JUST LIKE GYPSY
One afternoon Gypsy was coming home from the post-office. It was a rare
June day. The great soft shadows fell and faded on the mountains, and the
air was sweet with the breath of a hundred fields where crimson clovers
nodded in the sleepy wind. It seemed to Gypsy that she had never seen such
mellow sunlight, or skies so pure and blue; that no birds ever sung such
songs in the elm-trees, and never were butterflies so golden and brown and
beautiful as those which fluttered drowsily over the tiny roadside
clovers. The thought came to her like a little sudden heart-throb, that
thrilled her through and through, that this world was a very great world,
and very beautiful,--it seemed so alive and happy, from the arch of the
blazing sky down to the blossoms of the purple weeds that hid in the
grass. She wondered that she had never thought of it before. How many
millions of people were enjoying this wonderful day! What a great thing it
was to live in such a world, where everything was so beautiful and useful
and happy! The very fact that she was alive in it made her so glad. She
felt as if she would like to go off on the rocks somewhere, and shout and
jump and sing.
As she walked slowly along past the stores and the crowded tenement-houses,
swinging her little letter-basket on her arm, and dreaming away with her
great brown eyes, as such young eyes will always dream upon a summer's
day, there suddenly struck upon that happy thought of hers a mournful
sound.
It was a human groan.
It grated on Gypsy's musing, as a file grates upon smooth marble; she
started, and looked up. The sound came from an open window directly over
her head. What could anybody be groaning about such a day as this? Gypsy
felt a momentary impatience with the mournful sound; then a sudden
curiosity to know what it meant. A door happened to be open near her, and
she walked right in, without a second thought, as was the fashion in which
Gypsy usually did things. A pair of steep stairs led up from the bit of an
entry, and a quantity of children, whose faces and hands were decidedly
the worse for wear, were playing on them.
"How do you do?" said Gypsy. The children stared.
"Who lives here?" asked Gypsy, again. The children put their fingers in
their mouths.
"Who is that groaning so?" persisted Gypsy, repressing a strong desire to
box their ears. The children crawled a little further up-stairs, and
peered at her from between their locks of shaggy hair, as if they
considered her a species of burglar. At this moment a side door opened,
and a red-faced woman, who was wiping her hands on her apron, put her head
out into the entry, and asked, in rather a surly tone, what was wanted.
"Who is that groaning?" repeated Gypsy.
"Oh, that's nobody but Grandmother Littlejohn," said the woman, with a
laugh, "she's always groanin'clock."
"But what does she groan for?" insisted Gypsy, her curiosity nowise
diminished to see a person who could be "always groanin'clock," through
not only one, but many, of such golden summer days.
"Oh, I s'pose she's got reason enough, for the matter of that," said the
woman, carelessly; "she's broke a bone,--though she do make a terrible
fuss over it, and very onobligin'clock it is to the neighbors as has the
lookin'clock after of her."
"Broken a bone! Poor thing, I'm going right up to see her!" said Gypsy,
whose compassion was rising fast.
"Good luck to you!" said the woman, with a laugh Gypsy did not like very
much. It only strengthened her resolution, however, and she ran up the
narrow stairs scattering the children right and left.
Several other untidy-looking women opened doors and peered out at her as
she went by; but no one else spoke to her. Guided by the sound of the
groans, which came at regular intervals like long breaths, she went up a
second flight of stairs, more narrow and more dark than the first, and
turned into a little low room, the door of which stood open.
"Who's there!" called a fretful voice from inside.
"I," said Gypsy; "may I come in?"
"I don't know who you be," said the voice, "but you may come 'long ef you
want to."
Gypsy accepted the somewhat dubious invitation. The room was in sad
disorder, and very dusty. An old yellow cat sat blinking at a sunbeam, and
an old, yellow, wizened woman lay upon the bed. Her forehead was all drawn
and knotted with pain, and her mouth looked just like her voice--fretful
and sharp. She turned her head slowly, as Gypsy entered, but otherwise she
did not alter her position; as if it were one which she could not change
without pain.
"Good afternoon," said Gypsy, feeling a little embarrassed, and not
knowing exactly what to say, now she was up there.
"Good arternoon," said Grandmother Littlejohn, with a groan.
"I heard you groan out in the street," said Gypsy, rushing to the point at
once; "I came up to see what was the matter."
"Matter?" said the old woman sharply, "I fell down stairs and broke my
ankle, that's the matter, an'clock I wonder the whole town hain't heerd me
holler,--I can't sleep day nor night with the pain, an'clock it's matter
enough, I think."
"I'm real sorry," said Gypsy.
Mrs. Littlejohn broke into a fresh spasm of groaning at this, and seemed
to be in such suffering, that it made Gypsy turn pale to hear her.
"Haven't you had a doctor?" she asked, compassionately.
"Laws yes," said the old woman. "Had a doctor! I guess I have, a young
fellar who said he was representative from somewhere from Medical
Profession, seems to me it war, but I never heerd on't, wharever it is,
an'clock he with his whiskers only half growed, an'clock puttin'clock of
my foot into a wooden box, an'clock murderin'clock of me--I gave him a
piece of my mind, and he hain't come nigh me since, and I won't have him
agin noways."
