Not far from Barre, Vt., the granite yard of Jones Bros, lies in a pleasant valley of the Green Mountains. Morning after morning four summers ago, the conductor and brakeman of a milk train which passed daily, noticed a brown-haired young Italian standing by the track before an easel, painting the granite yard. Landscape painters are no novelty in Vermont, but this young man also happened to be roaring the finale of Aida at the top of his lungs while he painted. One morning the train stopped.
"Hey!" shouted the brakeman, "you doin'...
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