OUR LITTLE FRIEND VISITS GREENWICH VILLAGE AND MEETS A SCULPTOR, A POETESS, AND A PAINTER

You will remember that I have spoken in a previous story of the beautiful clam-sh.e.l.l which Rollo possessed, and which he admired very much. It was a gift from his Uncle George, and on it was painted a picture of a curving beach, a light-house, and a small yacht. Below the picture was the t.i.tle, "Souvenir of Atlantic City."

One day Rollo was sitting on his little cricket, holding up the sh.e.l.l to the light, and marvelling at the change this made in the colours.

His mother was busily engaged knitting washcloths for the missionary box which was to be sent to the natives of the Filbert Islands; for though she had moved to the city, Rollo's mother did not forget her duties toward Dr. Ordway, the minister at home, and through him, to the heathen children in the Filbert Islands.

"Do you know, Mother," said Rollo, "I believe that the man who painted this clam-sh.e.l.l was perhaps the greatest artist in the world. I have looked all through the vast collection at the Metropolitan Museum, and I do not find the mate to my clam anywhere."

"Is it so?" said his mother. "You seem very much interested in artistic things. I remember that years ago I too enjoyed the fine arts. You may recall the portrait of a kitten which I painted on the red plush sofa-cushions at home."

"Indeed I do!" cried Rollo. "It was most artistic. Heigh-ho! I wish I was an artist!"

Just as he said these words, as if in answer to his wish, his Uncle George opened the door. "What is that?" he said. "You wish you were an artist? What kind of an artist do you wish to be?"

Rollo was puzzled. "What kind?" he repeated. "What kinds are there?"

"Many," said his Uncle George. "But perhaps before you make up your mind it would be well if you looked over the different kinds. How would you like to visit Greenwich Village with me where all the artists live?"

"Oh Goody-Gumpkins!" cried Rollo, for which his mother gently reproved him.

"I should love it," said he. "You are so kind, and I am so glad you are a broker, Uncle George, for you always seem to have plenty of time."

"Nothing but," said Uncle George. "But come, if we are going, let us be off at once."

"Hurrah," cried Rollo. "Good-bye, Mother!" and seizing his cap and thrusting his clam-sh.e.l.l into his pocket, he ran to join his uncle in the doorway.

"How do we go? Is it far?" he questioned when they had reached the street.

"We may as well take the stage," said his uncle. "It goes directly to the Village."

Rollo's uncle raised his hand and the stage stopped politely.

"Thank you," said Rollo as they climbed to the top. Soon the conductor came to them and held out a little machine, which seemed to nibble Rollo's fingers when he pushed the two dimes which his uncle had given him into the slot.

"He cannot hoodwink me," said Rollo after the conductor had gone away.

"I saw the money drop through into his hand."

"You are a bright lad," said his uncle, which made Rollo very happy.

As they rode along Uncle George pointed out to him the eager faces of the thousands of Lithuanians, Greeks, and Polaks who make New York the greatest of American cities. Soon the stage rolled through a majestic stone archway.

[Ill.u.s.tration: SKETCHES BY HOGARTH, JR.

"How would you like to visit Greenwich Village?"]

"We are now entering the Village," said Uncle George.

"Well, I will say it has a handsome front door," said Rollo, "but did you say 'Village,' Uncle George? It appears to me mightily like a part of the city."

"So it would seem," said his uncle, "but appearances are deceitful.

However, you will soon see that it is very different from the rest of the city. We are first to visit a friend of mine, a Mr. Pryzik, the great American sculptor. You know what a sculptor is, Rollo?"

"Yes, indeed, sir," said Rollo. "We have a beautiful group at home done by Mr. Rogers. It is called 'Reading the Will.' The expression of anxiety on the part of the relatives is most noteworthy."

"It is a n.o.ble subject," said his Uncle.

"But did you say Mr. Pryzik was an American?" asked Rollo.

"Practically," replied his uncle. "He was born in Prague, but he has lived in this country for six years. True, he has not become a citizen because of the income-tax, but he is very patriotic and much prefers to sell his sculptures to Americans. But here we are at the sculptor's."

While talking, Rollo and his uncle had turned into a narrow doorway and mounted several flights of stairs. A tinkling bell was answered by a very hairy man who flung open the door before which they stood, crying, "Enter," in a great voice.

"This is Mr. Pryzik," said Uncle George, "and this is my nephew Rollo."

The room was a large loft or storeroom lighted from above and while Mr. Pryzik and Uncle George chatted amiably together, Rollo looked about him eagerly noting many large groups of figures struggling and writhing in every conceivable posture. Some were covered with grey cloths which gave them a singularly ghost-like appearance.

"And what are you doing that is interesting?" asked Uncle George.

"Much," replied the great artist. "I have some magnificent things under way, not completed, you understand, but well begun. Here, for instance, is a fountain for Mr. Rockefeller's garden. It represents the struggle between crude and refined oil."

"It is very exciting," said Rollo. "Does Mr. Rockefeller like it?"

"I do not know," said Mr. Pryzik. "I have written him seven letters on the subject, but I think he must be away on his vacation. And here is my masterpiece, the crowning group destined to be placed on the dome of the Palace of the League of Nations."

"Oh!" said Rollo. "Where is it to be?"

"The site has not been decided," replied the artist. "A Swedish friend of mine, Mr. Lundquist, has drawn some very n.o.ble plans for the building, which he has sent to Washington. We need only ten million dollars. You will note that the figures representing the various nations are made in sections so that any one may be removed in case of war. The bosom of Bulgaria has been much admired."

"I never have been to Bulgaria," said Rollo.

"This group here," continued Mr. Pryzik, "is an idea of mine for the pylons of the proposed Hudson River bridge. The figures at the New York end symbolize the four boroughs of Greater New York, those on the Jersey side the great commonwealths of Hoboken, Jersey City, Englewood and Hohokus. My commission alone will amount to over two hundred thousand dollars. But there is a powerful political influence working against me. In the meantime I have some immediate work on hand, small but useful, some amusing b.u.t.ton hook handles for one of the big silversmiths and a new radiator cap for Ford cars which will give them great distinction. An advantage is that any tinsmith can make them."

"You are indeed a genius," said Uncle George, "and make no mistake, you will be recognized as such. But we have other calls to make, I thank you for your courtesy." And bowing to Mr. Pryzik, Rollo and his uncle descended to the street.

"And now, Rollo," said Uncle George--"you shall see another kind of artist--the great poetess, Miss Myra Stark. She is an old friend of mine. She lives in a cellar--there we are, down these steps."

Never in his life had Rollo seen such a strange woman as Miss Myra Stark. She was very pale except her lips, which were painted a rich prune colour; her yellow hair was cut very like Rollo's except that it had no curl. Her smock was of coa.r.s.e burlap with a skirt of yellow wool.

"Come in, Man. Come in, Boy," she said, in answer to their knock.

"Take off your shoes if you like. My cellar is near the earth. I never wear shoes at home. I like to feel my feet on the face of Mother Earth."

"I wonder if Mother Earth likes it," said Rollo.

"She loves it," said Miss Stark. "Boy, you have the soul of a poet.

_Are_ you a poet?"

"I can recite a little," said Rollo, modestly.

"Do so," commanded his hostess.