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Whitewash

I spotted the painters’ buckets—big paint brushes soaking, lots of white stuff in the buckets.



THE TRUNKS of all the trees lining the streets of Dix were whitewashed up to just my height. Every tree in the village was whitewashed, and I was much impressed. Every day on my way to and from school, I admired those white-shining tree trunks.

Our little house was being painted—painted white. A Saturday afternoon, and the painters were not working. Mother and Dad had gone to town. I spotted the painters’ buckets—big paint brushes soaking, lots of white stuff in the buckets. The idea struck me that it would sure be nice for my Dad to find our trees as white as those in Dix.

Every day on my way to and from school, I admired those white-shining tree trunks.

Only took half an hour to paint all six of our maple trees—beautiful white up as far as top of my head. Just like the trees lining the streets in Dix.

Dad and Mother were sure surprised. Shocked, maybe.

Took almost a week before the trees began to die. Allergic to turpentine and white lead paint, I guess.






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