his face, as if it were an effort worthy of being hung up in the
Academy of Design, or the Gallery of Fine Arts.

This state of things lasted for some years. But Ralph did not make
much progress in the art. His horses continued to be the same stiff,
awkward things that they were at first. So did his cows, and oxen, and
dogs, and cats, and men. It became pretty evident, at least to
everybody except the young artist himself, that he never would shine
in his favorite profession. He was not "cut out for it," apparently,
though it took a great while to beat the idea out of his head, that he
was going to make one of the greatest painters in the country. When he
became a young man, however, he had sense enough to choose the
carpenter's trade, instead of the painter's art. I think he showed a
great deal more judgment than many other people do, who imagine they
are destined to astonish two or three continents with their wonderful
productions in some department of the fine arts, but who,
unfortunately, are not much better fitted for either of them than a
goose or a sheep.




V.

PUTTING ON AIRS:

OR, HOW I TRIED TO WIN RESPECT.


Reader--young reader, for I take it for granted you _are_ young,