“No, that was my first attempt. I had never put my hands to clay before. Painting and modeling are about the same. You must know anatomy in both. I never intended to have it cast, but some of my friends, on seeing it, said I should, so I had it done. ‘Bunkie,’ which means, in the army, ‘comrade,’ is my second work.” It was only in 1885 that Mr. Remington turned his whole attention to art. On leaving Yale, where he was more devoted to football than to study, he served for a brief period as confidential clerk to Governor Cornell, at Albany. But that life was too prosaic; and, in 1880, he caught the fever, “to go west.” He went to Montana, and became a “cow-puncher.” Later, he made money on a Kansas mule ranch, and was cowboy, guide and scout in the southwest. When he had run through what he had earned, he returned to Kansas City, where the shops displayed his first work. They possessed the now well-known Remington style, but the colors were daubed on so that they looked like chromos, although the drawings had that muscular dash and action for which his work is noted. HIS FIRST SKETCH. “My first drawing,” said Mr. Remington, “appeared in Harper’s. It was redrawn by them, but it had in it that which they liked.” In the meantime he had married, and he started east with his wife. They arrived in New York with just three dollars. After engaging a small room, he made a bee-line for Harper’s with a number of sketches. They were accepted on the spot, and since then there has been no more successful illustrator than Frederic Remington among the celebrated artists of America. XXXII Rebuffs and Disappointments Fail to Repress a Great Cartoonist’s Genius. TO-DAY Homer C. Davenport is the “first cartoonist” of America, and yet he is but thirty-five years old. Mr. Davenport has a small place in Roseville, on the outskirts of Newark, New Jersey. He is a tall, handsome man, with large, humorous eyes, beneath heavy eyelids, that give him an expression of perpetual thought. “I suppose you want to see my studio?” Mr. Davenport said. We went upstairs. “This is it,” he said, with a chuckle. It was merely a small, square room, with a few framed pictures on the papered walls, and a desk in the corner. There was no easel in the room, but I saw a drawing-board under the desk. DAVENPORT’S UNIQUE STUDIO. “You work on that board, when on the desk?” “Yes.” “You are disappointed,” said his sister, with a smile. “It is not what you expected.” It wasn’t. I had expected to see a typical studio, with unfinished cartoons, and the usual artistic surroundings. Mr. Davenport laid an unfinished cartoon on the desk, representing a chariot race, and laughed when he explained what it would be and mean; and this told me that he enters heartily in whatever he draws, which is requisite to success in art as well as in other things. Then we adjourned to another room and sat about a wood fire. “Tell me of your beginning,” I said.