In the great
city of Paris, they had rooms in a boarding-house, where they made
the acquaintance of a young American painter, who had a studio in
the building.
Ernest was such a quiet little fellow, and was so fond of pictures, that
Mr. Norton, the artist, was always glad to see him in his studio; for
Ernest did not trouble him, but would stand looking at the pictures for
a quarter of an hour at a time.
One day, as he stood admiring a painting in which some horses were
represented, he noticed a fault; for Ernest was a judge of horses: he
was himself the owner of one--made of wood. "Look here, Mr. Norton,"
said he, "isn't one of the hind-legs of this horse longer than
the other?"
Mr. Norton left his easel, and came and told Ernest to point out in the
painting what fault he meant. The little fellow did so; and the painter
exclaimed, "Why, you little chip of a critic, you are right as sure as
I'm alive! We must make a painter of you."
[Illustration]
Ernest is not quite old enough yet to decide whether he will make a
painter or a confectioner. The sight of the beautiful candies and cakes
which he has seen in some of the shops, inclines him to the belief that
a confectioner's lot is the more enviable one.
Pages:
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32