Chapter 3

"Practically," replied his uncle. "He was born in Prague, but he has lived in this country for six years. True, he has not become a citizen because of the income-tax, but he is very patriotic and much prefers to sell his sculptures to Americans. But here we are at the sculptor's."

While talking, Rollo and his uncle had turned into a narrow doorway and mounted several flights of stairs. A tinkling bell was answered by a very hairy man who flung open the door before which they stood, crying, "Enter," in a great voice.

"This is Mr. Pryzik," said Uncle George, "and this is my nephew Rollo."

The room was a large loft or storeroom lighted from above and while Mr. Pryzik and Uncle George chatted amiably together, Rollo looked about him eagerly noting many large groups of figures struggling and writhing in every conceivable posture. Some were covered with grey cloths which gave them a singularly ghost-like appearance.

"And what are you doing that is interesting?" asked Uncle George.

"Much," replied the great artist. "I have some magnificent things under way, not completed, you understand, but well begun. Here, for instance, is a fountain for Mr. Rockefeller's garden. It represents the struggle between crude and refined oil."

"It is very exciting," said Rollo. "Does Mr. Rockefeller like it?"

"I do not know," said Mr. Pryzik. "I have written him seven letters on the subject, but I think he must be away on his vacation. And here is my masterpiece, the crowning group destined to be placed on the dome of the Palace of the League of Nations."

"Oh!" said Rollo. "Where is it to be?"

"The site has not been decided," replied the artist. "A Swedish friend of mine, Mr. Lundquist, has drawn some very noble plans for the building, which he has sent to Washington. We need only ten million dollars. You will note that the figures representing the various nations are made in sections so that any one may be removed in case of war. The bosom of Bulgaria has been much admired."

"I never have been to Bulgaria," said Rollo.

"This group here," continued Mr. Pryzik, "is an idea of mine for the pylons of the proposed Hudson River bridge. The figures at the New York end symbolize the four boroughs of Greater New York, those on the Jersey side the great commonwealths of Hoboken, Jersey City, Englewood and Hohokus. My commission alone will amount to over two hundred thousand dollars. But there is a powerful political influence working against me. In the meantime I have some immediate work on hand, small but useful, some amusing button hook handles for one of the big silversmiths and a new radiator cap for Ford cars which will give them great distinction. An advantage is that any tinsmith can make them."

"You are indeed a genius," said Uncle George, "and make no mistake, you will be recognized as such. But we have other calls to make, I thank you for your courtesy." And bowing to Mr. Pryzik, Rollo and his uncle descended to the street.

"And now, Rollo," said Uncle George--"you shall see another kind of artist--the great poetess, Miss Myra Stark. She is an old friend of mine. She lives in a cellar--there we are, down these steps."

Never in his life had Rollo seen such a strange woman as Miss Myra Stark. She was very pale except her lips, which were painted a rich prune colour; her yellow hair was cut very like Rollo's except that it had no curl. Her smock was of coarse burlap with a skirt of yellow wool.

"Come in, Man. Come in, Boy," she said, in answer to their knock. "Take off your shoes if you like. My cellar is near the earth. I never wear shoes at home. I like to feel my feet on the face of Mother Earth."

"I wonder if Mother Earth likes it," said Rollo.

"She loves it," said Miss Stark. "Boy, you have the soul of a poet. _Are_ you a poet?"

"I can recite a little," said Rollo, modestly.

"Do so," commanded his hostess.

Rollo was an obliging little boy and therefore, standing in the middle of the room, he recited as follows, with appropriate gestures which he had carefully learned at school:

"THE STRAND"

"One day while strolling on the strand A pearly shell lay in my hand. I stooped and wrote upon the sand My name, the place, the day. As on my onward way I passed One backward glance behind I cast, The rolling waves came high and fast And washed my name away!"

"Bravo!" cried Miss Stark and Uncle George.

"I thank you very much," said Rollo.

"It is a great poem," said Miss Stark. "It sounds simple but it means more than it says. It has its devious moments. You notice that though the 'name' is washed away the 'place' and the 'day' remain. I have just written something myself in the same manner."

"Do let us hear it," said Uncle George.

