So I sold a slice of the wood-lot ter the folks at the summer hotel,
That fetched me some cash—­quite a good lot—­so now he’s been gone a
    long spell;
He’s got a room up ter the City, an’ calls it a name that is queer—­
I ain’t up in French, more’s the pity—­but something that’s like
    “attyleer.” 
I went up last month on a visit, and blamed if that place wa’n’t a sight! 
The fourteenth or fifteenth—­which is it?—­well, anyhow, it’s the top
   flight;
I wouldn’t have b’lieved he could be there, way up on that
   breath-takin’ floor,
If’t wa’n’t fer the sign that I see there—­“H.  Lafayette Boggs”—­on
   the door.

That room was a wonder fer certain!  The floor was all paint-spots and dirt, Each window was hung with a curtain, striped gay as a calico shirt; The walls was jest like a museum, all statoos and flim-flam and gush And picters—­good land! when I see ’em I jest had ter turn ’round and
    blush;
And Hez! he looked like a gorilla,—­a leetle round hat on his head, And hair that would stuff a big piller, and necktie blue, yeller, and red; I swan, he did look like a daisy!  I tell yer, it went ter my heart, ’Cause, course I supposed he was crazy, until he explained it was ART.

[Illustration:  “I swan, he did look like a daisy!”]

This Art, it does stagger a feller that ain’t got a connerseer’s view, Fer trees by its teachin’ is yeller, and cows is a shade of sky-blue.  Hez says that ter paint ’em like natur’ is common and tawdry and vile; He says it’s a plaguey sight greater to do ’em “impressionist style.”  He done me my portrait, and, reely, my nose is a ultrymarine, My whiskers is purple and steely, and both of my cheeks is light green.  When Mother first viewed it she fainted—­she ain’t up in Art, don’t
    yer see? 
And she had a notion ’twas painted when Hez had been off on a spree.

We used ter think Hezzy would shame us by bein’ no good anyhow, But he says some day he’l be famous, so we’re sort er proud of him, now.  He says that the name he’s a-makin’ shall ring in Fame’s thunderin’ tone; He says that earth’s dross he’s forsaken, he’s livin’ fer Art’s sake alone.  That’s nice, but what seems ter me funny, and what I can’t get through
    my head
Is why he keeps writin’ fer money and can’t seem ter earn nary red.  I’ve been sort er thinkin’ it over, and seems ter me, certain enough, That livin’ for Art is just clover, but that livin’ on it is tough.

* * * * *

THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL PICNIC

Oh! the horns are all a-tootin’ as we rattle through the town,
And we fellers are a-hootin’ and a-jumpin’ up and down,
And the girls are all a-gigglin’ and a-tryin’ ter be smart,
With their braided pig-tails wigglin’ at the joltin’ of the cart;
There’s the teachers all a-beamin’, rigged up in their Sunday clothes,
And the parson’s specs a-gleamin’ like two moons acrost his nose,
And the sup’rintendent lookin’ mighty dignerfied and cool,
And a-bossin’ of the picnic of the Baptist Sunday-school.