'He gave me a shrewd gimlet-look and said: 'Find your own paint--o' course?' ''Of course,' I replied. ''What color?' ''Why, the same color you now have,' was my astonished answer. ''Wall, I don't know. My wife kind o' thinks that turtle-color would suit our house better than Spanish brown. You put on two coats, of course?' 'I now saw what he meant, and roaring with laughter, explained to him that there was a difference between a painter of houses and a house-painter. 'One morning I was interrupted by a grim, Herculean, stern-looking young fellow--one who was manifestly a man of facts--who, with a brief introduction of himself, asked if I could teach 'the pictur business.' I signified my assent, and while talking of terms, continued painting away at a landscape. I noticed that my visitor glanced at my work at first as if puzzled, and then with an air of contempt. Finally he inquired: '''S _that_ the way you make your pictures?' ''That is it,' I replied. ''Do you have to keep workin' it in, bit by bit, _slow_--like as a gal works woosted-patterns?' ''Yes, and sometimes much slower, to paint well.' ''How long 'll it take to learn your trade?' ''Well, if you've any genius for it, you may become a tolerable artist in two years.' ''Two--_thunder_! Why, a man could learn to make shoes, in that time!' ''Very likely. There is not one man in a hundred, who can make shoes, who would ever become even a middling sort of artist.' ''_Darn_ paintin'!' was the reply of my visitor, as he took up his club to depart--his hat had not been removed during the whole of the visit. 'Darn paintin'! I thought you did the thing with stencils, and finished it up with a comb and a scraper. Mister, I don't want to hurt your feeling--but 'cordin' to _my_ way o' thinkin', paintin' as _you_ do it, an't a trade at all--it's nothin' but a darned despisable _fine art!_' 'And with this candid statement of his views, my lost pupil turned to go. I burst out laughing. He turned around squarely, and presenting an angry front not unlike that of a mad bull, inquired abruptly, as he glared at me: ''Maybe you'd like to paint my portrit?' 'I looked at him steadily in the eyes, as I gravely took up my spatula, (I knew he thought it some deadly kind of dagger,) and answered: ''I don't paint animals. 'He gave me a parting look, and 'abscondulated.' When I saw him last, he was among the City Fathers! GALLI VAN T.' * * * * * _A SONG OF THE PRESENT._ BY EDWARD S. RAND, JR. Not to the Past whose smouldering embers lie, Sad relics of the hopes we fondly nursed, Not to the moments that have hurried by, Whose joys and griefs are lived, the best, the worst.