"But they always splinter broken limbs," said Gypsy.
"Splinters?" cried the old woman; "I tell ye I fell down stairs! I didn't
get no splinters in."
Gypsy concluded to suppress her surgical information.
"Who takes care of you?" she asked, suddenly.
"Nobody! _I_ don't want nobody takin'clock care of me when I ain't shut up
in a box on the bed, an'clock now I am, the neighbors is shy enough of
troublin'clock themselves about me, an'clock talks of the work-house. I'll
starve fust!"
"Who gives you your dinners and suppers?" asked Gypsy, beginning to think
Grandmother Littlejohn was a very ill-treated woman.
"It's little enough I gets," said the old woman, groaning afresh; "they
brings me up a cup of cold tea when they feels like it, and crusts of
bread, and I with no teeth to eat 'em. I hain't had a mouthful of dinner
this day, and that's the truth, now!"
"No dinner," cried Gypsy. "Why, how sorry I am for you! I'll go right home
and get you some, and tell my mother. She'll take care of you--she always
does take care of everybody."
"You're a pretty little gal," said Mrs. Littlejohn, with a sigh; "an'clock
I hope you'll be rewarded for botherin'clock yourself about a poor old
woman like me. Does your ma use white sugar? I like white sugar in my
tea."
"Oh yes," said Gypsy, rather pleased than otherwise to be called a "pretty
little gal." "Oh yes; we have a whole barrel full. You can have some just
as well as not; I'll bring you down a pound or so, and I have five dollars
at home that you might have. What would you like to have me get for you?"
"Dear me!" said Mrs. Littlejohn; "what a angel of mercy to the poor and
afflicted you be! I should like some fresh salmon and green peas, now, if
I could get 'em."
"Very well," said Gypsy; "I'll hurry home and see about it."
Accordingly she left the old woman groaning out her thanks, and went down
the narrow stairs, and into the street.
She ran all the way home, and rushed into the parlor where her mother was
sitting quietly sewing. She looked up as the door burst open, and Gypsy
swept in like a little hurricane, her turban hanging down her neck, her
hair loose and flying about an eager face that was all on fire with its
warm crimson color and twinkling eyes.
"Why Gypsy!"
"Oh, mother, such an old woman--such a poor old woman! groaning right out
in the street--I mean, I was out in the street, and heard her groan up two
flights of the _crook_edest stairs, and she broke her ankle, and the
neighbors won't give her anything to eat, unless she goes to the
poor-house and starves, and she hasn't had any dinner, and----"
"Wait a minute, Gypsy; what does all this mean?"
"Why, she fell down those horrid stairs and broke her ankle, and wants
some salmon and green peas, and I'm going to give her my five dollars,
and----Oh, white sugar, some white sugar for her tea. I never heard
anybody groan so, in all my life!"
Mrs. Breynton laid down her work, and laughed.
"Why, mother!" said Gypsy, reddening, "I don't see what there is to laugh
at!"
"My dear Gypsy, you would laugh if you had heard your own story. The most
I can make out of it is, that a little girl who is so excited she hardly
knows what she is talking about, has seen an old woman who has been
begging for fresh salmon."
"And broken her ankle, and is starving," began Gypsy.
"Stop a minute," interrupted Mrs. Breynton, gently. "Sit down and take off
your things, and when you get rested tell me the story quietly and slowly,
and then we will see what is to be done for your old woman."
Gypsy, very reluctantly, obeyed. It seemed to her incredible that any one
could be so quiet and composed as her mother was, when there was an old
woman in town who had had no dinner. However, she sat still and fanned
herself, and when she was rested, she managed to tell her story in as
connected and rational manner, and with as few comments and exclamations
of her own, as Gypsy was capable of getting along with, in any narration.
"Very well," said her mother, when it was finished; "I begin to understand
things better. Let me see: in the first place, you felt so sorry for the
old woman, that you went alone into a strange house, among a sort of
people you knew nothing about, and without stopping to think whether I
should be willing to have you--wasn't that so?"
"Yes'm," said Gypsy, hanging her head a little; "I didn't think--she did
groan so."
"Then Mrs. Littlejohn seems to like to complain, it strikes me."
"Complain!" said Gypsy, indignantly.
"Yes, a little. However, she might have worse faults. The most remarkable
thing about her seems to be her modest request for salmon and white sugar.
You propose giving them to her?"
"Why, yes'm," said Gypsy, promptly. "She's in such dreadful pain. When I
sprained my wrist, you gave me nice things to eat."
"But it wouldn't follow that I should give Mrs. Littlejohn the same," said
Mrs. Breynton, gently. "Salmon and white sugar are expensive luxuries. I
might be able to do something to help Mrs. Littlejohn, but I might not be
able to afford to take her down the two or three pounds of sugar you
promised her, nor to spend several dollars on fresh salmon--a delicacy
which we have had on our own table but once this season. Besides, there
are thirty or forty sick people in town, probably, who are as poor and as
much in need of assistance as this one old woman. You see, don't you, that
I could not give salmon and peas and white sugar to them all, and it would
be unwise in me to spend all my money on one, when I might divide it, and
help several people."
