I was busy painting some shelves one morning, and allowed Bett-Bett to help. She enjoyed it very much, and spattered herself and the ground for yards around with daubs of white. By and by the heat and the smell of the paint made us both sick. Bett-Bett was very bad, and thought she was going to die. “Me close up dead-fellow, Missus,” she moaned. Poor little mite! she had never been sick before, and thought that her inside was coming right out. When she was well again, she asked me what had made her so ill, and I said it was the paint.
Next day she was singing like a young skylark, and chewing away at a piece of tobacco between times.
I was very angry indeed with her, and deciding to send her “bush,” called sternly, “Come here at once, Bett-Bett.”
To my surprise she screamed and cried out,
“No more, Missus. Me goodfellow; spose you no more make me whitefellow longa paint.”
I saw at once what she was afraid of. I had the paint-pot and brush in my hands, and she thought I was going to paint her, to make her sick for punishment. I put them down, and told her to come to me.
“Bett-Bett,” I said, “will you be a good girl if I don’t paint you this time?”
“You eye, Missus; straightfellow,” she sobbed.
“And you will not chew tobacco?” I added.
“No more, Missus; straightfellow,” she said, promising “straightfellow,” or “honour bright.”