“And how comes it,” said
Some one to Mr. Hammond, “that, instead
Of the inventor's life you did not choose
The artist's?— since the world can better lose
A cutting-box or reaper than it can
A noble picture painted by a man
Endowed with gifts this drawing would suggest” —
Holding the picture up to show the rest.
“There now!” chimed in the wife, her pale face lit
Like winter snow with sunrise over it,—
“That's what I'm always asking him.— But he —
Well, as he's answering you, he answers me,—
With that same silent, suffocating smile
He's wearing now!”
For quite a little while
No further speech from anyone, although
All looked at Mr. Hammond and that slow,
Immutable, mild smile of his. And then
The encouraged querist asked him yet again
Why was it, and etcetera — with all
The rest, expectant, waiting‘ round the wall,—
Until the gentle Mr. Hammond said
He'd answer with a “parable,” instead —
About “a dreamer” that he used to know —
“An artist” — “master” — all — in embryo.