"I will," replied the poetess. "It is called _Brain-ticks_. Listen:

"In the midnight of day Myself came to me Saying, 'See,'-- 'See,' I said, In my hand, I hold the brain of my head! How it ticks, ticks, ticks, 'What does it mean?' I cried. 'What is it all about? Why is it out? Why was it ever inside? I don't understand.'"

"I don't understand," said Rollo.

"Of course you don't," cried Miss Stark. "We none of us do. We were just meant to live quietly and simply near Mother Earth. But you must come again. I am sorry you will not stay. Good-bye, good-bye."

"Our next visit, and I think it must be our last," said Uncle George, "will be to a gentleman friend of mine who is a painter. In a way he is quite a genius. His name is Wilkins. Wilkins' idea is that it is very wrong for a man to be limited to one form or school of art, to be exclusively a landscape painter or a portrait painter, a radical or a conservative. He goes in for all forms of art. But you shall see for yourself, for here is his studio."

Mr. Wilkins' studio was by far the pleasantest place Rollo had yet seen in the Village. And it was even as Uncle George had said; all about the walls were pictures, no two alike, but all, Rollo thought, very beautiful. Mr. Wilkins, a tall, handsome man, was very cordial to his visitors and showed Rollo the various pictures, explaining carefully just how they were made.

"There is a formula for each," he said. "In these cow-pictures, for instance, you will see that there is a definite proportion of two-thirds cow to one-third landscape. Venetian canal scenes like this must be exactly fifty per cent reflection. Last week I worked up a batch of South Sea pictures using the Gauguin formula. It is very simple."

Mr. Wilkins was delighted with Rollo's clam-shell.

"I must do some!" he said. "Could you leave it here?"

"Yes, indeed, gladly," said Rollo.

"And what have you been working on to-day?" said Uncle George.

"Just a little summer work," said Mr. Wilkins. "Here it is."

He removed a cloth which covered an easel, and Rollo gazed with awe and admiration at a picture of a beautiful young lady who was about to go in bathing without any bathing suit. Rollo had never seen anything like it before and he was much interested.

"She is a hum-dinger," said Uncle George. "Who is she?"

While Mr. Wilkins and Uncle George chatted in a corner Rollo examined the picture closely and was really very sorry when Uncle George told him it was time to go.

When they were again seated on the stage on their way home, Rollo said, "Uncle George, I should not think Mr. Wilkins would wish to show his wife's picture to people in that way."

"His wife's picture!" said Uncle George. "But I did not know Mr. Wilkins was married."

"Of course he is," said Rollo. "How ever else could he see a lady so?"

Rollo's uncle was silent for a moment before he said, "Rollo, I had occasion to say before and I repeat now, you are a bright lad. You have seen to-day three artists, a sculptor, a poetess, and a painter. Which would you prefer to be?"

I leave it to my little readers to guess which one Rollo chose.

ROLLO'S ROMANCE

OUR LITTLE HERO DEFEATS BOTH YALE AND PRINCETON AT FOOTBALL

Some of my little readers may recall that shortly after Rollo's family moved to their city apartment, Rollo was invited to a gay luncheon party at a public inn which was managed by a Mr. Ritz. It was here that Rollo first met his cousin Stella, and another little girl named Anabelle Litchfield. Rollo had liked Anabelle very much, but he had had no opportunities to talk with her at that time, for Anabelle's attention was greatly occupied by the laughing chatter of a young Mr. Rupert Hogan, a boy of about Rollo's own age who lived in New York and knew a great many things about city life which our little hero had never learned.

During the months which followed, Anabelle had made a number of visits, and thus the summer and fall had passed until her memory in Rollo's mind had become vague and indistinct, though still very pleasant.

In the meantime, however, Rollo was becoming more and more versed in the accomplishments which are expected of a city boy. This was due very largely to the kindness of his Uncle George who frequently took his little nephew with him to the theatre, to his club, and to a number of evening festivals where there was dancing, charades, and all manner of fun.

At the time this chapter of our story opens, Rollo was seated before the cheerful gas-log at home instructing Jonas as to the proper method of making a martini. This was indeed a change from the old days in the country when Jonas used to teach Rollo how to pile wood and pick up potatoes. The positions were now reversed. Rollo was the teacher and Jonas was the pupil.

