Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: July 18, 2025
Down went Gypsy's work, and a whole handful of pink and white blossoms came fluttering into Winnie's eyes. "How am I going to sew?" said Gypsy, despairingly; "you're so exactly in the right place to be hit. I don't believe Mrs. Surly herself could help snowballing you." "Mrs. Surly snowball! Why, I never saw her. Wouldn't it be just funny?" "Winnie Breynton, will you please to go away?"
"Jemima Breynton!" Now you might about as well challenge Gypsy to a duel as call her Jemima; so— "What do you want?" she said, none too respectfully. "I have something to say to you, Jemima Breynton." "Say ahead," said Gypsy, under her breath, and did not stir an inch. Distance certainly lent enchantment to the view when Mrs. Surly was in the case.
"Does your ma allow you to be so bold as to play boys' games with boys, right out in sight of folks?" vociferated Mrs. Surly. "Certainly," nodded Gypsy. "It's your turn, Tom." "Well, it's my opinion, Gypsy Breynton, you're a romp. You're nothing but a romp, and if I was your ma——" Tom dropped his knife just then, stood up and looked at Mrs. Surly. For reasons best known to herself, Mrs.
Gypsy could never bear to see anybody cry; and then the little creature was so ragged and thin. "I live there," said the child, pointing vaguely down the street. "Mother's to home there somewhars." "I'll go with you and find your mother," said Gypsy; and taking the child's hand, she started off in her usual impulsive fashion, without a thought beyond her pity. "Gypsy! Gypsy Breynton!" called Joy.
"I call it an uncommon bore, this doing nothing but looking at the trees. I say, Breynton, the slope's easy here for a quarter of a mile; come ahead." "No, thank you; I don't approve of racing up mountains." Tom might have said he didn't approve of being beaten; the iron-gray was no match for the colt, and he knew it. "Who'll race?" persisted Mr. Francis, impatiently; "isn't there anybody?"
Jonathan Jones's trees, this afternoon at two o'clock. Did you ever hear anything so perfectly mag?"—mag being "Gypsy" for magnificent. "Who are to make the party?" asked her mother. "Oh, I and Sarah Rowe and Delia Guest and—and Sarah Rowe and I," said Gypsy, talking very fast. "And Joy," said Mrs. Breynton, gently. "Joy, of course. That's what I came in to say."
Breynton would not consent to letting her silver ones go, and Gypsy thought the others were better, because it seemed more like "being wild." Indeed, she would have dispensed with spoons altogether, but Sarah gave a little scream at the idea, and thought she couldn't possibly eat a meal without.
Breynton, that supper would have been a dismal affair. But she had such a cozy, comfortable way about her, that nobody could help being cozy and comfortable if they tried hard for it. After a while, when Mr.
"Do I ever have an idea that isn't sensible?" said Gypsy, demurely. "I prefer not to be slandered, if you please, Mrs. Breynton." "Well, but what's the idea?" "It's just this. Miss Jane Maythorne is a heathen." "Is that all?" "No. But Miss Jane Maythorne is a heathen, and ought to cut off her head before she lets Peace sew. But you see she doesn't know she's a heathen, and Peace will sew."
Breynton had been on the continual worry about her ever since they left Yorkbury, afraid she would catch cold in the draft, lose her glove out of the window, go out on the platform, or fall in stepping from car to car, Gypsy did not pay the immediate heed to his warning that she ought to have done.
Word Of The Day
Others Looking