Work of Art
Work of Art


Work of Art

Sinclair Lewis

Classical prose

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WORK OF ART Sinclair Lewis 1 The flat roof of the American House, the most spacious and important hotel in Black Thread Centre, Connecticut, was lined with sheets of red-painted tin, each embossed with 'Phoenix, the Tin of Kings'. Though it was only 6.02, this July morning in 1897, the roof was scorching. The tin was like a flat-iron, and the tar along the brick coping, which had bubbled all yesterday afternoon, was stinging to the fingers. Far below, in Putnam Street, a whole three stories down from the red tin roof, Tad Smith, the constable, said to Mr. Barstow, the furniture-dealer, 'Well, sir, going to be another scorcher, like yesterday.' Mr. Barstow thought it over. 'Don't know but what you're right. Regular scorcher.' 'Yessir, a scorcher,' ruminated Tad, and went his ways--never again, perhaps, to appear in history. But on the red tin roof above these burghers, a young poet was dancing; child of the skies, rejoicing in youth and...