ART IN THE HOME!

ig F you have never left your home in the country to come to

the city and put up with a room fifteen by fifteen by twelve

in order to devote your time to the study of art, you will
be unacquainted with the hardships and handicaps of having to
spend part of the day and all of the night in a room of this size.
After spending nine or ten months in this room, I am thoroughly
convinced that there’s no place like home.
Upon entering my abode, one is confronted by four walls profusely
decorated with pictures by such great masters as Gainsborough,
Leonardo de Vinci, Harrison Fisher and John Held, Jr. After
you've stepped over a box of poster colours, a waste paper basket,
and a neat pile of books, the problem—where to sit—arises. On
the only chair there are articles ranging from a bottle of India ink
to a pair of silk stockings. The place where I lay my weary head
at night is occupied by my portfolio, my smock and my T-square.
On looking under the bed one would find another folio with my last
year's work in it! My little table is hidden from the eye by com-
positions that would have been good if I had had any artistic talent
in me.
After a hard evening’s work I decide to call it a day and try to
catch up on my sleep. Switching off the light, I climb wearily into
my little bed, whereupon I suddenly remember that I have forgotten
my prayers. ‘This being very necessary in the life of an art student,
I jump hastily out of bed, landing fairly well on two pencils, and
merrily we roll along until they stop, and I regain my balance. I
say a hasty prayer and dive under the clothes again. As I am
about to drop off to sleep, I remember that my window is not open,
so once more I tumble out of bed, and, in so doing, upset the glass
of paint water I had left on the chair. After this mishap I make
my way cautiously over to the window—every step is a step of tor-
ture—first, I step on a thumb tack, then on a scale ruler, than another
thumb tack. It is only after I stub my toe on my drawing board
that I really get angry. The window is shoved open with a bang,
and I make a flying leap into my bunk, ignoring all obstacles. Being
fortunate, I encounter only three thumb tacks this time, but I realize
then that my prayer has done me no good.
As I once more endeavor to count the odd sheep, I wonder if the
door is locked, for I would hate anyone to steal any of my evening's
work. Then I remember the thumb tacks on the floor, and with a
contented smile on my lips I pass to the land of nod.

VI ATKINS.

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