And yet, with all his success, Mr. Remington is most unassuming. I went to New Rochelle, where he has a cosy place on the crest of a hill. He was in his studio, which is an addition to the house; and, as I descended a few steps, he rose from before his easel to greet me. His working coat was covered with paint, and he held a brush in his left hand. He had not been warned of my mission, and seemed almost startled. “I cannot shake hands,” he said, looking at me, “mine are soiled; I am a painter, you know.” He sat down, hanging one arm over the back of his chair. “Don’t write about me, but speak of my art!” said Mr. Remington. “But you and your art are one,” I replied, looking around the studio, and to its walls hung with Indian relics. “Most of your pictures are from experiences of your own in the great far west, are they not?” “Yes, but not all,” was the reminiscent reply. “And those trophies?” I added, glancing at them. “O, I bought most of them. That jacket I bought from a mounted policeman. Pretty, isn’t it? I am able to depict the western country and life, because I have been there.” REMINGTON’S SCHOOLBOY EFFECTS. “When did you first take up art?” “I studied some art at the Yale Art School, and a little at the Art League. When I was a schoolboy, I was forever making sketches on the margin of my school-books, but I never really studied it much, although my dream was to be an artist. At nineteen, I caught the fever to go west, and incidentally to become rich. That was my idea; art came second. I ranched it, and got into Indian campaigns. I have always been fond of horses and out-of-door life, and I got plenty of it there, with every opportunity to study the rough life, the lay of the country, and the peculiar atmosphere.” “Mr. Remington,” I asked, “how do you get that ‘devil-may-care’ look in the faces of your cowboys and soldiers?” His face lighted up, and a deep twinkle came into his eyes. He glanced across the room at just such a picture as I had described. He took his pipe out of his mouth and laid it on the window sill. REMINGTON’S ATTENTION TO DETAIL. “Kipling says that, ‘a single man in a barrack is not a plaster saint,’ and that is about it. That cavalryman posed for me on his horse. But not all of my work is from life. I go west for three months every year, and gather a lot of sketches and then work them up. Those color sketches there,—a chief and his daughter,—are from life. You see I was able to get all the color. Yet I like to depict white men best; they are more interesting.” My eyes rested on an unfinished picture, toward which, every now and then, Mr. Remington turned a thoughtful gaze as if trying to think of something. It was a birch-bark canoe, with a figure at either end; the water was smooth, and the shore was wooded. One person in the motionless canoe was fishing. “Is that from memory?” I asked of the artist.