“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.”