"Well, Louis, it's probably a different sea. Can you imagine anybody sending a thing like that in? It ain't hardly worth the work of unwrapping it. Hurry up, Louis, we're way behind." "Well, take this, then. 'Children of the Ice.' Hm, I don't see no kids. I suppose this stuff here is the ice. But where's the kids?" "He probably means the birds over there, Louis." "If he means the birds why don't he say birds instead of children? Why don't he say 'birds of the ice'? What's the sense of saying 'children of the ice' when he means birds?" "Go on, Louis. Don't argue with me. Hurry up." "Here's some photographs." "Them ain't photographs, you nut. They're portraits." "Well, they look almost as good as photographs. 'My Favorite Pupil.' It's pretty good, Mike. See, there's the violin. He's a violin pupil. You can tell. Got it?" "Yeah. Bring on the next." * * * * * A silence came over Louis. He stood for several minutes staring at something. "Hurry up," called Mike. "It's getting late." "This is a mistake," called Louis. "Here's one that's a mistake." "How come, Louis?" "Well, look at it. You can see for yourself. The guy made a mistake." "What does it read on the back? Hurry, we can't waste no more time." "It reads 'Up, Down and Across' or something. It's a mistake though." Louis remained eyeing the canvas raptly. "It ain't finished, Mike. We ought to send it back." "Let's see, Louis." Time out for critical inspection. "You're right. It is a mistake. 'Up, Down and Across,' you said. Well, we'll let it ride. It's not our fault. What's the name of the guy?" "Bert Elliott," called Louis. A laugh followed. Louis turned to me and my friend. "You see this?" he said. "I get it now. That's the Wrigley Building over there. What do you know about that?" Louis seized his sides and doubled up. Mr. Elliott, beside me, cleared his throat and glanced apprehensively at his canvas. "I'll say it's the first one he laughed at," said Mr. Elliott, pensively. "He didn't laugh at any of the others. Look, he's still looking at it. That's longer than he looked at any of the others." "All right, Louis," from Mike. "Come on." "Ho, ho," Louis went on, "I'd like to see this guy Elliott. Anybody who would draw a picture like that. Hold your horses, Mike, here's another. 'The Faun." What's a faun, Mike? I guess he means fern. It looks like a fern." "It does that, Louis. But we'll have to let it go as a faun. It's probably a foreign word. Most of these artists are foreigners, anyway." Mr. Elliott and I left, Mr. Elliott remarking on the way down the Institute steps, "Ho, hum." ORNAMENTS Ornaments change, and perhaps not for the best. The scherzo architecture of Villon's Paris, the gabled caprice of Shakespeare's London, the Rip Van Winkle jauntiness of a vanished New York, these are ghosts that wander among the skyscrapers and dynamo beltings of modernity.