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 lay their hands upon. The old man is on a step-ladder, daubing the walls and ceiling with "cuckoo's-egg green," while the parlourmaid and the cook are on their knees, painting the floor with "sealing-wax red." The old lady is doing the picture-frames in "terra cotta." The eldest daughter and her young man are making sly love in a corner over a pot of "high-art yellow," with which, so soon as they have finished wasting their time, they will, it is manifest, proceed to elevate the piano. Younger brothers and sisters are busy freshening up the chairs and tables with strawberry-jam pink" and "jubilee magenta." Every blessed thing in that room is being coated with enamel paint, from the sofa to the fireirons, from the sideboard to the eight-day clock. If there is any paint left over, it will be used up for the family bible and the canary.

It is claimed for this invention that a little child can make as much mess with it as can a grown-up person, and so all the children of the family are represented in the picture as hard at work, enamelling whatever few articles of furniture and household use the grasping selfishness of their elders has spared to them. One is painting the toasting fork a "skim-milk blue," while another is giving æsthetical value to the Dutch oven by means of a new shade of art green. The bootjack is being renovated in "old gold," and the baby is sitting on the floor, smothering its own cradle with "flush-upon-a-maiden's-cheek peach colour."

One feels that the thing is being overdone. That family, before another month is gone, will be among the strongest opponents of enamel paint that the century has produced. Enamel paint will be the ruin of that once happy home. Enamel paint has a cold, glassy, cynical appearance. Its presence everywhere about the place will