"We have nothing here over eight years. You will find your size on the sixth floor, Washington Street side." I think it was the sixth floor; I know we walked (crestfallen) through endless aisles and were shot up floor after floor. Landed finally, the right counter was reached after numerous conflicting directions. The Herr Director was puffing and panting, the Frau Directorin radiant and happy, for she enjoys exercise, and my wife, her faith in the efficiency of her favorite store not yet shaken, though wavering, asking for "union suits for a twelve-year-old boy." As the clerk reached for the desired article she asked: "Short sleeves or long sleeves?" "Short sleeves." "Randolph Street side, second floor, for short sleeved union suits." The Herr Director and I did not accompany the ladies on their further voyage of discovery; we went to the rest room to avoid nervous prostration. My wife and the Frau Directorin, with the determination and endurance which women alone possess, continued the chase to a victorious finish. Fortunately an altogether satisfying luncheon followed this strenuous experience, after which, rested and refreshed, we repaired to the Art Institute. The Chicago Art Institute, within a stone's throw of the most congested business section, at the edge of its noise and rush, is by its very being there a sort of triumph. The Herr Director approached it somewhat condescendingly, expecting to find it and its contents big, bizarre and "_nouveau richessque_." As soon as he entered the building he felt the dignity and good taste of its arrangement, and his manner changed. After he had looked critically at some of the pictures and approved them, I knew myself for once on the way to success; for his praise was as genuine as his criticism. Knowing that money can buy both Old and New Masters, he expected to find them; but he had not expected to see such discrimination as was shown in choosing and hanging them. He was entirely unprepared for the excellent work of our native artists, outside of that small but exalted sphere occupied by Whistler, Sargent, Innes, etc. My joy was complete when we were taken into the Art School by the Director, Dr. French, whose death not long ago must always be deplored. The rooms of the Art School were crowded by boys and girls of all ages and varied nationalities and races, learning to develop their God-given talents under the guidance of competent and sympathetic teachers. The picture they made delighted me more than those they drew or painted; for it seemed so thoroughly, generously, democratically and artistically American.