THE MODERN VENUS

THE MODERN VENUS

It happened in Rome. George Arnold, a poor artist, who had come from the USA to Italy to study art, fell in love with Mary Brown, the beautiful daughter of a rich American businessman. The girl loved the young sculptor too, but her money-loving father would not allow her to marry George.

One day Mr. Brown called the young man to his office and said to him, "My dear sir, I cannot allow my daughter to marry a poor man. If you want to be my daughter's husband you should have fifty thousand dollars. When you show me the money you can marry my daughter."

George was at a loss what to do. He did not know what to answer. He had no idea how to get such a big sum of money. "You must get the sum within six months," Mr. Brown added. "If you don't get the money she will marry another man." George went home. He felt very unhappy. "What am I to do?" he thought. He had nothing to sell except a beautiful statue of a girl — his last work. But he knew that nobody would buy it as he was not famous.

His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of John Smith. John Smith was a pleasant clever fellow. George had made friends with him on board a steamer. They had come to Italy by the same steamer and they had been good friends since. George told John about his conversation with Mary's father and asked him for advice.

"You say, he gives you six months to get the money, doesn't he?" asked John. "It's a lot of time and I'll help you. But promise not to protest if I do something that you don't like." "I promise," George answered.

John came up to the statue, broke off her nose, part of her right arm and her left leg. Then he put on his hat, took the statue and left.

Two months later a story appeared in one of the Italian newspapers. It said that Mr. John Smith, an American gentleman, had bought for a small sum of money a piece of land not far from Rome. One day while digging the earth he found a wonderful statue of a beautiful woman. Unfor­tunately, the nose, the left leg and the right arm were gone. The experts said they were sure that the statue was a Venus and the work of some unknown artist. They also stated that it cost about ten million francs. Mr. Smith was to be paid five million francs and the statue was to be taken to one of the Italian museums. "Good luck!" said the Americans and immediately decided to form a company which would buy up lands in Italy.

As to George Arnold he married Mary Brown and they lived happily but George never mentioned to anybody what he knew about the famous Venus.

WITCHES’ LOAVES By 0. Henry

Miss Martha Meacham kept the little bak­ery on the corner. Miss Martha was forty, she possessed two false teeth and a sympathetic heart.

Two or three times a week a customer came in whom she began to take an interest. He was a middle-aged man, wearing spectacles and a brown beard. He spoke English with a strong German accent. His clothes were worn and darned in places. But he looked neat, and had very good manners. He always bought two loaves of stale bread. Fresh bread was five cents a loaf. Stale ones were two for five. Never did he call for anything but stale bread.

Once Miss Martha saw a red and brown stain on his fingers. She was sure then that he was an artist and very poor. No doubt he lived in a garret where he painted pictures and ate stale bread and thought of the good things to eat in Miss Martha's bakery.

Often when Miss Martha sat down to her chops and light rolls and jam and tea, she would sigh and wish that the gentle-mannered artist might share her tasty meal instead of eating the dry crusts in his garret. Miss Martha's heart was a sympathetic one.

In order to test her theory as to his occu­pation, she brought from her room one day a painting that she had bought at a sale. It was a Venetian scene. A marble palace stood in the foreground. For the rest there were gondolas, clouds and sky.

Two days later the customer came in.

"Two loaves of stale bread, if you please," he said. "You have here a fine picture, madame," he continued. "Yes?" said Miss Martha.

"You think it is a good picture?"

"The palace," said the customer, "is not well drawn; its perspective is not true." He took his bread and went out. Yes, he must be an artist. Miss Martha took the picture back to her room.

What a thing it would be if geniuses were backed by a bakery, and a sympathetic heart! But these were day-dreams, Miss Martha.

The customer kept on buying stale bread. Never a cake, never a pie, never any fresh bread. She thought he began looking thinner and dis­couraged. She wanted to add something good to eat to his purchase. But she dared not. She knew the pride of artists.

Miss Martha began to dress better and look after her complexion.

One day the customer came in for his stale loaves. While Miss Martha was reaching for them, a fire-engine came past. He ran to the door to look.

Suddenly inspired, Miss Martha seized the opportunity. On the bottom shelf behind the counter was a pound of fresh butter she had bought ten minutes before. With a bread-knife Miss Martha made a deep slash in each of the stale loaves, put a great quantity of butter in­side and pressed them together. When the cus­tomer turned once more, she was tying the paper around them.

For a long time that day she thought about him and imagined his surprise and pleasure at discovering the butter in the loaves.

Suddenly the front door bell tinkled furi­ously. Somebody was coming in, making a great deal of noise. Miss Martha hurried to the door. Two men were there. One was a young man she had never seen before. The other was her artist. His face was very red, his hat was on the back of his head, his hair in disorder. He clenched his two fists and shook them at Miss Martha shouting. "Blockhead, old cat, you have ruined me!" His young companion took him by the collar.

"Come on," he said, "you have said enough," and dragged the angry one out of the bakery.

"I think you ought to be told, ma'am," he said, "what it is all about. This gentleman's name is Blumberger. He's an architectural draughtsman. I work in the same office with him. He has been working hard for three months drawing a plan for a new city-hall. It was a prize competition. He finished inking the lines yesterday. You know, a draughtsman al­ways makes his drawing in pencil first. When it's done, he rubs out the pencil lines with hand-fuls of stale breadcrumbs. That's better than India rubber. Blumberger has been buying the bread here. Well, today... you know, ma'am, that butter isn't... well, Blumberger's plan isn't good for anything now, except to cut up into railroad sandwiches."

Miss Martha went to the back room. She took off her blue silk blouse and put on the old brown serge blouse she used to wear.