TWO LIVE PICTURES.
I wish I were an artist. I would paint two pictures that I saw to-day.
This was the first.
At the basement window of a house I passed, sat a mother and her little sick girl. On the window was a tumbler containing some physic, into which the mother had just dipped a spoon, which she was holding to the sick child’s mouth. You should have seen that little girl’s disgusted, shuddering face, as she turned it away from the spoon, over her right shoulder. I doubt if the physic itself was “worse to take!”
This was the second picture.
A little girl, about five years old, had been sent, by her mother, to the butcher’s, for a beefsteak, with an open basket. She had done her errand, and was tripping home with the meat, singing as she went, when a great bouncing Newfoundland dog came toward her, and with a bound, placed his two fore-paws on her shoulder, while the poor child reached her little arms as high as they would go, above her curly head, to save the precious beefsteak. There, now, there are two subjects, for any of you who can draw. I only wish I could, and I would have had them in this very book.