When the snow fell upon the clashing life of the city, the exiled stones, beaten by strange feet, were told of the dark, silent forests where the swept through the and swished softly against the .  
In his studio Hawker smoked a pipe, clasping his knee with thoughtful, interlocked fingers. He was gazing sourly at his finished picture. Once he started to his feet with a cry of vexation. Looking back over his shoulder, he swore an insult into the face of the picture. He paced to and fro, smoking and from time to time eying it. The helpless thing remained upon the easel, facing him.
 
Hollanden entered and stopped at sight of the great . "What's wrong now?" he said.
 
Hawker gestured at the picture. "That dunce of a thing. It makes me tired. It isn't worth a hang. Blame it!"
 
"What?" Hollanden strode forward and stood before the painting with legs apart, in a properly critical manner. "What? Why, you said it was your best thing."
 
"Aw!" said Hawker, waving his arms, "it's no good! I it! I didn't get what I wanted, I tell you. I didn't get what I wanted. That?" he shouted, pointing thrust-way at it—"that? It's ! Aw! it makes me weary."
 
"You're in a nice state," said Hollanden, turning to take a critical view of the painter. "What has got into you now? I swear, you are more kinds of a chump!"
 
Hawker crooned : "I can't paint! I can't paint for a damn! I'm no good. What in thunder was I invented for, anyhow, Hollie?"
 
"You're a fool," said Hollanden. "I hope to die if I ever saw such a complete idiot! You give me a pain. Just because she don't—&............