My son Hezekiah's a painter; yes, that's the purfession he's at;
An artist, I mean,—course he ain't a whitewasher or nothin' like that.
At home he was always a-drawin' and shirkin' his work 'round the place,
And kept me continyerly jawin' or dressin' him down with a trace;
Till I says ter Mother, "Between us, this thing might's well be understood;
Our Hez is jest simply a gen'us, and a gen'us is never no good;
He won't stop fer jawin's and dressin's; he'll daub and he'll draw
all the while;
So he might as well have a few lessons, and learn how ter do it in style."

So I sold a slice of the wood-lot ter the folks at the summer hotel,
That fetched me some cash—quite a good lot—so now he's been gone a
long spell;
He's got a room up ter the City, an' calls it a name that is queer—
I ain't up in French, more's the pity—but something that's like
"attyleer."
I went up last month on a visit, and blamed if that place wa'n't a sight!
The fourteenth or fifteenth—which is it?—well, anyhow, it's the top
flight;
I wouldn't have b'lieved he could be there, way up on that
breath-takin' floor,
If't wa'n't fer the sign that I see there—"H. Lafayette Boggs"—on
the door.

That room was a wonder fer certain! The floor was all paint-spots and dirt,
Each window was hung with a curtain, striped gay as a calico shirt;
The walls was jest like a museum, all statoos and flim-flam and gush
And picters—good land! when I see 'em I jest had ter turn 'round and
blush;
And Hez! he looked like a gorilla,—a leetle round hat on his head,
And hair that would stuff a big piller, and necktie blue, yeller, and red;
I swan, he did look like a daisy! I tell yer, it went ter my heart,
'Cause, course I supposed he was crazy, until he explained it was ART.