dawn, morning, noon
Hearing her step , he called her name , but did not turn ; and , receiving no answer , sighed faintly as he heard her own door close upon her . Then , as his eyes wandered about the many canvases which leaned against the dingy walls , he sighed again . Usually they showed their brown backs , but to-day he had turned them all to face outward . Twilight , sunset , moonlight -LRB- the Court-house in moonlight -RRB- , dawn , morning , noon -LRB- Main Street at noon -RRB- , high summer , first spring , red autumn , midwinter , all were there -- illimitably detailed , worked to a smoothness like a glaze , and all lovingly done with unthinkable labor . And there were `` Italian Flower-Sellers , '' damsels with careful hair , two figures together , one blonde , the other as brunette as lampblack , the blonde -- in pink satin and blue slippers -- leaning against a pillar and smiling over the golden coins for which she had exchanged her posies ; the brunette seated at her feet , weeping upon an unsold bouquet . There were red-sashed `` Fisher Lads '' wading with butterfly-nets on their shoulders ; there was a `` Tying the Ribbon on Pussy 's Neck '' ; there were portraits in oil and petrifactions in crayon , as hard and tight as the purses of those who had refused to accept them , leaving them upon their maker 's hands because the likeness had failed . After a time the old man got up , went to his easel near a window , and , sighing again , began patiently to work upon one of these failures -- a portrait , in oil , of a savage old lady , which he was doing from a photograph .