ing. I thought that I, even I, might be capable of it.
A year has passed, or almost a year. At length I find myself where perfect isolation may be secured for several hours at a time. This is a condition precedent to my assault upon the realm of pictorial art, for an observer of my deeds would utterly blight my endeavours. I must take my first steps quite alone.
A man—one of the few disagreeable men I know—once told me that when he sees anyone painting in the open air his genius prompts him to go behind the artist, regard the picture for a while, and then, with a heavy sigh, turn away. Suppose someone should come and do this behind me.
I must find a very secret spot.
The river will furnish me with what I want.
Disguised as an angler, rod in hand, creel on hip, waders well displayed, I will walk boldly into the meadows. No one hereabouts will give me a second thought. But if they should know what my creel contains, I feel that they would come trooping to gape and snigger at my back.
Until I can manage my materials (purchased by stealth last week—I too have my Whatman board, my brushes, my paint-box, my sponge, my palette) I will paint nothing but willows and
