"You know, farmer," said he, "I am not the only gentleman who has come to that in the present day.

Now, all my friends that have seen my sketches, assure me I am a born painter; and a painter I'll be--for love of Phoebe." The farmer made a wry face.

"Painter! that is a sorry sort of a trade." "You are mistaken.

It's the best trade going.

There are gentlemen making their thousands a year by it." "Not in our parts, there bain't.