40 AN ANGLER AT LARGE 



ing. I thought that I, even I, might be capable 

 of it. 



A year has passed, or almost a year. At length 

 I find myself where perfect isolation may be 

 secured for several hours at a time. This is a 

 condition precedent to my assault upon the realm 

 of pictorial art, for an observer of my deeds would 

 utterly blight my endeavours. I must take my 

 first steps quite alone. 



A man one of the few disagreeable men I 

 know once told me that when he sees anyone 

 painting in the open air his genius prompts him 

 to go behind the artist, regard the picture for a 

 while, and then, with a heavy sigh, turn away. 

 Suppose someone should come and do this behind 

 me. 



I must find a very secret spot. 



The river will furnish me with what I want. 



Disguised as an angler, rod in hand, creel on 

 hip, waders well displayed, I will walk boldly into 

 the meadows. No one hereabouts will give me a 

 second thought. But if they should know what 

 my creel contains, I feel that they would come 

 trooping to gape and snigger at my back. 



Until I can manage my materials (purchased 

 by stealth last week I too have my Whatman 

 board, my brushes, my paint-box, my sponge, my 

 palette) I will paint nothing but willows and 



