DOI Page / Citation link:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.68288#0050
28 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE
His father, when Dan was only sixteen, had brought
home a large package of clay from Boston, and the two
boys, Dan and Will, had sat about the table in the even-
ing, and tried, unaided, to turn the clay into statues. His
brother Will, who was cleverly artistic in many directions,
experimented and made various small things, going
quickly from one to another, while Dan, with perhaps a
more sculpturesque talent, tried to make one head which
he stuck to persistently the whole evening, which, as I
think of it, was characteristic of him. They did not know,
however, how to manage the clay, how to keep it soft, so
nothing came of it.
Also, at an earlier time, they had made some snow lions
in the front yard of their house in Cambridge. They had
lived in Cambridge for some years, and it was there that
Dan had formed his boyish friendships with William
Brewster, the ornithologist, and with Richard H. Dana —
friendships which have remained through their entire lives.
These lions — I believe it was a grown lion and a small
one — attracted a great deal of attention. In fact, on
Sunday morning after church, the street was quite packed
with returning church-goers who clustered about the fence
in apparently absorbed interest, though my husband al-
ways disclaimed any large part in the creation of this work
of art. ‘They were the work/ he said, ‘of my older brother
and a friend.’
I remember that he tried to make a head or relief of me,
but I was an unappreciative little person, nor could I for
one moment keep still, and he finally gave it up in despair.
His first work of art pleased me as a child, as it does now.
In an old scrapbook is a small square of folded paper. In
the middle of the paper is a large spotted bird gazing at
His father, when Dan was only sixteen, had brought
home a large package of clay from Boston, and the two
boys, Dan and Will, had sat about the table in the even-
ing, and tried, unaided, to turn the clay into statues. His
brother Will, who was cleverly artistic in many directions,
experimented and made various small things, going
quickly from one to another, while Dan, with perhaps a
more sculpturesque talent, tried to make one head which
he stuck to persistently the whole evening, which, as I
think of it, was characteristic of him. They did not know,
however, how to manage the clay, how to keep it soft, so
nothing came of it.
Also, at an earlier time, they had made some snow lions
in the front yard of their house in Cambridge. They had
lived in Cambridge for some years, and it was there that
Dan had formed his boyish friendships with William
Brewster, the ornithologist, and with Richard H. Dana —
friendships which have remained through their entire lives.
These lions — I believe it was a grown lion and a small
one — attracted a great deal of attention. In fact, on
Sunday morning after church, the street was quite packed
with returning church-goers who clustered about the fence
in apparently absorbed interest, though my husband al-
ways disclaimed any large part in the creation of this work
of art. ‘They were the work/ he said, ‘of my older brother
and a friend.’
I remember that he tried to make a head or relief of me,
but I was an unappreciative little person, nor could I for
one moment keep still, and he finally gave it up in despair.
His first work of art pleased me as a child, as it does now.
In an old scrapbook is a small square of folded paper. In
the middle of the paper is a large spotted bird gazing at