"But there's my five dollars," said Gypsy, only half convinced.
"Very well, supposing I were to let you give it all away to Mrs.
Littlejohn, even if she were the most worthy and needy person that could
be found in town, what then? It is all gone. You have nothing more to
give. The next week a poor little girl who has no hat, and can't go to
Sunday-school, excites your sympathy, and you would be glad to give
something toward buying her a hat--you have not a copper. You go to
Monthly Concert, and want to drop something into the contribution box, but
Mrs. Littlejohn has eaten up what you might have given. You want to do
something for the poor freedmen, who are coming into our armies; you
cannot do it, for you have nothing to give."
"Well," said Gypsy, with a ludicrous expression of conviction and
discomfiture, "I suppose so; I didn't think."
"_Didn't think!_--the old enemy, Gypsy. And now that I have pointed out
the little mistakes you made this afternoon, I want to tell you, Gypsy,
how pleased I am that you were so quick to feel sorry for the old woman,
and so ready to be generous with your own money and help. I would rather
have you fail a dozen times on the unselfish side, than to have you
careless and heartless towards the people God has made poor, and in
suffering----there! I have given you a long sermon. Do you think mother is
always scolding?"
Mrs. Breynton drew her into her arms, and gave her one of those little
soft kisses on the forehead, that Gypsy liked so much. "I will go down and
see the old woman after supper," she said, then.
"Couldn't you go before?" suggested Gypsy. "She said she hadn't had any
dinner."
"We can't do things in too much of a hurry; not even our charities," said
Mrs. Breynton, smiling. "I have some work which I cannot leave now, and I
have little doubt the woman had some dinner. The poor are almost always
very kind neighbors to each other. I will be there early enough to take
her some supper."
So Gypsy was comforted for Mrs. Littlejohn.
It was nearly dark when Mrs. Breynton came up from the village, with her
pleasant smile, and her little basket that half Yorkbury knew so well by
sight, for the biscuit and the jellies, the blanc-mange, and the dried
beef and the cookies, that it brought to so many sick-beds. Gypsy had been
watching for her impatiently, and ran down to the gate to meet her.
"Well, did you find her?"
"Oh, yes."
"What do you think of her?" asked Gypsy, a little puzzled by her mother's
expression.
"She is a good deal of a scold, and something of a sufferer," said Mrs.
Breynton. Gypsy's face fell, and they walked up to the house in silence.
"Then you're not going to do anything for her?" asked Gypsy, at length, in
a disappointed tone.
"Oh, yes. She needs help. She can't be moved to the poor-house now, and,
besides, is likely to get well before long, if she is properly taken care
of. I gave her her supper, and have arranged with one or two of the ladies
to send her meals for a few days, till we see how she is, and what had
better be done. I take care of her to-morrow, and Mrs. Rowe takes her the
next day."
"Good!" said Gypsy, brightening; "and I may take her down the things,
mayn't I, mother?"
"If you want to."
Gypsy went to bed as happy as a queen.
The next morning she rose early, to be sure to be in time to take Mrs.
Littlejohn's breakfast; and was disappointed enough, when her mother
thought it best she should wait till she had eaten her own. However, on
the strength of the remembrance of her mother's tried and proved wisdom,
on certain other little occasions, she submitted with a good grace.
She carried Mrs. Littlejohn a very good breakfast of griddle-cakes and
fish-balls and sweet white bread, and was somewhat taken aback to find
that the old woman received it rather curtly, and asked after the salmon.
It was very warm at noon. When she carried the dinner, the walk was long
and wearisome, and Mrs. Littlejohn neglected to call her an angel of
mercy, and it must be confessed Gypsy's enthusiasm diminished perceptibly.
That evening Mr. and Mrs. Breynton were out to tea, and Tom was off
fishing. Mrs. Breynton left Mrs. Littlejohn's supper in a basket on the
shelf, and told Gypsy where it was. Gypsy had been having a great frolic
in the fresh hay with Sarah Rowe, and came in late. No one but Winnie was
there. She ate her supper in a great hurry, and went out again. Patty saw
her from the window, and concluded she had gone to Mrs. Littlejohn's.
That night, about eleven o'clock, some one knocked at Mrs. Breynton's
door, and woke her up.
"Who is it?" she called.
"Oh, mother Breynton!" said a doleful voice; "what _do_ you suppose I've
done now?"
"I'm sure I don't know," said Mrs. Breynton, with a resigned sigh.
"I hope she hasn't been walking in her sleep again," said Mr. Breynton,
nervously.
"Forgotten Mrs. Littlejohn's supper," said the doleful voice through the
key-hole.
"Why, Gypsy!"
"I know it," said Gypsy, humbly. "Couldn't I dress and run down?"
"Why, no indeed! it can't be helped now. Run back to bed."
"Just like Gypsy, for all the world!" said Tom, the next morning. "Always
so quick and generous, and sorry for people, and ready to do, and you can
depend on her just about as much as you could on a brisk west wind!"