He finds an artist under a white umbrella
when what should I spy in the middle of the grass, intent upon a bunch of clover, but a fat pre-Raphaelite artist, in a white suit, a flapping hat and a white sketching umbrella that would have frightened the clergyman's gray mare, who was nearly as old as himself, into being a runaway. I rushed toward this artist with enthusiasm. I took off my hat to him. I said: "Sir, I rejoice that one of your glorious profession has at last visited us. You love the minute. I see. Have you noticed the spiderwebs on the blackberry bushes at the turn of the lane, the dew sparkling on the silvery film, the delicious fruit glowing beneath have you seen that, sir?" The pre-Raphaelite artist scratched his head with his brush, and said: "Well, no. I ain't." "Will you come and see it, sir?" 1 said. "Will you make it immortal on your canvas?" The pre-Raphaelite artist replied: 'Well, I wouldn't mind."