Not a patch of woods, a pond, a brook, a river, a mountain, in the region (and there, in Vermont, there were plenty of them), but Gypsy knew it by heart.
There was not a trout-brook for miles where she had not fished.

There was hardly a tree she had not climbed, or a fence or stone-wall--provided, of course, that it was away from the main road and people's eyes--that she had not walked.

Gypsy could row and skate and swim, and play ball and make kites, and coast and race, and drive, and chop wood.

Altogether Gypsy seemed like a very pretty, piquant mistake; as if a mischievous boy had somehow stolen the plaid dresses, red cheeks, quick wit, and little indescribable graces of a girl, and was playing off a continual joke on the world.

Old Mrs.Surly, who lived opposite, and wore green spectacles, used to roll up her eyes, and say What _would_ become of that child?
A whit cared Gypsy for Mrs.Surly! As long as her mother thought the sport and exercise in the open air a fine thing for her, and did not complain of the torn dresses oftener than twice a week, she would roll her hoop and toss her ball under Mrs.Surly's very windows, and laugh merrily to see the green glasses pushed up and taken off in horror at what Mrs.Surly termed an "impropriety." Therefore it created no surprise in the family one morning, when school-time came and passed, and Gypsy did not make her appearance, that she was reported to be "making a raft" down in the orchard swamp.
"Run and call her, Winnie," said Mrs.Breynton.