The nearest thing to It that ever I
I experienced was a gathering in the
5 rooms of tho Comtesse Somethlng-or*
Other (granddaughter of the poet L#a
martlne, we were always told) to hear
nome Indian musicians Improvise and 1.,
! this gathering an unquenchable lumi
nary. In spite of the dim lights, was Ga
brlef d'Annunzio.
Sheriff Hob's party approached the
Parisian one so closely In spirit that for
la moment I had a hallucination that
i saw D'Annunzio th<?ro in the flesh,
did not secni In the l*ast surprising.
Nothing in Sheriff Bob Chanler'. art
seems surprising. The giraffes, the
flamingoes, the porcupines he presents
to you seem Instantly like the oldest
friends. But It was an hallucination,
just the same. It wasn't Gabriel d An
nunzlo. It was Dr. Christian Brlnton.
who for the moment was putting tne
porcupines and giraffes through their
paces, to thrf delight of all and sundry.
The rjrnht* loci seemed as happy as
la schoolboy. In the midst of tt per
fect bombardment of compliments h?.
caught sight of mo and whispered,
laughingly. "I've (tot nothing to b?
afraid of, have I?" which Is the typi
cal modesty of unmistakable talent. He
| had. Indeed, nothing to be afraid of. nor
1 have we others, his countrymen. On the
contrary, we may he unfeignedly proud
of the "entire shooting match.
But a.-" to saying how, why or where
fore It Is good; that is another mat
ter Sheriff Bob's art is much too flno
to he analysed. According to the school
books It Is wrong, according to the
academies It Is wrong, hut according to
that higher tribunal that judges works
of art by the pure Joy that Is to be got
out of them-they are all right.
