The things we do!

Waiting for a boat in St. Louis one beautiful summer morning on the quay,
where in Paris I should have found the book-stalls, I saw a Pullman train
just starting for New York, and at the water's edge under the stately
bridge one tramp "barbering" another. But, reading the morning paper, I
found by chance that back in the city there was one man at least, a
teacher and artist, who had the old-time French feeling for the grieving
river. It was dark before I found him, after my day on a steamboat whose
most important passenger, pointed out to me with some apparent pride by
the old-time captain, was a brewer, author of a brew more famous in those
parts than the artist's river pictures which I saw by candle-light that
night in his schoolroom.
The artist had his river studio upon one of the beautiful cliffs which La
Salle must have seen when he came out of the Illinois into the
Mississippi. And it was within a few miles of that studio, it may be
added, that I found, too, one noteworthy exception to Mr.


Pages:
121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145