The lank horses neighed as they entered the clearing, and in a moment the wagon was surrounded by a swarm of tawny-skinned people, men, women and children. Without speaking a word to any one, save the crone, the dark-visaged man led Edith and the brown-eyed little girl to a tent which they entered. “Now,” said he, for the first time speaking to Edith, “if you are a good girl, you will be treated well, but if you are a cross and troublesome, look out! And you, Little Brown Eyes,” he: continued, “see that your mate eats her supper when it comes. That’s all.” He then left them.
Edith advanced to the little girl and was about to speak, when the latter raised her finger, shook her head, and pointed to the door. Edith looked in the direction indicated, and saw the old crone seated without, just in the act of lighting her pipe. “You can talk, but speak low; old Myra will try to hear what we say,” and the little brown-eyed girl kissed Edith on the forehead.
“Oh, I am so dreadfully frightened,” whispered Edith, “will they never take me home again?” “I cannot tell,” replied the child. “I, too, was taken from my home, a long, long time ago; but Myra and Ike—that was Ike who came with us to the tent—say they will take me home some day. My name is Mary, yet they call me Little Brown Eyes; maybe they’ll call you Little Blue Eyes.”
This conversation was cut short by the entrance of a gypsy boy, who brought two tin plates of chicken stew, some bread and a big bowl of milk. He said nothing, merely placing their supper on the ground, when he walked out again without so
much as looking at them. Little Brown Eyes sat on one end of an empty sack and motioned Edith to sit on the other end; which she did.
She little girls, in spite of their low spirits, could not resist the savory smell of the stew, for they were very hungry, and in a short time nothing remained of what the gypsy boy brought them except the empty bowls and the two tin plates. All at once there was a great noise in the camp. The tramping of horses’ feet could be heard, and the voices of men shouting; what could it mean? The little girls looked at one another in utter wonderment. “Let us peep out,” said Little Brown Eyes, and raising one corner of the canvas they looked out. Everything was in confusion. A body of horsemen were pulling down the tents, some of the gypsies were fleeing to the woods, while others were opposing the horsemen with all their might. Just then the dark-visaged man and Myra entered the tent. “Come, quick,” yelled the man, “this way,” and taking hold of each little girl, he pulled them to the door. Edith uttered a scream. Immediately the horsemen galloped toward them. “My papa! my papa!” cried Little Brown Eyes. A fine looking gentleman leaped from his horse, and in a moment his daughter was clasped in his arms. “Take these people prisoners,” said he, “they shall pay dearly for kidnapping my daughter. Who is this?” he continued, looking at Edith. “This, papa, is a little girl Ike stole to-day, as she lay asleep on her front porch.” “Poor child, we must return her to her parents,” spoke Little Brown Eyes’ papa; “come, we will go away from here at once.” So the little girls were led away to the lane where stood waiting a splendid carriage. “Oh, see! there comes brother Frank in his donkey-cart,” and clapping her hands with joy, Edith pointed down the lane, where, sure enough, her brother came jogging along as complacently as if nothing had happened.
The rest of the horsemen rode up to the carriage, and were about to start, when one of their number said, “Look! we have fixed the gypsies.” All looked toward the camp. It was in a blaze; both tents and wagons were being devoured by the red-tongued flames. “Why, Edith,” shouted Frank, who had just reached the carriage, “what on earth are you doing here?” The heat from the burning camp became so intense that Edith’s face was almost scorched, “Edith,” shouted Frank, louder than before. Edith looked at her brother, rubbed her eyes, and then looked again. “Where are the gypsies?” she asked—“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Frank, “you have been dreaming; you are almost baked by the sun.”
—Geo. M. Vickers.
“When, lo! from out the lake arose a horrid monster form.”