(tragedy.)
there lived an artist,
not unknown to fame—
wild horses wouldn't
drag from me his name.
besides, it doesn't matter,—not a bit,—
it is sufficient, painting was his lit-
tle game.
he copied turner-
esque effects with ease,
and painted cattle,—
miniatures,—or seas;
yet found some difficulty, i've heard said,
in making both ends meat, (or even bread,
and cheese).
he sat one day with-
in his stu-di-o,
grieving that times were
bad, and prices low,
when, suddenly, this thought occurred to him,
(of course, 'twas but a fancy, or a whim,
you know):
"how strange 'twould be if
what i painted here
upon the canvas
really should appear!
i wish it would, and then remain for good.
upon my word, ha-ha! i say! that would
be queer!"
no sooner had the
thought occurred to him
than round and round the
studio seemed to swim.
a fairy voice declared: "on your behalf
the wish is granted!" then "ha! ha!" ('twas laugh-
ter grim.)
"absurd," the artist
cried. "of course, there are
no fairies now; we're
too advanced by far
to think it; still, with just a line or so
upon the canvas here, i'll draw a mo-
tor-car."
he drew, and scarce had
finished it before
his servant knocked. (up-
on her face she wore
a puzzled look.) "sir, here's your coat and hat,
and, if you please, your motor-car is at
the door!"
the artist hardly
could believe his eyes,
for what he saw quite
filled him with surprise:
there stood the very motor-car he'd meant,
in make, and pattern, most convenient,
and size.
"well! as it's here, i'll
use the thing," he cried.
(indeed, what was there
to be done beside?)
so, watched by quite a crowd about the door,
he turned the crank, and off he started for
a ride.
on went the motor-
car, on—"pop-pop-pop!"—
on through the streets, and
on past house and shop,
through country lanes, and over hill and dell,
delightfully,—until he thought it well
to stop.
but stop he couldn't,
try whate'er he would—
he hadn't drawn quite
everything he should;
some little crank, or something, he'd not done,
because the mechanism he'd not un-
derstood.
result? poor fellow!
to this day, he flies
along the roads, with
starting eyes, and cries
for help—which nobody can give him, for
he's doomed to ride until the thing busts, or—
he dies.