"You see, Jonas," said Rollo, "you must be very careful to put in at least two-thirds of gin to one-third of vermouth."

"What is vermouth?" asked Jonas.

"Vermouth is a sweet cordial similar to cherry-bounce," said Rollo. "But now, Jonas, we will have the review lesson. What is a manhattan?"

"A manhattan," replied Jonas, "is a liquid composed of two-thirds of extract of rye, one-third----"

At this moment Rollo's sister, Lucy, came running into the room.

"Oh, bother!" cried Rollo. "Why do you interrupt Jonas and me at our work?"

"You will be very glad to hear," said Lucy gaily. "Our cousin Stella's mother has just telephoned to say that she wishes you and me to go with her to a great football match at New Haven to-morrow. The Yales are to play the Princetons, and Stella is to go and her friend Anabelle, likewise."

"Hot towel!" cried Rollo, to Jonas's amazement, and running violently about the room to the grave danger of the dainty bric-a-brac which stood on the marble-topped table.

"We start to-morrow morning at ten o'clock," said Lucy, "and mother said you must surely wear your tippet, and take the little shawl your Aunt Sarah knit for you."

"Tippet and shawl, indeed!" said Rollo, "I shall wear my new fur-lined great-coat and my coon-skin hat. Oh, hot towel! Hot towel!"

The little folks then joined hands and danced about excitedly until they were quite exhausted.

Promptly at ten o'clock on the following day, Cousin Stella's handsome automobile came rolling around the corner, and Rollo and Lucy, warmly dressed in their best coats and hats, were soon ensconced among the comfortable cushions with their little friends.

Somewhat to Rollo's disappointment Rupert Hogan was one of the party, but this feeling was almost immediately forgotten in his enthusiasm at again seeing Miss Anabelle who looked charming indeed in a dark blue dress with grey furs, against which she wore a large bouquet of violets. Rupert, on the contrary, wore a bright, brown suit with an extremely large yellow chrysanthemum in his buttonhole.

"Which are you for, Rollo," asked Anabelle, "Yale or Princeton?"

"I am for Princeton," said Rupert loudly, which was very rude as he had not been addressed.

"I am for Yale, of course," cried Rollo.

"Oh joy!" laughed Anabelle. "So am I. I must teach you the cheer. It begins 'Brek-ek-kek-kek, ko-ax, ko-ax!'"

"Tiger. Siz-boom-ah!" shouted Rupert.

"See, I have a tin horn, all the Princeton men carry tin horns."

Thus, with much shouting and noise and merry glee the little company sped on their way towards the city of New Haven. The thoroughfare soon began to be greatly crowded with thousands of automobiles filled with other girls and boys as well as grown-ups, some so old that Rollo marvelled at their being out of doors at all, all bound for the great match. There was much dust and confusion, and not a little danger. Racing cars filled with gentlemen with pleasant red faces dashed by at a break-neck pace, and at one spot there was quite a pile of autos which had run into each other and were severely damaged. It also began to be extremely cold.

"Are we not delightfully uncomfortable?" shouted Rollo, as they whirled off the road to avoid another car, jumped a ditch, grazed a telegraph pole, and bounced back onto the turnpike again.

"Yes indeed," said Anabelle. "That is half the fun. Of course we might have made the journey in a warm train, but that is not considered the smart thing to do. One should always be half-frozen when one arrives at a football match."

"Right-o!" said Rollo. "Come, Rupert, I will wager you a dime on the result!"

"Done with you, Rollo," said Rupert, and Lucy and Stella and Anabelle all applauded.

New Haven town was even more crowded and confusing than the highway had been. Important constables waved them hither and thither, and they were soon passing imposing buildings, which Stella's mother told them were the Halls of Learning.

"There are the new Harkness buildings," she said. "A very great architect, Mr. Rogers, designed the group."

"We have a Rogers group in our parlor," said Rollo, "but it is by no means so large or so fine as this one. But do they play the match in that great courtyard?"

"Dumbbell!" said Rupert. "They play the game in the Bowl."

"Well I vow!" thought Rollo, "who ever heard of playing football in a bowl!"

But he kept silent and was very glad he had done so, for, after an hour of snail-like pace through the streets they came in sight of a gigantic structure, in which Rollo could see thousands and thousands of people sitting.

