MRS SMITH'S GOLD PAINT.

Otago Witness, Issue 2004, 21 July 1892, Page 38

MRS SMITH'S GOLD PAINT.

A STORY OP MARRIED LIFE. (By Oswald Hugo) It is no use trying ! No, not the least. I sat down with the intention of writing a pathetic little love story — an Oamaru romance which has come before my notice lately. I safe clown with the materials for a sentimental little sketch. I had a silver moon, a glassy sea, and a pretty woman. But somehow I cannot get into a sentimental mood ; somehow the silver moon and the glassy sea, and the pretty woman, are like Dora Copperfield's figures — "they won't come right." And the reason is that another and quite opposite story comes out from my memory, and keeps on protruding itself between mo and my object. There is nothing for it but to let the Oamaru love story go — perhaps, too, it will be getting better by keeping — ami take up the obstrusive story, which is an incident from my friend Smith's matrimonial experience. Let me, however, say here that I will not vouch for its absolute truth. Smith is rather addicted to a little embellishment. But this is the story as he told it. Before the baby made its appearance, my wife bad a lot of time on her hands, and owing to this she developed a strange freak which noaily destroyed my domestic happiness altogether. By some means she got possession of a large bottle of gold paint, and with the full enthusiasm of her ardent temperament she set to work to decorate whatever came within her reach. I came home at night tired and dull, and threw myself down on the first chair. " Don't sit oa that chair," shouted my wife in an excited voice, " I have just been put ting a line of gold all around the black edge." And sure enough there was the gold line on my good trousers. I changed to another seat, to be startled in a somewhat similar manner by such an exclamation as, •• How clumsy you are ; don't lean back in that chair. I have just been putting a few gold leaves on the antimacassar. You may rub them off. Yes, I declare, so you have. Your coat is all smeared with paint. Well, it won't spoil the coat ; turpentine will take it out all right." Another evening I wanted to write a letter, and asked my wife to get the writing desk. " There are no penholders, dear, I am afraid," she said. I told her that there was at least half a dozen in the desk. " I know," was her answer, '• but I gave them all a coat of gold paint this afternoon, and they are not dry yet." For weeks, whenever I moved I carried some gold decorations away on my habiliments. All my clothes smelled as if they hai been soaked in turpen'ine. Often I tried to persuade her to leave that bottle alone, but only to be told that " men have no taste." One Sunday morning, when on the point of goiDg to church, I found the lining of my best hat newly gilded. This was the last straw on my patience. I got fairly angry, and told her that I would pitch that bottle of hers outbide. She looked straight at me with those big, steady eyes of hers and said ; " You'd batter do it." I concluded I had better not do it, Every day it became more evident to me that I and that paint bottle could not exist in the same house. Still I could never feel Btrong enough for an eviction. But could I not devise some plan to .make her do it 1 Could I not by some means' maniga to make the very sight of gold paint hideous in her eyes ? To this task I devoted all my ingenuity ; but without finding the least clue to a plan. One day, however, it flashed upon me as sudden as an inspiration. It was a general holiday, and my wife and I had decided to go away with the train to see some friends in the country. She was waiting for me in the parlour all ready for starting. When going into the bedroom to get myself ready, I caught sight of the paint bottle. Then it ffras the "inspiration oame. I have a fine, large moustache, and am naturally proud of that adornment. To tell the trutb, my wife is just as proud of it as I am— yep, peihap3 even more so. Well, I gave that moustache a good thick Cv)at of gold paiat, and thus decorated made my appearance ready for starting. " Whatiu the world ha vo you been doing ? ' she screamed. " Are you mad ? " " Mad I " I responded, whi.e I put on the mobt dignified and sublime expression I could lay hold of. " No, lam not mad, except the highest degree of aestheticillumination of the mind can be called madne&s by the coarser and more earthly minns. My dear, I have reached the highest perception as to the decorative value ot gold paint. For weeks you have betn teaching me how it may be u-od to improve the looks of inanimate objects. Igo a step further, and teach how it may be used to beautify the human countenance-. Don't I look majestic — don't I look classical, Olympian, with this golden rmu-tashe ? I shall wear no olhc-r rnoubfacbe in the future; and probablr I -Jioll gill my eyebrows too. l'ur, come, lei us be off or we shall be too late." A most intense laok of despair came into her face as I spoke, then came a flood of tears, and bbc moaned, wringipg her hands : " Oh, my poor, dtar husband in gone marl 1 Oh, 1c is gouc mad 1 Yes, gone mad. And I am the wretched causa. It is my gold paint has turned his head. I might have known tint it takes very little to turn a man's head, especiaiiy when it isn't screwed on very tight." Here her eyes fell upon the paint bottle. "That horrid thing," she exclaimed, "it shall never come before my ejes again."

And she threw it out of the window "on to the road. The sound of its breaking on the stones seemed like the snapping of a cord by which a heavy burden was fastened to my soul. She never got another bottle. The baby leaves no time for decoration.