“Yes, isn't she cute?” agreed Tess.
But, just at that, a second shadow fell athwart the sunny sward, a hand pushed Gypsy's head from the opening, and Mrs. O'Neill's voice said:
“If you girls don't want your whereabouts given away, you'd better teach that pony not to stand with her head poked in the door for a half-hour without budging!”
The ensuing scolding wasn't pleasant, but neither of the miscreants had the heart to blame Gypsy. She was so cute.
She certainly was cute.
The second day of her ownership Tess judged it necessary to give Gypsy a switching; Gypsy declined to be saddled and went circling round and round the yard in an abandon of playfulness. So Tess snapped off a peach-tree switch and, finally cornering the pony, proceeded to use it. Missy pleaded, but Tess stood firm for discipline. However Gypsy revenged herself; for two hours she wouldn't let Tess come near her—she'd sidle up and lay her velvet nose against Missy's shoulder until Tess was within an arm's length, and then, tossing her head spitefully, caper away.
No wonder the girls ejaculated at her smartness.
Finally she turned gentle as a lamb, soft as silk, and let Tess adjust the saddle; but scarcely had Tess ridden a block before—wrench!—something happened to the saddle, and Tess was left seated by the roadside while Gypsy vanished in a cloud of dust. The imp had deliberately swelled herself out so that the girth would be loose!
Every day brought new revelations of Gypsy's intelligence. Missy took to spending every spare minute at Tess's. Under this new captivation her own pet, Poppy, was thoughtlessly neglected. And duties such as practicing, dusting and darning were deliberately shirked. Even reading had lost much of its wonted charm: the haunting, soul-swelling rhythms of poetry, or the oddly phrased medieval romances which somehow carried you back through the centuries—into the very presence of those queenly heroines who trail their robes down the golden stairways of legend. But Missy's feet seemed to have forgotten the familiar route to the Public Library and, instead, ever turned eagerly toward the O'Neills'—that is, toward the O'Neills' barn.
And, if she had admired Tess before, she worshipped her now for so generously permitting another to share the wonderful pony—it was like being a half owner. And the odd thing was that, though Gypsy had undeniable streaks of wildness, Missy never felt a tremor while on her. On Gypsy she cantered, she trotted, she galloped, just as naturally and enjoyably as though she had been born on horseback. Then one epochal day, emulating Tess's example, she essayed to ride astride. It was wonderful. She could imagine herself a Centaur princess. And, curiously, she felt not at all embarrassed. Yet she was glad that, back there in the lot, she was screened by the big barn from probably critical eyes.