He made other pictures. At school he used to draw with a pen before he could write. He made pictures of birds and of animals. Sometimes he would draw flowers.
[Illustration: Flower and Fruit of the Poke-Berry.]
He liked to draw so well, that sometimes he forgot to do his work. His father sent him to work in the field one day. The father went out to see how well he was doing his work. Benny was no-where to be found. At last his father saw him sitting under a large poke-weed. He was making pictures. He had squeezed the juice out of some poke-berries. The juice of poke-berries is deep red. With this the boy had made his pictures. When the father looked at them, he was surprised. There were portraits of every member of the family. His father knew every picture.
Up to this time Benny had no paints nor any brushes. The Indians had not all gone away from that neigh-bor-hood. The Indians paint their faces with red and yellow colors. These colors they make them-selves. Sometimes they prepare them from the juice of some plant. Sometimes they get them by finding red or yellow earth. Some of the Indians can make rough pictures with these colors.
The Indians near the house of Benny’s father must have liked the boy. They showed him how to make red and yellow colors for himself. He got some of his mother’s indigo to make blue. He now had red, yellow, and blue. By mixing these three, the other colors that he wanted could be made.
But he had no brush to paint with. He took some long hairs from the cat’s tail. Of these he made his brushes. He used so many of the cat’s hairs, that her tail began to look bare. Everybody in the house began to wonder what was the matter with pussy’s tail. At last Benny told where he got his brushes.
A cousin of Benny’s came from the city on a visit. He saw some of the boy’s drawings. When he went home, he sent Benny a box of paints. With the paints were some brushes. And there was some canvas such as pictures are painted on. And that was not all. There were in the box six beautiful en-grav-ings.
The little painter now felt himself rich. He was so happy that he could hardly sleep at all. At night he put the box that held his treasures on a chair by his bed. As soon as daylight came, he carried the precious box to the garret. The garret of the long stone house was his stu-di-o. Here he worked away all day long. He did not go to school at all. Perhaps he forgot that there was any school. Perhaps the little artist could not tear himself away from his work.