’Never mind that—­I’m not ‘the greatest painter that ever lived’ here.  But in Spodunk, I was.  Folks ‘admired to see me.’  I was a man that ‘had got talent into him,’ and the village damsels invited me to tea.  There were occasional drawbacks, to be sure.  One day a man who had heard that I had painted Doctor Hewls’s house, called and asked me what I would charge to paint his little ‘humsted.’  I offered to do it for twenty dollars.

     ’He gave me a shrewd gimlet-look and said: 

     ‘Find your own paint—­o’ course?’

     ‘’Of course,’ I replied.

     ‘’What color?’

     ‘’Why, the same color you now have,’ was my astonished answer.

     ‘’Wall, I don’t know.  My wife kind o’ thinks that turtle-color
     would suit our house better than Spanish brown.  You put on two
     coats, of course?’

     ’I now saw what he meant, and roaring with laughter, explained to
     him that there was a difference between a painter of houses and a
     house-painter.

’One morning I was interrupted by a grim, Herculean, stern-looking young fellow—­one who was manifestly a man of facts—­who, with a brief introduction of himself, asked if I could teach ’the pictur business.’  I signified my assent, and while talking of terms, continued painting away at a landscape.  I noticed that my visitor glanced at my work at first as if puzzled, and then with an air of contempt.  Finally he inquired: 

     ‘’’S that the way you make your pictures?’

     ‘’That is it,’ I replied.

     ‘’Do you have to keep workin’ it in, bit by bit, slow—­like as a
     gal works woosted-patterns?’

     ‘’Yes, and sometimes much slower, to paint well.’

     ’’How long ‘ll it take to learn your trade?’

     ’’Well, if you’ve any genius for it, you may become a tolerable
     artist in two years.’

     ’’Two—­thunder!  Why, a man could learn to make shoes, in that
     time!’

     ’’Very likely.  There is not one man in a hundred, who can make
     shoes, who would ever become even a middling sort of artist.’

‘’Darn paintin’!’ was the reply of my visitor, as he took up his club to depart—­his hat had not been removed during the whole of the visit.  ‘Darn paintin’!  I thought you did the thing with stencils, and finished it up with a comb and a scraper.  Mister, I don’t want to hurt your feeling—­but ‘cordin’ to my way o’ thinkin’, paintin’ as you do it, an’t a trade at all—­it’s nothin’ but a darned despisable fine art!’

’And with this candid statement of his views, my lost pupil turned to go.  I burst out laughing.  He turned around squarely, and presenting an angry front not unlike that of a mad bull, inquired abruptly, as he glared at me: 

     ‘’Maybe you’d like to paint my portrit?’