Windy McPhersons Son | Page 3

dropped their
conversation and with broad smiles upon their faces gave attention, and
Sam McPherson, his eyes round with wonder and admiration, felt again
the thrill that always ran through him under the drum beats of Telfer's
eloquence.
"An artist is one who hungers and thirsts after perfection, not one who
dabs flowers upon plates to choke the gullets of diners," declared Telfer,
setting himself for one of the long speeches with which he loved to
astonish the men of Caxton, and glaring down at those seated upon the
stone. "It is the artist who, among all men, has the divine audacity.
Does he not hurl himself into a battle in which is engaged against him
all of the accumulative genius of the world?"
Pausing, he looked about for an opponent upon whom he might pour
the flood of his eloquence, but on all sides smiles greeted him.
Undaunted, he rushed again to the charge.
"A business man--what is he?" he demanded. "He succeeds by
outwitting the little minds with which he comes in contact. A scientist
is of more account--he pits his brains against the dull unresponsiveness

of inanimate matter and a hundredweight of black iron he makes do the
work of a hundred housewives. But an artist tests his brains against the
greatest brains of all times; he stands upon the peak of life and hurls
himself against the world. A girl from Parkertown who paints flowers
upon dishes to be called an artist--ugh! Let me spew forth the thought!
Let me cleanse my mouth! A man should have a prayer upon his lips
who utters the word artist!"
"Well, we can't all be artists and the woman can paint flowers upon
dishes for all I care," spoke up Valmore, laughing good naturedly. "We
can't all paint pictures and write books."
"We do not want to be artists--we do not dare to be," shouted Telfer,
whirling and shaking his cane at Valmore. "You have a
misunderstanding of the word."
He straightened his shoulders and threw out his chest and the boy
standing beside the blacksmith threw up his chin, unconsciously
imitating the swagger of the man.
"I do not paint pictures; I do not write books; yet am I an artist,"
declared Telfer, proudly. "I am an artist practising the most difficult of
all arts--the art of living. Here in this western village I stand and fling
my challenge to the world. 'On the lip of not the greatest of you,' I cry,
'has life been more sweet.'"
He turned from Valmore to the men upon the stone.
"Make a study of my life," he commanded. "It will be a revelation to
you. With a smile I greet the morning; I swagger in the noontime; and
in the evening, like Socrates of old, I gather a little group of you
benighted villagers about me and toss wisdom into your teeth, striving
to teach you judgment in the use of great words."
"You talk an almighty lot about yourself, John," grumbled Freedom
Smith, taking his pipe from his mouth.
"The subject is complex, it is varied, it is full of charm," Telfer

answered, laughing.
Taking a fresh supply of tobacco and paper from his pocket, he rolled
and lighted a cigarette. His fingers no longer trembled. Flourishing his
cane he threw back his head and blew smoke into the air. He thought
that in spite of the roar of laughter that had greeted Freedom Smith's
comment, he had vindicated the honour of art and the thought made
him happy.
To the newsboy, who had been leaning against the storefront lost in
admiration, it seemed that he had caught in Telfer's talk an echo of the
kind of talk that must go on among men in the big outside world. Had
not this Telfer travelled far? Had he not lived in New York and Paris?
Without understanding the sense of what had been said, Sam felt that it
must be something big and conclusive. When from the distance there
came the shriek of a locomotive, he stood unmoved, trying to
comprehend the meaning of Telfer's outburst over the lounger's simple
statement.
"There's the seven forty-five," cried Telfer, sharply. "Is the war
between you and Fatty at an end? Are we going to lose our evening's
diversion? Has Fatty bluffed you out or are you growing rich and lazy
like Papa Geiger here?"
Springing from his place beside the blacksmith and grasping the bundle
of newspapers, Sam ran down the street, Telfer, Valmore, Freedom
Smith and the loungers following more slowly.
When the evening train from Des Moines stopped at Caxton, a
blue-coated train news merchant leaped hurriedly to the platform and
began looking anxiously about.
"Hurry, Fatty," rang out Freedom Smith's huge voice, "Sam's already
half through one car."
The young man