Susan sneezed twice, coughed, and looked about her.
She stood in a tent, round like a circus tent, and the air was heavy
with smoke from a fire smouldering on the ground. There were no doors or
windows in the tent, and but little light entered on this dark afternoon
through a half-dozen rents in the roof.
But Susan made out in the gloom not only the man and boy who had brought
her there, but a plump, dark woman, with gold hoops in her ears, who was
gently wiping the rain from Phil's face, three or four ragged children
dressed in bright reds and yellows, staring intently at her with big
black eyes, and a dog or two, discreetly lurking in the dim background.
Susan sneezed again, and the woman turned from Phil and spoke.
"It's the smoke, dearie," said she kindly. "You'll be used to it in a
moment. Tell your little brother not to be afraid. He is among friends.
We wouldn't hurt a hair of your heads. Tell him that."
"I want to go home," said Phil, with under lip thrust out. "I want to go
home."
"And so you shall," said the woman briskly, "as soon as it stops raining
a bit, and my man can find out where you live."
"Straight up the hill," said Susan quickly. She, too, was eager to be at
home. "I saw you at my gate," she added shyly, to the man. "My
grandfather said 'Sarishan' to you."
Susan knew the brown velveteen coat, though the red tie was hidden under
the upturned collar.
The man looked at her a moment, and then he smiled.
"True enough," said he. "I remember. I'll take you home. I'll harness
the 'gry' and take them in the van," said he to his wife. "It's still
raining hard. They shall know that the gypsies are good to deal with,
and that the worst of them is not James Lee."
And, whistling his gay little tune, Mr. James Lee lifted the tent flap
and went out again into the rain which still pattered musically on the
canvas roof.
Susan began to enjoy herself. Now that she knew she was going home
shortly, she looked about her with fresh pleasure.
"It would be fun to live in a tent," she thought,--"so different from
home. No beds, no chairs, no table. The gypsies must eat sitting on the
ground, and sleep, perhaps, on that great heap in the corner."
That it was not very clean, and was very, very crowded, smoky and dark
did not enter Susan's mind.
She smiled at the children still staring silently at her. Besides the
big boy who, with back turned, seemed busy in the corner, there were
three little girls, two of whom, with coarse black hair and bold eyes,
smiled back at Susan and then fell to giggling and poking one another.
One of them darted forward and jerked at Susan's scarlet hair-ribbon.
The other stole slyly behind her and twitched her dress. They were
mischievous, trixy children, and Susan felt uneasy with them. She was
relieved when their mother, seeing the rough play, exclaimed, "Clear
out, you young ones," and drove them away.
The third little girl, who was scarcely more than a baby, remained in
her place, staring solemnly at Susan. She did not look like the other
children; indeed, she did not look like a gypsy at all. She was a
slender little creature with pale brown hair, large gray eyes, and a
tiny hooked nose that gave a strange air of determination to her baby
face. She held something behind her back, and suddenly she stepped
forward and showed it to Susan.
It was the lost squash baby!
Susan knew it instantly. It had even the bit of blue rag tied about its
neck.
"Why, it's my squash baby!" said she, in surprise.
"Yours, is it?" said Mrs. Lee, coming forward. "My man picked it up in
the road and gave it to Gentilla. Give it back, Gentilla. The little
miss wants it."
"No, no, I don't want it," said Susan hastily. "Let her keep it. Is her
name Gentilla? She is a nice little girl."
"Gentilla Lee, a good gypsy name," returned Mrs. Lee. "She is an orphan.
She is my husband's brother's child. You might think I had enough to do
with three children of my own. But no, I must have one more." And Mrs.
Lee lifted the tent flap and moodily looked out into the still falling
rain.
Susan smiled at Gentilla, who looked soberly back and then moved closer
to Susan's side and began stroking the visitor's dress with a tiny hand
that was far from clean. Suddenly she slipped her hand in Susan's, and,
swinging round on it, smiled up into her face.
It seemed a good beginning of a friendship, and Susan was sorry when
Mrs. Lee turned round in the doorway and said:
"Here comes my man with the van. You will be home in no time now."
Through the woods stepped Mr. James Lee leading a bony gray horse, which
was drawing a gypsy van, gay with bright red and green and black paint.
He opened the door in the back of the van and helped the children in.
"My pail," said Phil, clutching his slippers. "I've lost my pail."
Mrs. Lee disappeared into the tent, and came out in a moment with Phil's
pail--empty! No wonder the big boy, busy eating Phil's berries, had
turned his back in the corner of the tent.
"Don't cry, Phil. You shall have half my berries. Don't cry. We're going
home." And Susan waved vigorous good-byes to Mrs. Lee and Gentilla, held
back by her aunt from following Susan into the van.
Mr. Lee carefully led his horse through the woods to the muddy road, and
then, sitting up in front, drove his old "gry" up the hill toward
Featherbed Lane.
In the meantime Susan and Phil were looking round the van in surprise
and delight.
"It's like a little playhouse," said Susan, squeezing Phil's hand. "Oh,
I wish I lived in a gypsy van all the time."
Opposite the door, in the very front of the van, were two beds, one
above the other like berths on a ship, and broad enough, each one, to
hold three or four gypsy children at once, if need be, and as, in fact,
they very often did. There was a little cookstove, whose pipe wandered
out of the side of the van in a most unusual way. And alongside the
stove was a table, hanging by hinges from the wall. A high chest of
drawers and two chairs completed the furniture of the van, which looked
very much like a state-room and felt somewhat like one, too, as it
swayed over the hillocks and ruts in the road.
Up Featherbed Lane bounced the van, and there on the porch stood
Grandmother and Miss Liza, both with white cheeks and anxious faces,
while Grandfather came hurrying from the barn where he had been
harnessing old Nero with a speed that quite upset the dignity of that
staid Roman-nosed beast.
