Rosa Bonheur, herself, attributed her chief power to her exact and unremitting study of the great masters and of living models.
And so, through many trials, and by dint of much hard work, the little, romping girl, "the boy in petticoats," gradually developed into one of the world's greatest artists.
It is pleasant to remember that fame came early enough to give her many years of life when the highest in her own land- and of all the worldfelt honored by her slightest recognition.
Poverty no longer knocked at her door, but the later years of her life flowed happily and serenely on in the pleasant old chateau at By, near to the heart of the splendid old forest of Fontainebleau, with its jagged rocks and giant trees.
And here, when seventy-seven years old, came the end. The news of her death, on May 25, 1899, flashed across the waters and brought sadness to many appreciative hearts on this side of the Atlantic. For Rosa Bonheur belongs not alone to France or to Europe, but to the world, and for all time!
-Fennie Ellis Keysor (Adapted).
Blessings on thee, little man,
Barefoot boy, with cheeks of tan!
With thy turned-up pantaloons,
And thy merry, whistled tunes;
With thy red lip, redder still,
Kissed by strawberries on the hill;
With the sunshine on thy face,
Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace;
From my heart I give thee joy,-
I was once a barefoot boy!
Prince thou art the
Only is republican.
Let the million-dollared ride!
Barefoot, trudging at his side,
Thou hast more than he can buy
In the reach of ear and eye,—
Outward sunshine, inward joy;
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!
O for boyhood's painless play,
Sleep that wakes in laughing day,
Health that mocks the doctor's rules,
Knowledge never learned of schools,
Of the wild bee's morning chase,
Of the wild flower's time and place,
Flight of fowl, and habitude
Of the tenants of the wood;
How the tortoise bears his shell,
How the woodchuck digs his cell,
And the ground mole sinks his well;
How the robin feeds her young,
How the oriole's nest is hung;
Where the whitest lilies blow,
Where the freshest berries grow,
Where the groundnut trails its vine,
Where the wood-grape's clusters shine;
Of the black wasp's cunning way,
Mason of his walls of clay,
And the architectural plans
Of gray hornet artisans!
For, eschewing books and tasks,
Nature answers all he asks:
Hand in hand with her he walks,
Face to face with her he talks,
Part and parcel of her joy,—
Blessings on the barefoot boy!
O for boyhood's time of June,
Crowding years in one brief moon,
When all things I heard or saw,
Me, their master, waited for.
I was rich in flowers and trees,
Humming-birds and honey-bees:
For my sport the squirrel played,
Plied the snouted mole his spade:
For my taste the blackberry cone
Purpled over hedge and stone:
Laughed the brook for my delight,
Through the day and through the night,
Whispering at the garden wall,
Talked with me from fall to fall:
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond,
Mine the walnut slopes beyond,
Mine, on bending orchard trees,
Apples of Hesperides !
Still as my horizon grew,
Larger grew my riches, too:
All the world I saw or knew
Seemed a complex Chinese toy,
Fashioned for a barefoot boy!
O for festal dainties spread,
Like my bowl of milk and bread,
Pewter spoon, and bowl of wood,
On the door-stone, gray and rude!
O'er me, like a regal tent,
Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent,
Purple curtained, fringed with gold,
Looped in many a wind-swung fold:
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