A Little Gipsy Lass by Gordon Stables

One beautiful morning in the fa' o' the year Lotty set out soon after breakfast -- which, so short were the days, had now to be taken by lamplight -- to feed the sea-gulls. Wallace went bounding along with her, and Chops came puffing up behind, carrying the basket. But, do what he could, or pant and blow as he might, the fat boy could not keep pace with the nimble gipsy lass, especially as it was nearly all uphill until they reached the summit of a knoll rising green among the glorious woodlands.

'Wish I wasn't so fat, Miss Lotty,' he said, putting down the basket.

'If you had been an infant prodigy like me, Chops, you would not have got so stout.'

'No, w'ich I knows that; but, lor'! in our line o' business, Lotty, there must be some o' all sorts, mus'n't there, miss? Look at Mary, f'r instance; she fills a niche, an' fills it well, as the boss says. Look at Skeleton; 'e drops intil another niche. An' look at me. If I was gettin' thin, an' Skeleton a-puttin' on o' flesh, the show would be ruined. That's wot I says. Is not them your sentiments, Lotty?'

'Exactly, Chops; but -- what were you saying?'

'I was a-sayin'' -- --

'Oh, look at those woods, how lovely they are, Chops. Don't they inspire you, boy?'

'Ah! you've been a-readin' o' Shakespeare again; but I'm a bit o' a pote myself, Lotty, and prisintly, w'en we feeds the gulls' -- --

Woods and forests are romantic everywhere and at all seasons of the year: on the banks of quiet streams in summer time, where in their shade the wild-flowers hide and kingfishers dart to and fro; by the lake-sides, in rolling clouds, their greenery mirrored in the dark water; spreading over valleys and climbing over hills or high up the mountain's side itself, till checked by Nature's warning hand. But far north here, November is the artists' month _par excellence_, because, though touched with the frosts, the forests are not yet bare, and on the braes rising in loveliness on every hand the foliage, touched by the sunlight, gleams with every hue and tint, crimson of maple, bronze of beech or oak, brown of the elm, and dark-green of the waving pine, with higher up the silver stems of the weeping-birch.

No wonder that this enthusiastic little gipsy lass stood for a while with face upturned, the wind lifting and toying with her hair, to gaze around her and admire. But yonder, sailing tack and half-tack, and coming nearer and nearer to her, were her friends the gulls -- sea-birds of every size and species. During the summer months they might have been seen far up the rivers and streams, sometimes seventy miles from their native ocean, whitening every stone or boulder, or in rows on fences around farmyards patiently waiting until it was feeding-time with the fowls, that they might share their meal. But even in the fa' o' the year, up among the mountains, storms and blizzards howl and blow, and the sea-birds are glad to seek the sands by the shores.

Chops opened the basket. Here were all the morning scraps from the camp, enough to feed a thousand wild-birds, and down they now crowded, swaying and screaming around the maiden as she tossed the pieces in every direction of the compass, that all might have a share. Among them were many of her own particular favourites or pets, and they had special tit-bits which they took from her hands or shoulders and even from her lips. But not all sea-gulls were they, for a sprinkling of rooks flew amongst them, and even warty-headed old carrion-crows and hoodies. These, however, had none of the dash and daring of the more elegant and shapely gulls, nor would they approach so closely to be fed. But the last particle had been distributed and devoured, and the birds went circling farther and farther off, until they seemed to melt away in the gray haze of distance.

Then Lotty threw the basket on the benty grass, and sat down for a few moments to look at the sea. It was of a darker blue to-day, because white clouds were casting great shadows down, and the breeze blowing from the east so rippled the surface that it had the appearance of some mighty river rolling on towards the land of the setting sun.

'But w'ich I were a-sayin' of, Miss Lotty, w'en you spoke like Shakespeare, I'm a bit o' a pote myself.'

'Indeed, boy!'

'I isn't so much o' a boy as I looks, Lotty. Lor' bless your innercent soul! I be sixteen an' carried for'ard again. Yes, I be a bit o' a pote, and 'as my dreams, just as the Immortal Willum had his'n.'

'And what may your dreams be, Chops?'

'Oh, I dreams, Miss Lotty, wot I du's'n't 'ardly tell you.'

'I've known you for long, long ages, Chops, so you needn't mind what you tell me.'

'Yes, Lotty, for long, long ages. Lor'! don't I remember, w'en you was a wee kinchin, a-carryin' o' you on my back, an' sometimes a-buryin' o' you, kickin' legs an' all, among the 'ay or among the 'eather.'

'But that isn't your dreams, Chops?'