The men wore picturesque pink clothing and round hats with pink
feathers in them, but the apparel of the women was still more
gorgeous and striking. Their dresses consisted of layer after layer
of gauzy tuck and ruffles and laces, caught here and there with bows
of dainty ribbon. The skirts--which of course were of many shades of
pink--were so fluffy and light that they stuck out from the fat
bodies of the Pinkie women like the skirts of ballet-dancers,
displaying their chubby pink ankles and pink kid shoes. They wore
rings and necklaces and bracelets and brooches of rose-gold set with
pink gems, and all four of the new arrivals, both men and women,
carried sharp-pointed sticks made of rosewood for weapons.
They halted a little way from our adventurers, and one of the women
muttered in a horrified voice, "Blueskins!"
"Guess again! The more you guess
I rather think you'll know the less,"
retorted the parrot, and then he added grumblingly in Trot's ear,
"Blue feathers don't make bluebirds."
"Really," said the girl, standing up and bowing respectfully to the
Pinkies, "we are not Blueskins, although we are wearing the blue
uniforms of the Boolooroo and have just escaped from the Blue
Country. If you will look closely, you will see that our skins are
white."
"There is some truth in what she says," remarked one of the men
thoughtfully.
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