Look, he's still looking at it.
That's longer than he looked at any of the others."
"All right, Louis," from Mike. "Come on."
"Ho, ho," Louis went on, "I'd like to see this guy Elliott. Anybody who
would draw a picture like that. Hold your horses, Mike, here's another.
'The Faun." What's a faun, Mike? I guess he means fern. It looks like a
fern."
"It does that, Louis. But we'll have to let it go as a faun. It's probably
a foreign word. Most of these artists are foreigners, anyway."
Mr. Elliott and I left, Mr. Elliott remarking on the way down the
Institute steps, "Ho, hum."
ORNAMENTS
Ornaments change, and perhaps not for the best. The scherzo architecture
of Villon's Paris, the gabled caprice of Shakespeare's London, the Rip Van
Winkle jauntiness of a vanished New York, these are ghosts that wander
among the skyscrapers and dynamo beltings of modernity.
One by one the charming blunders of the past have been set to rights.
Highways are no longer the casual folderols of adventure, but the
reposeful and efficient arteries of traffic. The roofs of the town are no
longer a rumble of idiotic hats cocked at a devil-may-care angle. Windows
no longer wink lopsidedly at one another.
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