“I wish I were a cloud,” said Gypsy, suddenly, after a long silence. “A little white cloud, with a silver fringe, and not have anything to do but float round all day in the sunshine,—no lessons nor torn dresses nor hateful old sewing to do.”
“S‘posin’ it thunder-stormed,” suggested Winnie. “You might get striked.”
“That would be fun,” said Gypsy, laughing. “I always wanted to see where the lightning came from.”
“Supposing there came a wind, and blew you away,” suggested Tom, sleepily.
“I never thought of that,” said Gypsy. “I guess I’d rather do the sewing.”
Presently a little scarlet maple-blossom floated out on the wind, and dropped right into Gypsy’s mouth (which most unpoetically happened to be open).
“Just think,” said Gypsy, whose thoughts seemed to have taken a metaphysical turn, “of being a little red flower, that dies and drops into the water, and there’s never any fruit nor anything,—I wonder what it was made for.”
“Perhaps just to make you ask that question,” answered Tom; and there was a great deal more in the answer than Tom himself supposed. This was every solitary word that was said on that boat-ride. A little is so much better than much, sometimes, and goes a great deal further.
It seemed to Gypsy the pleasantest boat-ride she had ever taken; but Tom became tired of it before she did, and went up to the house, carrying Winnie with him. Gypsy stayed a little while to row by herself.
“Be sure you lock the boat when you come up,” called Tom, in starting.