The Disheartened Painter and the Dark-Eyed Ferret

“Let’s make a deal, yes, let us make a deal,” said the ferret with the dark eyes.

It was talking to the disheartened painter, who stood despondently before his canvas, on the meadow green.

The painter could not paint anything worthwhile in his own eyes.

The painter, was a very desperate man.

“What is your offer, little ferret?” asked he.

“Give me one of your paintbrush hairs,” answered the ferret with the dark eyes,

“Just one, and I will give you an amazing vision.”

So, the painter plucked out one of his paintbrush bristles, and gave it to the ferret.

The small thing slithered away, and did not appear again, leaving the man to ponder.

As he fell asleep that night, the painter dreamed of a wonderful painting.

It was filled with the most vibrant reds he had ever seen on a canvas.

When he awoke, the painter said to himself,

“I must paint this thing, this wonderful thing, that I have dreamt of.”

He pulled out his biggest, whitest canvas, and set it upon his easel.

But when he pulled out his paints, he frowned.

His red paints, every tube, and every jar, were awfully, awfully dull.

Whatever could he do?

Then, the painter got an idea.

He went out to his garden, and plucked off all the dark red rose petals from their stems.

He threw them into his stone mortar and began to grind them with a pestle.

“Rumble, rumble, rumble,” went the pestle.

“Squish, squish, squish,” went the dark red rose petals.

But alas, the paint from the roses was still, awfully, awfully dull.

The painter sighed.

Then, he got an idea.

He went into his pantry, and drew out a quart of bright red raspberries.

He threw them into his stone mortar and began to grind them with a pestle.

“Rumble, rumble, rumble,” went the pestle.

“Squish, squish, squish,” went the bright red raspberries.

But alas, the paint from the raspberries was too light, and dreadfully, dreadfully thin.

The painter sighed.

Then, he got an idea.

He went onto his porch, and picked up a few mottled red ladybirds, who were hiding from the rain.

He threw them into his stone mortar, and began to grind them with a pestle.

“Rumble, rumble, rumble,” went the pestle.

“Squish, squish, squish,” went the mottled red ladybirds.

But alas, the paint from the ladybirds was too thick, and awfully, awfully dull.

The painter sighed.

Then, he got an idea.

His neighbor had a little, charming, red songbird that she kept in a cage on her back windowsill.

He went up to the windowsill, and grabbed the bird, who let out a nervous twitter.

He threw it into a boiling iron pot, which hung over the fireplace.

“Bubble, bubble, bubble,” went the pot.

“Squawk, squawk, squawk,” went the charming, red, songbird.

But alas, the paint from the songbird was an ugly, frothy gray.

The painter let out his gustiest sigh yet, and threw his paintbrush into the fire.

“Oh, I am such a fool!” cried he, “A fool, for listening to that black-eyed vermin!”

Silence fell upon the room.

Then, the painter got up in a rage, throwing things about.

And as he did, one of his fingers caught on a little nail, sticking out of his easel.

“Drip, drip, drip,” went the shining, scarlet blood, which dribbled out from his torn finger.

The painter smiled.

Then, he got an idea.

His hand reached up, and delved into his chest, drawing out a shining, scarlet heart.

He threw it into the boiling iron pot, which hung over the fireplace.

“Bubble, bubble, bubble,” went the pot.

“Thump, thump, thump,” went his shining, scarlet heart.

He threw it into his stone mortar, and began to grind it with a pestle.

“Rumble, rumble, rumble,” went the pestle.

“Squish, squish, squish,” went his shining, scarlet heart.

And when the paint was finished, it was even more vibrant than the paint in his vision.

“At last!” exclaimed the painter.

He set his largest, whitest canvas upright again.

He grabbed his favorite paintbrush.

He sat, and began to paint.

Furiously, he worked into the evening.

He painted with light strokes.

With hard strokes.

With bold strokes, and gentle strokes.

And when he was finished, he was glad, but also very, very tired.

So, the painter went to sleep.

When he awoke, he drew the sheet off of his magnificent masterpiece.

And he looked on, in absolute horror.

For the paint, was an awful, awful brown.

The painter cried.

He crawled into his bed, drawing up the coarse, brown sheets over his head.

He slept.

He slept and did not wake from his slumber.

©coyotetrickstergod|daniellejacobs