“Now this is how the painter monkey does it,” said Brighteyes. “He takes a brush, and he dips it in the paint pot, and then he lets some of the loose paint fall off, and then he wiggles the brush up and down and sideways and across the middle on the boards of the house, and—it’s painted.”
“I see,” said Grandpa, and then, before he could stop her, Brighteyes took one of the painter monkey’s brushes, and dipped it into a pot of the pink paint. And she leaned over too far, and the first thing you know she fell right into that pink paint pot, clothes, toothache and all! What do you think of that?
“Oh! Oh! Oh!” she cried, as soon as she could get her breath. “This is awful—terrible!”
“It certainly is!” said Grandpa Croaker. “But never mind, Brighteyes. I’ll help you out. Don’t cry.” So he fished her out with his cane, and he took some rags, and some turpentine, and he cleaned off the pink paint as best he could, and then he took Brighteyes into the house, and the little guinea pig girl put on clean clothes, and then she looked as good as ever, except that there were some spots of pink paint on her nose.
“Never mind,” said Grandpa, as he gave her a sugar cookie, and just then Mrs. Pigg came back with the doctor’s medicine.
“Why—why!” exclaimed Brighteyes as she kissed her mother, “my toothache has all stopped!” and, surely enough it had. I guess it got scared because of the pink paint and went away.
Anyhow the tooth didn’t ache any more, and the next day Brighteyes went to the dentist’s and had it pulled. And the painter monkey didn’t mind about the paint that was spilled, and Mrs. Pigg didn’t mind about Brighteyes’s dress being spoiled, and they all thought Grandpa Croaker was as kind as he could be, and he didn’t mind because his cane was colored pink, where he fished out the little guinea pig girl with it. So everybody was happy.
Now in case our cat doesn’t fall into the red paint pot and then go to sleep on my typewriter paper and make it look blue, I’ll tell you next about Papa No-Tail and Nannie Goat.