Part 6 (1/2)

Rollo was an obliging little boy and therefore, standing in the middle of the room, he recited as follows, with appropriate gestures which he had carefully learned at school:

”THE STRAND”

”One day while strolling on the strand A pearly sh.e.l.l lay in my hand.

I stooped and wrote upon the sand My name, the place, the day.

As on my onward way I pa.s.sed One backward glance behind I cast, The rolling waves came high and fast And washed my name away!”

”Bravo!” cried Miss Stark and Uncle George.

”I thank you very much,” said Rollo.

”It is a great poem,” said Miss Stark. ”It sounds simple but it means more than it says. It has its devious moments. You notice that though the 'name' is washed away the 'place' and the 'day' remain. I have just written something myself in the same manner.”

”Do let us hear it,” said Uncle George.

”I will,” replied the poetess. ”It is called _Brain-ticks_. Listen:

”In the midnight of day Myself came to me Saying, 'See,'-- 'See,' I said, In my hand, I hold the brain of my head!

How it ticks, ticks, ticks, 'What does it mean?' I cried.

'What is it all about?

Why is it out?

Why was it ever inside?

I don't understand.'”

”I don't understand,” said Rollo.

”Of course you don't,” cried Miss Stark. ”We none of us do. We were just meant to live quietly and simply near Mother Earth. But you must come again. I am sorry you will not stay. Good-bye, good-bye.”

”Our next visit, and I think it must be our last,” said Uncle George, ”will be to a gentleman friend of mine who is a painter. In a way he is quite a genius. His name is Wilkins. Wilkins' idea is that it is very wrong for a man to be limited to one form or school of art, to be exclusively a landscape painter or a portrait painter, a radical or a conservative. He goes in for all forms of art. But you shall see for yourself, for here is his studio.”

Mr. Wilkins' studio was by far the pleasantest place Rollo had yet seen in the Village. And it was even as Uncle George had said; all about the walls were pictures, no two alike, but all, Rollo thought, very beautiful. Mr. Wilkins, a tall, handsome man, was very cordial to his visitors and showed Rollo the various pictures, explaining carefully just how they were made.

[Ill.u.s.tration: ”Never in his life had Rollo seen such a strange woman”]

”There is a formula for each,” he said. ”In these cow-pictures, for instance, you will see that there is a definite proportion of two-thirds cow to one-third landscape. Venetian ca.n.a.l scenes like this must be exactly fifty per cent reflection. Last week I worked up a batch of South Sea pictures using the Gauguin formula. It is very simple.”

Mr. Wilkins was delighted with Rollo's clam-sh.e.l.l.

”I must do some!” he said. ”Could you leave it here?”

”Yes, indeed, gladly,” said Rollo.

”And what have you been working on to-day?” said Uncle George.

”Just a little summer work,” said Mr. Wilkins. ”Here it is.”