Page Forty-One

A Fisit to the Art School By o Deuue ous
(With Apologies to Ruth Draper) M. A. Williams

DRAMATIS PERSONZE
Mrs. Mawarinc MarJoriBANKS
Cousin ABIGAIL

LitrLeE ELMER

ELL here we are. | thought we'd never get to the top of those

stairs. Where shall we begin? There is a man over there; you ask
him where to find the Director. Alright, if you won’t J will. Come along
Elmer. My good man, will you tell the Director we are here. O-o-oh,
you're Mr. Scott. We’re so interested in Art and we think little Elmer
has great talent. Why it was only yesterday that we found him putting
a most bee-ootiful moustache on a photograph of his grandmother with
shoe polish. We think his medium must be oils, don’t you, Mr. Scott?
And he draws the loveliest little pussy cats on the table cloth. Such a
clever child. Yes, we’d love to see the class rooms. It must be wonderful
to have so many young souls to mould from the bud of inexperience to
the full bloom of self expression. No, Elmer, he doesn’t nip the buds.
Dear Abigail is so anxious to see the books; let’s go to the Library first.
So this is the Library. Oh, so clever of you to combine it with the
kitchen. The body must be fed to feed the mind.

Modelling—is this where the models unclothe?—Oh, so silly of me,
Sculpture, of course! How quiet it is. They must be so engrossed in
their work. I’ve always thought how wonderful it must be to take a
piece of clay and mould it into beautiful forms as our Creator did Man.
Yes, Elmer, Woman too. Just think how quiet it is—oh it’s empty; well,
we'll look around anyway. What’s this lovely bit of fancy plaster work
over here—do they really chip it right out of the plaster? Oh they cast
it. But doesn’t it break? Oh I see. Elmer get out of that box! You
know, Mr. Scott, I think he might be a sculptor some day, he always
loved mud pies.

Where is that child? Elmer! Elmer! ELMER! He's in the Life
Class, you say? Well let’s go there next. Now we're really going to see
the students at work bringing beauty into this sordid world and dedi-
cating their very beings to the furtherance of their Art. Wait for me,
Abigail! Such a buxx—Oh! they’re resting. Such quaint gowns, so