Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

He hesitated, as if he were about to reciprocate; then he turned away abruptly and said “No, for that is only one of two things I have against you”
I – “What else have I done?
He – Never mind now – if you ever come here again, then I will tell you.
I – But surely you might tell me now – what can I possibly have done?”
Before replying, he put a ladder against the house, and climbed to the roof, where I thot [sic] he had some patching to do, and at the same time, I started walking away backwards, down the road that led past his house.
When he was on the roof, he turned and said scornfully: “The second thing is, that you are an artist” and the contempt he put into the word “artist” was indescribably intense.
At this, his bigotry angered me.
I – “Why, I will have you know that the profession of artist is one of the most respected in the whole universe” (even in my dream, I felt it was rather silly and melodramatic –
He – “Not to us, it isn’t. I won’t have my son associating with artists”
By this time, I was some distance away from him, so that I had to shout my retort as loudly as I could “Well” I yelled “I certainly feel sorry for your son, having to live under your roof” – It had the effect I desired, for his straightened up