The next morning Philip decided that whatever the others were going to do, he had left the Art Galleries alone long enough, and that he would spend a part of his day wandering among pictures and statues.

He walked from the southern end, where he had entered, along the whole length of the grounds. When he came to the bridge crossing the waterway between the North Pond and the Lagoon, he met two ladies evidently at a loss whether to turn to the right or the left in order to reach the Art Galleries. Raising his hat, he drew forth the map and showed them that they could go as well one way as the other; and then he walked on, himself turning to the right. As he went along a path that led him around some of the smaller National Buildings, he saw a little grove of trees surrounding a boulder built of staff. Along the top of this great rock was a figure, also of staff, representing a lioness with the head and shoulders of a woman—a sort of sphinx; a Cupid was whispering to her, and she had an expression half of amusement and half of malice. There was no legend or inscription attached to the piece of sculpture, and all were left to make their own interpretation of the allegory.

Considering the wealth of art stored up in the winged temple to which he was going, Philip did not dare to waste any time in reaching his goal; but first he drew out his little guide-book, and examining the plan that showed where the pictures of each nation were grouped, he decided to begin with the French section—that is, with the east wing.

He mounted the great steps, flanked by lions, and found himself at once surrounded by pictures on all four walls of a square room whose curtained doorways led to similar treasures beyond. Like all the world when in a picture-gallery, he did not see how he could examine the collection systematically. He was too much interested. Perhaps he would make up his mind to begin at the right-hand corner, and would march resolutely in that direction. Upon the way he would catch sight of a thrilling battle-scene or a lovely face, and would pause, become fascinated, and lose all recollection of his plan of campaign.

After standing bewildered for a minute or two, Philip turned to look especially at a large painting showing Christ talking to the woman at the well, a beautiful and dignified piece of work, emphasizing the serenity and solemnity of the scene. Philip felt that this picture had put him in a receptive frame of mind, such as one should have when listening to a sermon; and not long afterward came a series of four well-known pictures, “The Prodigal Son,” by Tissot, to preach the sermon. They represented a modern reading of the parable, showing the father bidding his son farewell; the son in anything but good company while absent; the return—a touching picture, showing the old father leaning to raise the young man kneeling at his feet; and the merrymaking over the fatted calf.

Although Philip had come primarily for Art alone, it was impossible for him to ignore the stories the artists had chosen as foundations for their compositions. In “St. George and the Dragon,” for instance, who could help making up little bits of the story that had brought the bold St. George to the mouth of the rocky den where lay that very stupid and malicious monster with one cruel paw holding a victim at its feet?

Even that brilliant piece of coloring, “The Birth of the Pearl,” required the story-telling faculty to account for the swift bubbling plunge of the diver who opens the iridescent shell beneath which the Pearl Maiden is sleeping. A story nearly as good as the “Sleeping Beauty” was told in those gem-like colors.

Of more direct interest to the boy was “A Singing Lesson in a Public School in Paris”; and Philip gladly would have spent much time in reading the little touches of character that made each boy in the crowded picture so interesting a figure. But he knew that he must slight many pictures in order to give any time at all to those which held him before them by making him forget everything else; so he went on to the next gallery. He was first delighted by “The Bath of the Regiment,” a barrack-scene showing the members of a regiment passing one by one in front of a hose in full play: the spattering water, the wet floor, the shining skins of the soldiers were wonderfully rendered considering the difficulty of painting the details from nature.

Another striking picture was the portrait of Pope Leo XIII. Philip recalled having read that the Pope had never before granted any artist a sitting; but that M. Chartran, being granted an audience, made a sketch that so pleased the Pope as to gain for the artist permission to paint this wonderful picture. The expression of the face was purely intellectual and refined, and Philip felt sure the picture would never be regarded as other than a masterpiece. There were two small portraits by Weerts that were worthy to be ranked with this larger one. Two others, landscapes, also claimed attention, one a dainty bit of bright color by Gagliardini—a Moorish scene; and the other, by Lhermitte, “Harvesters at Rest,” showing peasants in the field. The only other picture that Philip marked upon his catalogue was a group of children in an arm-chair, by G. Dubufe, fils.

Speaking of Philip’s catalogue, it is well to say that he bought two. The first was so arranged that after walking through one room with it he returned, and paid three times as much for the second. The more expensive catalogue numbered the pictures as they were hung upon the walls, and he could find each picture at once—a matter worth considering when he knew he could not see a third of the rooms in each of which were many masterpieces.

