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Updated: April 30, 2025
After many fruitless attempts, I at last succeeded in obtaining the perfect form of an eye; but this was not all it must be coloured to resemble nature. I sent for a poor carriage-painter, who managed to imitate tolerably well the left eye of Don Juan. It was necessary to preserve this painting from contact with the tears, which would soon have destroyed it.
He painted a great many wagons for the farmers, the wheels yellow, the bodies blue, green, or red, with scrolls and flowers on the sides. Paul watched him by the hour, and sometimes made up his mind to be a carriage-painter when he became a man. "Mr. Chrome," said Paul, "don't you think that those pigs would look better if they were painted?" "Perhaps so."
Paul was twelve years old, stout, hearty, and healthy, full of life, and brimming over with fun. Once he set the village in a roar. The people permitted their pigs to run at large. The great maple in front of the Pensioner's house was cool and shady, a delightful place for the pigs through the hot summer days. Mr. Chrome, the carriage-painter, lived across the road.
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