"There is the Bowl," cried his friends and they all clambered stiffly to the ground, still munching their luncheon sandwiches, and made their way to their seats.

The spectacle which met Rollo's gaze was indeed an imposing one. Round about the great arena stretched thousands of people, tier upon tier, an unbroken mass rising far above his head.

"They do not look like people," cried Rollo, "but like the knots on one of Grandmother's hooked-rugs. But I should like very much to see a baseball game here."

"And why baseball?" asked Rupert.

"Because," said Rollo, "it would be interesting to see a tiny pitcher in such a huge bowl."

"Bravo!" cried Anabelle, and Rupert scowled ill-naturedly.

At this moment a tremendous burst of cheering split the air, several bands began to play at once, and the great multitude rose to its feet shouting and waving their flags, as two groups of strange padded creatures pranced into the arena like savage beasts entering the Coliseum at Rome.

A moment later a whistle blew sharply, and an ominous hush fell over the vast assemblage. Although he knew not why, a strange sensation of physical illness almost overpowered Rollo. The game was about to begin.

"Isn't it wonderful!" cried Stella.

"Is it?" said Rollo in a faint voice.

The contest which followed left our little hero even more dazed and confused. Time after time he shuddered and winced as the two groups of players came crunching together, or when ten or more Princetons fell with a crash upon a single Yale.

"No fair!" shouted Rollo, but Anabelle said, "Hush, Rollo," very gently, and put her hand on his under the robe.

Occasionally the players would stop to rest, while doctors and men with stretchers would rush out on the field and remove the wounded.

"Who is winning?" asked Rollo.

"Nobody knows," said Anabelle. "No one ever does know at a football game. The only way to find out what is really happening is to read about it in the papers to-morrow."

This was a great comfort to Rollo, for he gave up trying to understand what was going on and from then on began really to enjoy himself. A few moments later, the whistle blew again, everyone began cheering wildly and the game was over.

"This way," cried Anabelle as she and Rollo reached the ground outside the Bowl. Rollo followed her and for several minutes they threaded their way among the crowd, squeezing between groups of people and dodging motor cars. Night was falling, and bright headlights were gleaming over the tumbled fields. This way and that they darted, until Anabelle suddenly stopped and said, "Oh, Rollo, where are the others?"

"Anabelle," replied Rollo, "I verily believe we are lost."

"I'll say so," said Anabelle. "Well, let us sit here until we are found. It is much safer than to go wandering about."

"You are quite right," agreed Rollo. "We once lost a fine brindle cow, because she wandered into a swamp and sank in a quagmire. But, hello--what is this?" As he spoke Rollo pulled from his coat pocket a small bottle.

"As I live and breathe, it is a bottle of martini which Jonas has thoughtfully prepared against the cold."

"Blessings on Jonas!" cried his little companion. "I am almost frozen."

It was the work of a moment to spread the robe on a grassy knoll, and here Cousin Stella's chauffeur found them just as Rollo tossed the empty bottle into a coppice.

"Atta-boy!" cried Rollo gaily as they struggled to their feet and ran toward the automobile. It was now quite dark, and when they were snugly tucked among the cushions Rollo began to feel very sleepy. As they rolled homeward through the night, the little boy drowsed off into slumber. Then he seemed to see two bright stars gleaming in the sky, which reminded him of Anabelle's eyes and it seemed to him that he kissed her. But he may have been dreaming.

"Who won?" asked Jonas when Rollo and Lucy reached the apartment.

"I did," cried Rollo, "I beat Rupert Hogan all to pieces."

"But who won the football match?" persisted Jonas.

"How do I know, Dumbbell," said Rollo. "Look in the papers to-morrow morning!"

ROLLO GOES A-SHOPPING

THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT MOVES OUR LITTLE HERO TO A VAST OUTLAY, BUT THE RESULT IS ALL THAT COULD BE DESIRED

It was now the merry Yuletide season which, in town and country, falls like a mantle of white snow over the hearts of men and ladies, and you may be sure that little Rollo was among the very first to feel its influence. Although it was but early December, he and his Sister Lucy had long been storing up their pennies, and many an hour had been passed writing the lists of those to whom they wished to give remembrances and from whom they expected to receive them.

