Joy was precise and neat about everything.

Gypsy was not.

Then Joy kept still, and Gypsy talked; Joy told _parts_ of stories, Gypsy told the whole; Joy had some foolish notions about money and dresses and jewelry, on which Gypsy looked with the most supreme contempt--not on the dresses, but the notions.
Therefore there was plenty of material for rubs and jars, and of all sad things to creep into a happy house, these rubs and jars are the saddest.
One day both the girls woke full of mischief.

It was a bracing November day, cool as an ice-cream and clear as a whistle.

The air sparkled like a fountain of golden sands, and was as full of oxygen as it could hold; and oxygen, you must know, is at the bottom of a great deal of the happiness and misery, goodness and badness, of this world.
[Illustration] "I tell _you_ if I don't feel like cutting up!" said Gypsy, on the way to school.