"Well, we can't all be artists and the woman can paint flowers upon dishes
for all I care," spoke up Valmore, laughing good naturedly. "We can't all
paint pictures and write books."

"We do not want to be artists--we do not dare to be," shouted Telfer,
whirling and shaking his cane at Valmore. "You have a misunderstanding of
the word."

He straightened his shoulders and threw out his chest and the boy standing
beside the blacksmith threw up his chin, unconsciously imitating the
swagger of the man.

"I do not paint pictures; I do not write books; yet am I an artist,"
declared Telfer, proudly. "I am an artist practising the most difficult of
all arts--the art of living. Here in this western village I stand and
fling my challenge to the world. 'On the lip of not the greatest of you,'
I cry, 'has life been more sweet.'"

He turned from Valmore to the men upon the stone.

"Make a study of my life," he commanded. "It will be a revelation to you.
With a smile I greet the morning; I swagger in the noontime; and in the
evening, like Socrates of old, I gather a little group of you benighted
villagers about me and toss wisdom into your teeth, striving to teach you
judgment in the use of great words."

"You talk an almighty lot about yourself, John," grumbled Freedom Smith,
taking his pipe from his mouth.