B. M. Bower

“ Miss Whitmore turned red at first, then broke into laughter. “Oh—h, ha! ha! ha! Silver, you don’t know how funny this master of yours can be! Ha! ha!” She raised her head from Silver’s neck, where it had rested, and wiped her eyes.
“How did you know about Cecil?” she demanded of a very discomfited young man upon the manger.
“I didn’t know—and I didn’t want to know. I heard the boys talking and joshing about him, and I just drew—their own conclusions.” Chip grinned a little and whittled at his pencil, and wondered how much of the statement was a lie. ”

“ They’re none of them as good as ‘The Old Maid.’”
“I wish you’d tear that thing up!” said Chip, vehemently.
“Why? The likeness is perfect. One would think you were designer for a fashion paper, the way you got the tucks in my sleeve and the braid on my collar—and you might have had the kindness to tell me my hat was on crooked, I think!”
There was a rustle in the loose straw, a distant slam of the stable door, and Chip sat alone with his horse, whittling abstractedly at his pencil till his knife blade grated upon the metal which held the eraser. ”

“ I never took a lesson in my life, except from watching people and horses and the country, and remembering the lines they made, you know. I always made pictures, ever since I can remember—but I never tried colors very much. ”