I never
could keep any character in them. Watson--the fellow who drew so
well--made vignettes on the blank pages to lots of the specimens--'Likely
Habitats' we called them. He used to sit with his paint-box in my
window, and Christian used to sit outside the window, on the edge,
dangling his legs, and describing scenes out of his head for Watson to
draw. Watson used to say, 'I wish I could paint with my brush as that
fellow paints with his tongue'--and when the vignettes were admired,
I've heard him say, in his dry way, 'I copied them from Christian's
paintings;' and the fellows used to stare, for you know he couldn't
draw a line. And when--But I say, Gertrude, for Heaven's sake, don't
devour everything I say with those great pitiful eyes of yours. I am a
regular brute to talk about him."
"No, Ted, no. It makes me so happy to hear you, and to know that you
know how good he really was, and how much he must have been aggravated
before--"
"For goodness' sake, don't cry. Christian was a very good fellow, a
capital fellow. I never thought I could have got on so well with any one
who was--I mean who wasn't--well, of course I mean who was really a
gipsy. I don't blame him a bit for resenting being bullied about his
parents.
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