“Luxurious tastes Richleigh has.  He has a Corot in his office.”

“That’s nothing!  I have a whistler in mine.”

Two ladies, each with her child, visited the Chicago Art Museum.  As they passed the “Winged Victory” the little boy exclaimed:  “Huh!  She ain’t got no head.”  “Sh!” the horrified little girl replied, “That’s art; she don’t need none!”

One of those country gentlemen who owns a farm in Brown County, but lives in Indianapolis and only spends his weekends on the farm, asked one of his neighbors down in Brown county:  “Did you know that T. C. Steele sold the picture that he painted on your farm?” The farmer made no reply to this, and then the country gentleman told him the price Mr. Steele got for the canvas.  “I just wish I had known the feller liked the place well enough to pay that for a picture of it,” the farmer said.  “I’d a’ sold him the farm for $200 less than that.”

ARTIST—­“Now, here’s a picture—­one of my best, too—­I’ve just finished.  When I started out I had no idea what it was going to be.”

FRIEND—­“After you got through, how did you find out what it was?”

Bessie is a bright one.  The other day her teacher set her and her schoolmates to drawing, letting them choose their own subjects.  After the teacher had examined what the other children had drawn, she took up Bessie’s sheet.

“Why, what’s this?” she said.  “You haven’t drawn anything at all, child.”

“Please, teacher, yes, I have,” returned Bessie.  “It’s a war-picture-a long line of ammunition-wagons at the front.  You can’t see ’em ’cause they’re camouflaged.”

“Mark Twain was visiting H.H.  Rogers,” said a New York editor.  “Mr. Rogers led the humorist into his library.

“‘There,’ he said as he pointed to a bust of white marble.  ’What do you think of that?’ It was a bust of a young woman coiling her hair-a graceful example of Italian sculpture.  Mr. Clemens looked and then he said: 

“’It isn’t true to nature.”

“‘Why not?’ Mr. Rogers asked.

“‘She ought to have her mouth full of hairpins,’ said the humorist.”

See also Futurist art.

ASTRONOMY

FINNEGAN—­“Oh, yis, Oi can undershtand how thim astronomers can calkilate th’ distance av a shtarr, its weight, and dinsity and color and all thot—­but th’ thing thot gets me is, how th’ divvle do they know its name.”

  I think the stars do nod at me,
    But not when people are about;
  For they regard me curiously
    Whenever I go out.

  Brothers, what is it ye mean,
    What is it ye try to say. 
  That so earnestly ye lean
    From the spirit to the clay?

  I may have been a star one day,
    One of the rebel host that fell,
  And they are nodding down to say. 
    Come back to us from hell.

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