Gypsy Breynton | Page 7

apron and the unmended stockings she tumbled into her basket, then went back and folded them up neatly; she also made a journey into the woodshed expressly to put the hatchet where it belonged, on the chopping-block. By this time it was quite dark, but she lighted a lamp, and went at it afresh. Winnie came up to the entry door, and, at a respectful distance, told her they were "popping" corn down stairs; but she shook her head, and proceeded with her dusting like a hero. Tom whistled for her up the chimney-flue; but she only gave a little thump on the floor, and said she was busy.
It was like walking into a labyrinth to dispose of the contents of that table-cloth. How to put away the pencils and the rubber, when the drawing-box was lost; how to collect all the cookey-crumbs and wandering needles, that slipped out of your finger as fast as you took hold of them; where on earth to put those torn geography leaves, that wouldn't stay in the book, and couldn't be thrown away; where was the cork to the inkstand? and how should she hang up the riding-whip, with the string gone? These were questions that might well puzzle a more systematic mind than Gypsy's. However, in due time, the room was restored to an order that was delightful to see,--for, if Gypsy made up her mind to a thing, she could do it thoroughly and skilfully,--and she returned to the bureau drawer. This drawer was a fair specimen of the rest of Gypsy's drawers, shelves, and cupboards, and their name was Legion. Moreover, it was an "upper drawer," and where is the girl that does not know what a delicate science is involved in the rearranging of these upper drawers? So many laces, and half-worn collars that don't belong there, are always getting in; loose coppers have such a way of accumulating in the crevices; all your wandering pins and hair-pins make it a rendezvous by a species of free-masonry utterly inexplicable; then your little boxes fit in so tightly, and never have room to open, and are always getting their covers caught when you shut the drawer, and, when you try to keep them down, you pinch your fingers so.
Please to imagine, O orderly readers! who keep every pin in its proper place, the worst looking upper drawer that your horrified eyes ever beheld, and you will have some idea of this drawer of Gypsy's.
There were boxes large, and boxes small, boxes round, square, and oblong; boxes with covers (only two), and boxes without; handkerchiefs, under-sleeves, collars,--both clean and soiled,--laces and ribbons, and bows and nets; purses and old gloves, a piece of soap, a pile of letters, scratched and scattering jewelry, a piece of dried cake, several fans all covered with dust, and nobody knew what not, in the lower strata, out of sight.
Gypsy sat and looked at it for about two minutes in utter despair. Then she just turned the whole thing bottom upwards in a great heap on the floor, and began to investigate matters, with her cheeks very red.
Presently, the family down stairs heard a little scream. Winnie stamped up to see what was the matter.
"Why, I've found my grammar!" said Gypsy. "It's the one in marble covers I lost ever--ever so long ago, and had to get a new one. It was right down at the bottom of the drawer!"
Pretty soon there was another little scream, and Gypsy called down the chimney:
"Tom Breynton! What do you think? I've found that dollar bill of yours you thought I'd burnt up."
After awhile there came still another scream, a pretty loud one this time. Mrs. Breynton came up to see what had happened.
"I've cut my hand," said Gypsy, faintly; "there was a great heap of broken glass in my drawer!"
"Broken glass!"
"Yes, I'm sure I don't know how it came there; I guess I was going to frame a picture."
Mrs. Breynton bound up her finger, and went down again. She was no more than fairly seated before there came from up-stairs, not a scream, but one of the merriest laughs that ever was heard.
"What is to pay, now?" called Tom, from the entry.
"Oh, dear!" gasped Gypsy; "it's too funny for anything! If here isn't the carving-knife we scolded Patty for losing last winter, and--Oh, Tom, just look here!--my stick of peanut candy, that I thought I'd eaten up, all stuck on to my lace under-sleeves!"
It was past Gypsy's bed-time when the upper drawer was fairly in order and put back in its place. Three others remained to go through the same process, as well as wardrobe shelves innumerable. Gypsy, with her characteristic impulsiveness, would have sat up till twelve o'clock to complete the work, but her mother said "No" very