what one cannot see. A bed-post in the dark is a hobgoblin and
again in the light it is a bed-post.”’

“Ts almost gone.” As he said that he stood like this, see? Then
more fell than sat upon the rocks at the boy’s side. He placed his
hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘“You shall be an artist,”’ he said.
Now why do you frown so, my good fisher friend? I am wearying
you and there is no point, is that it? What! The mixture is ruin-
ed? You left out the dried cat’s bones that were to be put in at the
first boiling? Well, ‘tis a small thing. It can be done again. While
there are other mixtures.

Well, grumble as you like, I will finish. The old man promised
to return. He vowed the boy should be an artist. But he never
returned, and the boy became Andrea Mantanio, the great silk mer-
chant.

"Twas better, you say? I doubt if Andrea thinks so.

Why did he not return? He fell sick and died. Who? Why
Leonardo de Vinci, you have heard of him?

The other was better off? No, now he has himself grown old, he
is sorry of his wasted talent. How do I know? I am Andrea
Mantanio.

Don’t gape. Did you see that wave? It broke like an old man’s
hand reaching out.

Could I have only been like him, everyone might have loved the

sea as I love it.
FRED AMESS.