In addition to
this gift, they taught him how to prepare these colors, to which he
added another, namely, indigo, which his mother gave him from her
laundry. His colors were rude enough, but his pencils were ruder. They
were made of the hairs which he had pulled from a cat's back and
fastened in the end of a goose-quill. Soon after this, a relative from
Philadelphia, chancing to visit the old homestead, was struck with the
talent of the little fellow, and upon his return to the city sent him a
box of colors, with pencils and canvas and a few prints. He was only
nine years old, but he was a born artist. He had never seen any painting
of merit, and the few prints which his relative gave him were the most
finished productions he had ever seen. The box of colors was his most
precious possession, and it opened to him new fields of enjoyment. The
day of its arrival he gave himself up entirely to the pleasure of
examining it. "Even after going to sleep," says his biographer, "he
awoke more than once during the night, and anxiously put out his hand to
the box, which he had placed by his bedside, half afraid that he might
find his riches only a dream.
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