Democratic Sentinel, Volume 7, Number 17, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 25 May 1883 — TO REMOVE PAINT. [ARTICLE]

TO REMOVE PAINT.

One eveiflng there was a tea-party at the residence of a deacon,, and after supper the gentlemen went to the smok-ing-room, and smoked and told stories while- the ladies visited and exchanged pieces of sillVneckties and ribbons for leaking silk quilts. The men got to talking about the changes that occur in peoples liyes in a few years, and each had some illustration in liis own experience. The young minister had been a quiet listener, and smoked his cigar in a dreamy sort of a way, and when they had all had an inning telling stories, the doctor said to the minister: “Elder, you must have noticed, as much as anybody, the changes thaL. time brings. Can’t you tell us some 2 thing funny in your experience ?” “I was just thinking,” said the elder, as he threw his cigar stub in the cuspidore, and took a fresh one and lit it, “of something that happened to me last winter in Chicago, and I will tell it to you to illustrate how added years bring intelligence to the most of us, though it cannot bring forgetfulness, and to illustrate also how a man may be reasonably smart in knowledge of the world, and not know enough to keep his mouth shut at the proper time. About twen-ty-five years ago, when I was 8 years of age, my people lived iff a little town, and I was allowed to run loose about the neighborhood. You wouldn’t believe it to look at me how, but I was a terror. That is, I was full of fun, O, so full. I was up to all sorts of miffchief, and my good father and mother feared- that I would never amount to much, and I guess they fear it now, but that is neither here nor there. Among my playmates was a little girl of my own age, a bright little thing with blue •yes ana brown hair, and a dimple in

her cheek. If I was a terror she was a terroress. She could climb a fenee quicker than I could, and outrun me and wasn’t afraid of anything, and we were the best friends yoh ever saw. Her name was Susan. One day we were playing in the back yard, barefooted, ana something induced us to go into her father’s barn. In looking around for something to amuse us, I found a couple of pots of paint that her father had been using about the house. One pot was red and the other green. We took the brushes and painted the stall in the barn red, and one wheel of her father’s wagon green, and finally she suggested that we paint our feet. So I painted,, one of her feet green and the other red, and she painted mine, and then I rolled up my pants and she painted clear up to my knees, and then she got jealous because Thad more style than she did, and so I painted her legs abo, but I striped them, the stripes of alternate' green and re.d running around like a barber-pole. Being a girl, we argued that it was right that she should be more gaudy than me. Well, I have seen beautiful paintings since,’ and have done a little with the brush since arriving at man’s estate, but I have never seen anything that gave me factiop, as a work of art, that the work of that afternoon in the studio of the barn did. I have seen marble sculpture of the human form divine, in the* galleries of the old and new world since, but I have never seen anything that could hold a candle to the landscape that I painted on Susan. She was so tickled that she had to go right in the house and show the chromo to her mother; and it was not more than a minute before a solitary horseman, about 8 years old, with ope leg green and the other red, might have been seen going over a picket fence just ahead of Susan’s mother’s mop. I got home alive, and presented a picture to my mother that she had never seen in her wildest dreams'. Paint everywhere And she warmed me, and Susan’s mother across the street warmed her, and us two young artists mingled our cries across the dusty street. I need not dwell on the weeks of agony we endured in having that paint removed. There was some sort of dryer in the paint that made it dry and shine, and it seemed to penetrate clear to the bone. At least it did On me, and I suppose Susan was made of the same kind of clay. Any way, all the time we lived in that town after that, Susan wore stockings, and I judged she was having the same trouble I was, being washed every night in benzine, until I almost wished there was no such thing as being an artist. I had almost forgotten the circumstance, in a busy life, until last winter I was down to Chicago to. a missionary convention. There were delegates from all over the country, and many of us took our wives. One evening, after the business of the convention was over, ([here was a reception at the residence of one of the directors of our society, and I was introduced to the wife of a brother minister. There was something about her eyes that seemed sort of familiar, and finally she told me who she was, and, as sure as I am smoking this 5-cent cigar, it was Susan. Well, we talked about old times and old friends for a long t,ime, and of the good work her husband was doing out W est, but for the life of me I could not keep my mind off of the paint. Here ehe was a grown woman, the glorious byes she had in youth were even more beautiful, and her smile was enough to oreak up a prayer-meeting, but I could snly see her as she looked when I got through painting her. Becoming familiar, I finally said: ‘By the way, Susan, I would like to ask you one question,’ and she said, ‘ Certainly,’ and I allowed my eye to twinkle a little, and I asked: “ ‘Susan, tell me, did you ever get that paint off your— ’ “‘Sir!’ said she, her whole frame showing the greatest indignation, and just then a bald-headed preacher came up, and she turned to me and said, ‘ This is my husband. Husband, this is an old friend of my youth, one who knew me when we went barefooted together.’ “ ‘Ah,, indeed, glad to meet you,’ said the brother. ‘My wife has often told me about how you and she used to handle the paint brush and transform nature into high art, and, eh,,..sb® i 3 gone.’ I looked around for Susro, knd she had taken the arm of another minister, and gone to the refreshment room, and before I could see her again she had gone home, and I never saw her after. But for several nights my dreams were filled with visions of hand-painted, articles, barns, indignant mothers with brooms, benzine and sweet oil, and a pair of the loveliest eyes that ever were seen. But here is my wife with her things on. What, time to go home? Well, good night, but for goodness sake, gentlemen, don’t say that I told you about that paint business.”— Peok’s Stun.