A little gipsy lass

by Gordon Stables

While storm-stayed among the beautiful snow, with pure air blowing around him, and the scenery of mountain, forest, and stream so fairy-like and enchanting, Antony could not help thinking of the kind of life that his father had half-recommended to him—namely, that of London. Comparisons are odious, it is true; still, for once in a way, Antony could not help making them.

'Frank Antony Blake,' he said to himself, 'I will tell you something, but you are never to let it go any farther. All around you here there are beauty and romance that nothing on earth could surpass, while yonder in the city are the black mire of muddy streets, bare trees dripping soot, darkness, and choking fog. Frank Antony Blake, you have the better of it, you lucky old dog!'

He had frequent letters from Manby Hall, from Aggie, for she was the only real scribe; and almost every one of these now breathed the wish that he might soon return. Antony's mother wrote but seldom, being very much of an invalid and taking but little interest in anything.

'Still frozen in,' he said in a telegram to Aggie.

Well, there were sports in winter here that were not to be despised, and one of these was white hare shooting. Antony thought himself fit, and he was fairly so; but he found that a twenty-mile walk over the mountains after these Alpine hares, and the same distance back, was trying to his heart as well as to his legs. Yet the sturdy fellows who went with him, and the hardy Highland keepers, thought nothing of it. One day in particular he felt so tired when nearing home that he scarce could carry his gun; but very much surprised was he to be told by a keeper that he was going to walk five miles to a ball as soon as he changed his kilt, and would no doubt dance all night and go to the hill after breakfast in the morning.

Heigh-ho! pleasure of every kind comes to an end in this world, and sooner or later the world itself will come to an end. So, after innumerable adventures on the road, Antony with his caravans found himself one forenoon rolling into Biffins Lee's camp once more. But never, never could he forget the joys and romance of that winter tour in the Highlands. All hands gathered round to hear them tell their story, and everybody was pleased to see them back once more safe and sound.

Although the real home of a dog is wherever his master or mistress is, still no one nowadays would be listened to who disputed the fact that the honest fellow thinks and remembers, and that he can no more forget the days of auld langsyne than can a human being. Indeed, on his return Wallace's behaviour was very human. He not only went a round of inspection all about the camp, as if to see that everything was as before; but he must say, 'How do you do?' in his own way to every animal in the show, especially Bruin the bear, whom doubtless Wallace looked upon as a hero. But Bruin was very glad to see him, and proved this by actually getting on his hind-legs and performing a wild dance of his own which would have looked very ridiculous had he not been so really sincere.

The springtime had commenced—that is, it was the middle of February, and this is Nature's spring, let astronomers rule it otherwise if they please. But the buds that had first shown life in November by thrusting off the old leaves, that fell withered and brown on pathway and bank, showed signs now of fullness and bursting. They but waited in silence for balmier breezes to blow and for the sun to shine more warmly at midday. Then the coy young leaflets would begin to show. On banks beneath the rocky cliffs and on old gray boulders the velvety moss assumed a brighter face, and wee olive-leaves appeared on the honeysuckle, which is ever the first to give show of life to wild hedge or copse.

Away in the woods the hoodies were building a nest here and a nest there in pine-tree or tall elm, for they are not social birds. These worked in silence; but high in the larches the magpies made more din and chattering.

Birds of all kinds were more gaily dressed now to welcome the incoming season of joy and love. The mavises and blackbirds sang loud and jubilant in the plantation's shade; they wanted all the world to know that they were happy. But even the tinier birds, songless as yet, that hopped from tree to tree, looked very busy and vastly important, for each little feathered bosom held a sweet secret that none but themselves should know.