JUST LIKE GYPSY One afternoon Gypsy was coming home from the post-office.

It was a rare June day.

The great soft shadows fell and faded on the mountains, and the air was sweet with the breath of a hundred fields where crimson clovers nodded in the sleepy wind.

It seemed to Gypsy that she had never seen such mellow sunlight, or skies so pure and blue; that no birds ever sung such songs in the elm-trees, and never were butterflies so golden and brown and beautiful as those which fluttered drowsily over the tiny roadside clovers.

The thought came to her like a little sudden heart-throb, that thrilled her through and through, that this world was a very great world, and very beautiful,--it seemed so alive and happy, from the arch of the blazing sky down to the blossoms of the purple weeds that hid in the grass.