Part 3 (1/2)

As will be readily supposed, Gypsy's name was not her original one; though it might have been, for there have been actual Billys and Sallys, who began and ended Billys and Sallys only.

Gypsy's real name was an uncouth one--Jemima. It was partly for this reason, partly for its singular appropriateness, that her nickname had entirely transplanted the lawful and ugly one.

This subject of nicknames is a curiosity. All rules of euphony, fitness, and common sense, that apply to other things, are utterly at fault here. A baby who cannot talk plainly, dubs himself ”Tuty,” or ”Dess,” or ”Pet,” or ”Honey,” and forthwith becomes Tuty, Dess, Pet, or Honey, the rest of his mortal life. All the particularly cross and disagreeable girls are Birdies and Sunbeams. All the brunettes with loud voices and red hands, who are growing up into the ”strong-minded women,” are Lilies and Effies and Angelinas, and other etherial creatures; while the little shallow, pink-and-white young ladies who cry very often and ”get nervous,” are quite as likely to be royal Constance, or Elizabeth, without any nickname at all.

But Gypsy's name had undoubtedly been foreordained, so perfectly was it suited to Gypsy. For never a wild rover led a more untamed and happy life.

Summer and winter, seed-time and harvest, found Gypsy out in the open air, as many hours out of the twenty-four as were not absolutely bolted and barred down into the school-room and dreamland. A fear of the weather never entered into Gypsy's creed; drenchings and freezings were so many soap-bubbles,--great fun while they lasted, and blown right away by dry stockings and mother's warm fire; so where was the harm? A good brisk thunderstorm out in the woods, with the lightning quivering all about her and the thunder cras.h.i.+ng over her, was simple delight. A day of snow and sleet, with drifts knee-deep, and winds like so many little knives, was a festival. If you don't know the supreme bliss of a two-mile walk on such a day, when you have to shut your eyes, and wade your way, then Gypsy would pity you. Not a patch of woods, a pond, a brook, a river, a mountain, in the region (and there, in Vermont, there were plenty of them), but Gypsy knew it by heart.

There was not a trout-brook for miles where she had not fished. There was hardly a tree she had not climbed, or a fence or stone-wall--provided, of course, that it was away from the main road and people's eyes--that she had not walked. Gypsy could row and skate and swim, and play ball and make kites, and coast and race, and drive, and chop wood. Altogether Gypsy seemed like a very pretty, piquant mistake; as if a mischievous boy had somehow stolen the plaid dresses, red cheeks, quick wit, and little indescribable graces of a girl, and was playing off a continual joke on the world. Old Mrs. Surly, who lived opposite, and wore green spectacles, used to roll up her eyes, and say What _would_ become of that child? A whit cared Gypsy for Mrs. Surly! As long as her mother thought the sport and exercise in the open air a fine thing for her, and did not complain of the torn dresses oftener than twice a week, she would roll her hoop and toss her ball under Mrs. Surly's very windows, and laugh merrily to see the green gla.s.ses pushed up and taken off in horror at what Mrs. Surly termed an ”impropriety.”

Therefore it created no surprise in the family one morning, when school-time came and pa.s.sed, and Gypsy did not make her appearance, that she was reported to be ”making a raft” down in the orchard swamp.

”Run and call her, Winnie,” said Mrs. Breynton. ”Tell her it is very late, and I want her to come right up,--remember.”

”Yes mum,” said Winnie, with unusual alacrity, and started off down the lane as fast as his copper-toed feet could carry him. It was quite a long lane, and a very pleasant one in summer. There was a row of hazel-nut bushes, always green and sweet, on one side, and a stone-wall on the other, with the broad leaves and tiny blossoms of a grape-vine trailing over it. The lane opened into a wide field which had an apple-orchard at one end of it, and sloped down over quite a little hill into a piece of marshy ground, where ferns and white violets, anemones, and sweet-flag grew in abundance. In the summer, the water was apt to dry up. In the spring, it was sometimes four feet deep. It was a pleasant spot, for the mountains lay all around it, and shut it in with their great forest-arms, and the sharp peaks that were purple and crimson and gold, under pa.s.sing shadows and fading sunsets. And, then, is there any better fun than to paddle in the water?

Gypsy looked as if she thought not, when Winnie suddenly turned the corner, and ran down the slope.

She had finished her raft, and launched it off from the root of an old oak-tree that grew half in the water, and, with a long pole, had pushed herself a third of the way across the swamp. Her dress was tucked up over her bright balmoral, and the ribbons of her hat were streaming in the wind. She had no mittens or gloves on her hands, which were very pink and plump, and her feet were incased in high rubber boots.

”Hullo!” said Winnie, walking out on the root of the oak.

”Hilloa!” said Gypsy.

”I say--that's a bully raft.”

”To be sure it is.”

”I haven't had a ride on a raft since--why since 'leven or six years ago when I was a little boy. I shouldn't wonder if it was twenty-three years, either.”

”Oh, I can't bear people that hint. Why don't you say right out, if you want a ride?”

”I want a ride,” said Winnie, without any hesitation.

”Wait till I turn her round. I'll bring her up on the larboard side,”

replied Gypsy, in the tone of an old salt of fifty years' experience.

So she paddled up to the oak-tree, and Winnie jumped on board.

”I guess we'll have time to row across and back before school,” said Gypsy, pus.h.i.+ng off.

Winnie maintained a discreet silence.

”I don't suppose it's very late,” said Gypsy.

”Oh, just look at that toad with a green head, down in the water!”

observed Winnie.

They paddled on a little ways in silence.