It was a crazy little dark-room to which I was shown--a portable
affair, much like a coffin-case, which I expected momentarily to
upset as I stood within, and be smothered in a cloud of ill-smelling
chemicals. However, with care I finally emerged without accident, and
sufficiently compensated the artist, who seemed not over-favorable
to amateur competition, although he chatted freely enough about his
business. It generally took him ten days, he said, to "finish" a
town of five or six hundred inhabitants, like Derby. He traveled on
steamers with his tenting outfit, but next season hoped to have money
enough to "do the thing in style," in a houseboat of his own, an
establishment which would cost say four hundred dollars; then, in the
winter, he could beach himself at some fair-sized town, and perhaps
make his board by running a local gallery, taking to the water again
on the earliest spring "fresh." "I could live like a fight'n' cock
then, cap'n, yew jist bet yer bottom dollar!"

The temperature mounted with the progress of the day; and, the wind
dying down, the atmosphere was oppressive. By the time Stephensport,
Ky. (695 miles), was reached, in the middle of the afternoon, the sun
was beating fiercely upon the glassy flood, and our awning came again
into play, although it could not save us from the annoyance of the
reflection. The barren clay bank at the mouth of Sinking Creek, upon
which lies Stephensport, seemed fairly ablaze with heat, as I went up
into the straggling hamlet to seek for supplies. There were no eggs
to