Entering another gallery, Philip drew a line of approval against “A First Proof,” by Mathey—a printer examining the first impression from a plate; a similar line was awarded to “The Struggle for Life”—a marine showing a long line of men trying to draw a fishing-boat through the surf to safety. Others he marked were a soft evening effect by Zuber, and, in the next gallery, “The Virgin’s Thread,” that lovely painting by Lucas, where the birds are pulling at the thread while the virgin is sleeping in her chair beside the wheel. A picture of a boar at bay, while the hounds snarl, and whine but hesitate to come to close quarters, and a “Strike” picture, also compelled him to halt and to enter.

But he felt as Ali Baba must have felt in the treasure-cavern—dazzled, longing to take all he could, but hurried and ill at ease. It is easy for an arm-chair philosopher to advise patience and coolness; to say, “Select a little, and see it thoroughly”; but to be a visitor at the greatest of World’s Fairs is quite another matter, and in the Art Galleries you can never tell what you are losing.

They issued in Chicago several useful little handbooks to the Fair. “The Time-Saver,” “The Nutshell Guide,” “Gems of the Fair,” “What to See and How to Find It,” were some of them, and by reading these one could be fairly sure of not overlooking many “best” things in the trade exhibits. But in the Art Galleries such books can be of little use. The pictures Philip looked at pleased him for various reasons. Some were by consummate colorists; some told a pleasing tale; some preached a little sermon; some were amusing, and others played upon deeper chords. Now, as to these no two boys or men would feel just alike; and you can no more let another pick out your pictures than you can let a stranger order your meals.

As Philip was standing in one of the galleries an old man said slyly:

“No awards here.”

“Is that so?” asked Philip in surprise.

“Yes,” said the old man; “the French found the Germans were beating them, and so they quit!” And the old man disappeared in the crowd, chuckling to himself, and seeming to take more interest in this bit of gossip than in the pictures.

Philip went on through two rooms containing pastels and water-colors; he meant to skip them entirely. It was not that he undervalued these mediums, but he felt he had to draw the line somewhere (as in the old story of the man who didn’t invite his parents to his wedding); and the oil-paintings were more numerous.

But he was compelled to look at three pictures by Boutet-de-Monvel because they were just what he liked, at one by Maurice Eliot, and at some hunting-dogs resting by a river, painted by Oliver de Penne. He made up for this pause by skipping two large collections of miniatures, etchings, and medals, and began to go around the room known as “Gallery 45.”

Here he found two pictures that have caused much controversy—one showing the Crucifixion as upon Montmartre, Paris, and the other representing Christ as sitting at table in a modern drawing-room.

Philip didn’t pretend to say whether there was a great moral lesson conveyed by this strange device; but he felt that the pictures were as unpleasant as they were powerful; and that of the Crucifixion was certainly full of intense feeling rendered by the hand of a master.

But it is useless to quote from the catalogue as Philip marked it; for himself the markings were useful, and helped him to fix his attention upon certain pictures; but unless all of the pictures are at hand, comparison and comment can have little value.

As the boy went through the galleries, he felt a strong sense of gratitude to the hundreds of skilful, keen-sighted men who had studied nature and mankind until they could show him in an instant’s glance just how things were and are the whole world around.

From the French exhibit he passed to that of American artists; and again he found reason to be proud of his young country. Perhaps it was as well that the French and American exhibits were distinctly labeled, for there was not such a difference as there might have been. But if America showed that she had taken lessons abroad, she at least gave her teachers no reason to be ashamed; and here and there was seen a touch of true individuality promising a distinction and a difference in the future.

Julian Story’s painting of “Mlle. de Sombreuil” and Carl Marr’s great “Flagellants” were two history-lessons which no boy could forget; and the second of these artists, in another painting where bits of real sunshine come flickering through a screen of green leaves, showed that he could paint pictures, even without telling historical incidents. Philip went close to this picture to see just how that shining sunshine was done; but he was surprised to find nothing to explain the brightness of those shining spots except a little dull ocher paint gradually lightening to white.

After he had seen, in the next room, Douglas Volk’s “Puritan Girl” and Hovenden’s “Breaking Home Ties,” he became a little depressed; but was cheered up by Toby Rosenthal’s comedy, “A Dancing-Lesson of our Grandmother’s.”

