On the easel stood a portrait. Bessie looked at it, and thought it must be a likeness of her friend Col. Fraser. "But," said she, "the mustache is too faint: it wants paint."
Then she remembered hearing her uncle say that he had more work than he could attend to. "What if I do a little work for him, and so give him a surprise!" thought she.
"Uncle Frank, when he is by, never lets me touch his paints," said Bessie to herself; "but that must be because he does not know how clever I am. Nothing can be easier to paint than a mustache. It is only a number of hairs."
So Bessie climbed up into her uncle's chair, and took one of his long brushes in her hand. Then she looked at the colors on the palette, and tried to mix the blue and red as she had seen Uncle Frank do.
The long brush was hard to manage. However, she remembered the rhyme, "Try, try, try again;" and she worked away until she thought she had got the tint.

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