"Oh, no, my boy; it's the easiest thing in the world," said the artist bitterly; "and the world accepts it at its right value, for it is never inclined to pay very dearly for it. Just a few paints, a brush, and there you are." "Well, Mr. Daubs, I hardly think that's quite right--you don't mind my saying so, do you?--'cause I saved up a shilling and bought a paintbrush and some paints, and tried ever so hard to make a picture, but it was no use. No, it was nothing like a picture--all smudge, you know--so I thought that p'raps God never meant little boys should make pictures, and that I would have to wait till I grew up like you, Mr. Daubs." "It's as well somebody should think I can paint pictures; but do you know, my young art critic, that many persons have no higher estimate of my efforts than you have of yours--that is to say," seeing the eyes widening in astonishment, "their term for them is 'smudge!'" "No, do they say that? No, Mr. Daubs, they wouldn't dare," said Willie, indignantly. "Why, you paint lovely horses and flowers, and trees, and mountains, and your birds, if they could only sing, like the little bird Dodo once had, they would seem quite alive." John had never had so flattering, nor so unique a criticism of his art. "Molière," thought he, "used to read his plays to the children, and gather something from their prattle. Why should I disdain opinion from a like source, especially as it chimes in so beautifully with what my vanity would have had me acknowledge long since?" "Well, youngster, admitting that I am the fine artist you would make of me, what then? In what way do you expect to convert a world which prefers real horses, real trees, and real birds? See, now, even here--at the Comedy Theatre--we have only to announce on the playbills that a _real_ horse, a _real_ steam-engine, or a _real_ goose or donkey, for that matter, will be exhibited, and the best efforts of my artistic genius are thrown into the shade. You are a case in point. Could I draw an imp that would meet with half the success that you do? But what nonsense I am talking--you don't understand a word of it." "Oh, yes, Mr. Daubs, I do--something. Do you know what I think?" "Say on, youngster." "I think we don't often know or think what _is_ best for us. Mother says little boys don't always know what is best for them. 'Real' is a live thing--ain't it? I used to _think_, Mr. Daubs, you were a real live ogre once. But now I know you ain't--are you?" This with a pressure of the arms again round John's neck. What could the "real live ogre" say to such an appeal? After a pause: "Mr. Daubs, can I tell you something--may I?" John assented, wondering what was the next strange thing this curious sprite would ask. "And will you say 'yes' to what I ask?" John again assented, though he thought that possibly his assent might necessitate a journey to Timbuctoo.