"Where were you, children?" cried Miss Liza in greeting, twisting the
corner of her apron as she spoke. "I ran up here in all that downpour,
and I didn't see a sign of you on the way."
"My berries are gone," called Phil. "The big boy ate them. And I was
afraid. And we were inside a tent."
"They are gypsies," said Susan in a low voice to Grandmother, who was
carefully feeling her all over. "They live in a tent. And, inside, that
van is just like a doll's house. Their name is Lee. I wish I lived in a
van; it's better than a tent, I think. And they have the nicest little
girl you ever saw. Her name is Gentilla Lee. She likes me, I know she
does, Grandmother. I want to go see her again."
"You are wet in spots, child, and damp all over," was all Grandmother
replied. "Come straight in the house and let me put dry clothes on you."
Grandfather and the gypsy had been talking together all this time, and
now Grandfather put something into Mr. James Lee's hand that made his
white teeth gleam in a smile, and caused him to drive first to the store
in the village before returning to his hungry family in their tent in
the woods.
Then Phil was escorted home; Miss Liza was driven back to Miss Lunette,
who might be worried sick by her absence, Miss Liza thought, but who
proved to have slept soundly through the storm; and Susan, her tongue
wagging, was put into a hot bath and dressed in dry clothes from head to
foot before Grandfather returned.
"I want to go back and see the gypsies," Susan teased the next day. "I
want to see Gentilla. Please, Grandfather, take me to see the gypsies."
So Grandmother baked a cake in her largest tin, and at the village store
Grandfather and Susan purchased several yards of bright red hair-ribbon.
With these offerings they made their way to the gypsy tent, and received
a hospitable welcome.
The van, with all its conveniences, was willingly displayed, and
Grandfather was invited to test with his hand the softness of the beds,
the like of which, Mrs. Lee declared, was not to be found in kings'
palaces. Privately, Grandfather believed this to be true, but, of
course, he didn't say it aloud.
To-day, with the sun shining, and the dogs gnawing a bone at a safe
distance in the grass, the tent seemed to Susan even more attractive
than before. She thought with scorn of her own white little room at
home, and wished with all her heart that she had been born a gypsy
child. Even the two bold little girls seemed pleasanter, and indeed,
delighted with their new hair-ribbons and awed by Grandfather's
presence, they were more quiet and well-behaved, at least during Susan's
call.
The big boy silently devoured his share of Grandmother's cake, and then,
with a hungry look still gleaming in his eyes, gazed so longingly at the
crumbs remaining that Grandfather took pity upon him. With a turn of his
hand he flipped a piece of money at the lad so that, with sure aim, he
struck the boy's bare foot.
"Go buy something to eat with it," commanded Grandfather.
Pulling at his tangled hair in a rough bow of thanks, the boy, waiting
for no second bidding, vanished among the trees and was seen no more by
his family that afternoon.
Mr. James Lee entertained Grandfather as one gentleman should another.
He had many stories of adventure to tell, and he even brought out his
fiddle from under the beds and played several lively gypsy tunes.
"Shall I tell the little miss's fortune?" asked Mrs. Lee, with a
half-sly look, and she laughed outright when Grandfather shook his head
with a smile.
"I believe in your fortune-telling just about as much as you do," he
answered. "My granddaughter seems perfectly happy this moment. She
doesn't need any better fortune than she has."
Nor did she, for she and Gentilla, still carrying the squash baby, had
become good friends and were enjoying their play together equally well.
They walked off, hand in hand, Susan helping Gentilla over the rough
places and mothering her to her heart's delight. She washed her new
baby's face and hands in the brook and dried them upon her own
handkerchief. She told her about Flip, and Snowball, and Snuff, to which
Gentilla listened with a roll of her big gray eyes. She, herself, didn't
talk very much, but Susan quite made up for this lack, and had begun to
teach her "Two little blackbirds sat upon a hill," when she heard
Grandfather calling and knew that she must go.
"I don't want to leave Gentilla," said Susan, as she joined the group
before the tent. "Do you suppose I can come and play with her
to-morrow?" "Perhaps Mrs. Lee will let Gentilla come and play with you,"
answered Mr. Whiting, who thought Susan better off at home than in the
gypsy camp.
So it was settled that Mr. James Lee would bring Gentilla to-morrow to
spend the day, and Susan went home with a happy heart, chattering to
Grandfather about her new-found friends.
"Wouldn't you like to be a gypsy, Grandfather?" asked she. "Wouldn't you
like to live in a tent? Why isn't everybody a gypsy? It's such a nice
way to live."
"Well, Susan, most people think it better to stay in one place instead
of wandering over the face of the earth," answered Grandfather. "And
among other things, they want their children to go to school and to
church, too."
"I don't care so much about going to school," said Susan, honestly. "I
know I would like to live in a tent and ride around in that van."
"It seems pleasant enough now, while it is warm weather," admitted
Grandfather. "But what about cold, and rain, and snow, and not any too
much to eat?"
"They were hungry, weren't they?" pondered Susan. "How they did like
Grandmother's cake!"
That night at supper Susan looked round the pleasant, well-lighted room,
with its table spread with good things to eat. She thought of the tent
in the woods, the trees standing tall and black about it, and the
near-by brook gurgling over its stones without a pause. It seemed dark
and dreary and lonely, and with a little shudder Susan bent down and
whispered to Snuff:
"I wouldn't have us be gypsies, Snuff, for anything in the world."
And when she went to bed, she astonished Grandmother by saying in the
midst of her prayers:
"Thank you, God, for not making Grandmother a gypsy, because then I
wouldn't have any apple sauce for my supper."