Rollo had saved a whole dollar, which was indeed a great task for him, for Rollo's father was a frugal man and few coins came his children's way. But, by changing his Sunday-school dime into two nickels, our little hero was able to save five cents a week, and still make a louder noise in the contribution box than ever before. Thus, little by little, the small iron bear, into whose jaws Rollo placed his hoard, became gradually filled, until one day Rollo found to his surprise that no more coins would go in.

"Feel how heavy my Bruin is become," said Rollo to Jonas. "Now I must open him, for it is time to do my Christmas shopping. How shall I do it, Jonas? Shall I cast him on the stone pavement and so burst him?"

"Ho ho," laughed Jonas. "That would be a pretty way indeed! But wait a moment."

Then, repairing to another chamber, Jonas soon returned with a small screw-driver from Rollo's mother's sewing-machine. With this he set to work so diligently that there was soon a sharp snap, and Rollo saw that the shaft of the screw-driver had broken off.

"Oh, bother!" cried Jonas crossly, at the same time rapping the bank against the steam radiator with such force that Bruin was split clearly in two from head to tail.

"Thank you! Thank you, Jonas," shouted Rollo. "How wonderful it must be to be as handy with tools as you are! But now I must go a-shopping, for it is not yet nine o'clock, and the signs all ask us to do our Christmas shopping early."

On the threshold Rollo met his father, who said cheerfully, "Good-morning, Rollo. And whither are you going so fast?"

"Good-morning to you, sir," said Rollo, touching his cap politely. "I am about to do my Christmas shopping, sir, and you may believe me, I have a great list. There is Mother, and you, sir, and Lucy and Jonas and Uncle George and Cousin Stella."

Rollo's father waited patiently until Rollo had finished speaking before he said, "Rollo, I think I ought to tell you that there are to be no family presents in our household this year. The grain business is most distressing just now, and we can ill afford to waste our funds on such wicked luxuries as presents. Let us wish each other a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year in a suitable and inexpensive manner."

"I heartily agree with you, sir," said Rollo, with a cheerfulness which pleased his father.

Now the real reason for Rollo's happy acquiescence in his father's plan was that there was one name on his list which he had not mentioned.

Anabelle--for it was indeed she--was a charming girl of about Rollo's own age, whom he had met on several occasions, and of whom he had thought more than ever since their last meeting at the great football contest between the academies of Yale and Princeton.

"Hurrah!" shouted Rollo to himself as he hurried toward Fifth Avenue, which is the Main Street of New York City. "Hurrah! I can now spend my entire dollar on Anabelle."

This was Rollo's first Christmas season in a great city and, although he had begun to feel quite at home in the thoroughfares, he was nevertheless greatly surprised to find so many folk abroad at such an early hour.

He finally found himself in the portal of a magnificent shop in the windows of which were beautiful oil paintings.

"The very thing!" thought Rollo. "Anabelle herself is so beautiful, and she paints, too, herself--a little. It is a merry idea."

Everything within was very grand and gloomy, particularly the shop attendants, who were tall young gentlemen in immaculate cut-away coats.

"My favourite artist is Rockwell Kent," said Rollo. "He once painted my father's barn--in a picture, of course. Have you anything by him which would be suitable for a young lady?"

"I doubt it very much," said the gentleman, "but we shall see."

He then showed Rollo several pictures by his favourite artist, one in particular which Rollo greatly admired.

"That is most beautiful!" said Rollo. "And what does it fetch?"

The gentleman looked puzzled before he said, "Oh, you mean the price. Well, that is one of the most reasonable. It is only a thousand dollars."

Alas! Everywhere Rollo turned he met with the same discouraging reply. A tiny vial of perfume was supposed to fetch ten dollars; even single blossoms of rare flowers were three dollars each.

It was a tired and disheartened Rollo who finally turned his footsteps homeward, his dollar still sagging heavily in his pocket, as his heart sagged heavily within.

And then a most surprising thing happened, for Rollo suddenly found himself before the most beautiful shop he had ever seen, its windows gleaming with brilliant wares and holiday decorations, and its doorways, beneath a handsome red sign, breathing forth odours of the utmost fragrance. But what fascinated our little hero most was a card displayed in many places which stated "Nothing in this store over ten cents."