Part 5 (2/2)

However, you will soon see that it is very different from the rest of the city. We are first to visit a friend of mine, a Mr. Pryzik, the great American sculptor. You know what a sculptor is, Rollo?”

”Yes, indeed, sir,” said Rollo. ”We have a beautiful group at home done by Mr. Rogers. It is called 'Reading the Will.' The expression of anxiety on the part of the relatives is most noteworthy.”

”It is a n.o.ble subject,” said his Uncle.

”But did you say Mr. Pryzik was an American?” asked Rollo.

”Practically,” replied his uncle. ”He was born in Prague, but he has lived in this country for six years. True, he has not become a citizen because of the income-tax, but he is very patriotic and much prefers to sell his sculptures to Americans. But here we are at the sculptor's.”

While talking, Rollo and his uncle had turned into a narrow doorway and mounted several flights of stairs. A tinkling bell was answered by a very hairy man who flung open the door before which they stood, crying, ”Enter,” in a great voice.

”This is Mr. Pryzik,” said Uncle George, ”and this is my nephew Rollo.”

The room was a large loft or storeroom lighted from above and while Mr. Pryzik and Uncle George chatted amiably together, Rollo looked about him eagerly noting many large groups of figures struggling and writhing in every conceivable posture. Some were covered with grey cloths which gave them a singularly ghost-like appearance.

”And what are you doing that is interesting?” asked Uncle George.

”Much,” replied the great artist. ”I have some magnificent things under way, not completed, you understand, but well begun. Here, for instance, is a fountain for Mr. Rockefeller's garden. It represents the struggle between crude and refined oil.”

”It is very exciting,” said Rollo. ”Does Mr. Rockefeller like it?”

”I do not know,” said Mr. Pryzik. ”I have written him seven letters on the subject, but I think he must be away on his vacation. And here is my masterpiece, the crowning group destined to be placed on the dome of the Palace of the League of Nations.”

”Oh!” said Rollo. ”Where is it to be?”

”The site has not been decided,” replied the artist. ”A Swedish friend of mine, Mr. Lundquist, has drawn some very n.o.ble plans for the building, which he has sent to Was.h.i.+ngton. We need only ten million dollars. You will note that the figures representing the various nations are made in sections so that any one may be removed in case of war. The bosom of Bulgaria has been much admired.”

”I never have been to Bulgaria,” said Rollo.

”This group here,” continued Mr. Pryzik, ”is an idea of mine for the pylons of the proposed Hudson River bridge. The figures at the New York end symbolize the four boroughs of Greater New York, those on the Jersey side the great commonwealths of Hoboken, Jersey City, Englewood and Hohokus. My commission alone will amount to over two hundred thousand dollars. But there is a powerful political influence working against me. In the meantime I have some immediate work on hand, small but useful, some amusing b.u.t.ton hook handles for one of the big silversmiths and a new radiator cap for Ford cars which will give them great distinction. An advantage is that any tinsmith can make them.”

”You are indeed a genius,” said Uncle George, ”and make no mistake, you will be recognized as such. But we have other calls to make, I thank you for your courtesy.” And bowing to Mr. Pryzik, Rollo and his uncle descended to the street.

”And now, Rollo,” said Uncle George--”you shall see another kind of artist--the great poetess, Miss Myra Stark. She is an old friend of mine. She lives in a cellar--there we are, down these steps.”

Never in his life had Rollo seen such a strange woman as Miss Myra Stark. She was very pale except her lips, which were painted a rich prune colour; her yellow hair was cut very like Rollo's except that it had no curl. Her smock was of coa.r.s.e burlap with a skirt of yellow wool.

”Come in, Man. Come in, Boy,” she said, in answer to their knock.

”Take off your shoes if you like. My cellar is near the earth. I never wear shoes at home. I like to feel my feet on the face of Mother Earth.”

”I wonder if Mother Earth likes it,” said Rollo.

”She loves it,” said Miss Stark. ”Boy, you have the soul of a poet.

_Are_ you a poet?”

”I can recite a little,” said Rollo, modestly.

”Do so,” commanded his hostess.

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