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Updated: August 21, 2024
The other day, in the middle of a catechism I was holding in the parish school, a small youngster rose to his feet and solemnly assured the company present that "the pickshers of God in the church" were "all wrong." Naturally we argued, which was a mistake. He got me. "God," said he, "is a Spirit, and spirits don't look like those colored pickshers in the windows." You see, he knew.
Same wi' 'osses, an' wi' gals. Joan's like that chinee plate 'pon the bracket, wi' the pickshers o' Saltash Burdge 'pon en, an' gold writin' under; an' Mary's like that pie-dish, what you put in the ubben a while back. Wan's for shaw, t'other's for use eh?" "Gwan! you'm jokin', Uncle Thomas!" said Joan. "An' a poor joke tu, so 'tis. You'd turn any gal's 'ead wi' your stuff, Chirgwin.
I paint things sometimes for my own amusement, that's all." "Pickshers?" "They are not worth calling pictures. Just scraps of the sea and trees and cliffs and sky, to while away the time and remind me of beautiful things after I have left them." "You ban't a artist ezacally, then?" "Certainly not. Don't you like artists?" "Faither don't.
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