When he went outside to sit upon the steps for a moment’s rest, he began to understand Sir Isaac Newton’s simile about picking up a few shells on the shore; for he saw that he had been several hours in the Art Building, and had seen hastily only a part of one wing of the great storehouse. He hurried back, rushed blindly through several rooms, and tried to take a small piece out of Great Britain’s display. Again he was caught here and drawn there by the magic brush of one artist after another, and had to confess that he must raise the siege and hope for another day. He walked down the steps with a sense of injury and loss, which remained with him until the outdoor air and the breeze from the lake had restored his good humor.

He concluded to walk home, and made his way to the path that ran along the lake-shore. Philip found his muscles a little sore, and seeing a vacant bench, sat down upon it. In a few moments he saw a group of young men pointing out upon the lake. He looked in the direction they indicated, and to his amazement made out the “Santa Maria” under full sail and as independent as any steamer of them all. Philip felt as if he might be an Indian viewing the first coming of the caravel, and wished sincerely that he were aboard, so that he might shut his eyes and imagine he heard that first cry, “Land! Land!”

He was delighted with the chance that had brought him the sight of the caravel at sea, and wondered what nabob of the Fair was cruising about as if he were Christopher Columbus himself.

Resuming his walk, he went through one or two of the buildings in order to get out of the sun (which beat down quite fiercely, considering how late in the year it was). In the Liberal Arts Building it seemed that only frail pieces of plate-glass protected the rich treasures of gold and silver arranged in the jewelers’ show-windows, and Harry wondered whether a modern Dick Turpin, or Blackbeard the Pirate, could not, by dash and nerve, succeed in carrying away enough plunder to support him forever after in some reputable line of business. The pirate, he thought, would have the better chance; for he might rush to the shore, where his trusty crew were awaiting him in the long-boat, be rowed to his stealthy black vessel, hoist sail, and away with all that Tiffany and the Gorham Company had left out of their safes!

Then what a scurrying to and fro! Sailors and soldiers, losing their presence of mind, would dash up to the conning-tower of the battle-ship “Illinois” and press the dummy electric buttons, wondering why the engineer didn’t get up all steam and put on full speed at once. Others would leap into the “Viking” and start to row with the long sweeps, forgetting that there were only shields aboard.

Philip was amused at this odd fancy, and resolved to ask Harry to make a sketch of the pursuit. Meanwhile he made his way home, keeping in the porticos where it was shady, and avoiding the clayey mud left by the previous day’s rain.

“I’d rather,” he told Harry that night, “miss some of the regular exhibits, if I’ve got to take the Fair in samples; when it comes to missing pictures, you never know what you’ve lost.”

The next morning Mr. Douglass, who was reading the “Chicago Tribune,” burst out laughing. “Philip,” said he, “here is part of an account of the cruise of the ‘Santa Maria’—the cruise upon which you saw her.” And, interrupted by the boys’ occasional chuckles, he read aloud as follows:

The old caravel stood out on the waves, queer-looking as compared with modern craft, but full of grace and beauty. When the big square sail was first spread, it took the wind nicely, rounded the pier, and sailed off to the northwest in splendid style.

But when the passengers wanted to turn the caravel there was trouble. Had they continued in a straight line to Michigan all would have been well, but they knew not how to sail the “Santa Maria.” The craft wobbled. The choppy waves tossed it. Though it had braved storms on the Atlantic, it trembled, and its sails became disorganized by the turbulence of the white-topped waves of Lake Michigan.

“It will not sail close to the wind,” said a passenger who claimed to have been out on the lake before.

“Better slow her up,” suggested passenger Millet; “we’re headed for the Forty-third street reef.”

“Who ever heard of a reef on a street?” petulantly returned Sailing-master Hunt.

On flew the caravel until the cheeks of the passengers turned pale, and they pleaded with the captain to turn it about. Its huge hulk was finally swerved just as it scraped the reef. Away it shot again out northwest, more unruly than before.

An hour or so went by. The “Santa Maria” still sped on toward the Michigan fruit-fields. The passengers became hungry. They wanted to go home. A turn about of the caravel was finally made. It shot away toward the Van Buren street pier.

“Land her!” “Land her!” “Ground her!” cried the passengers.

With care the caravel was brought up near enough to the pier to let off the passengers, and the craft was anchored for the night.

Then Mr. Armour said to Millet: “No wonder Columbus discovered America.”

“Why?” inquired the latter.

“Because a man could discover anything in such a craft as the ‘Santa Maria.’ There’s no telling what direction it would carry him. The discovery of America was a ‘scratch.’”