Of birds I had no end-robins, purple-martins, wrens, bulfinches, bobolinks, ringdoves, and pigeons.  At one time I took solid comfort in the iniquitous society of a dissipated old parrot, who talked so terribly, that the Rev. Wibird Hawkins, happening to get a sample of Poll’s vituperative powers, pronounced him “a benighted heathen,” and advised the Captain to get rid of him.  A brace of turtles supplanted the parrot in my affections; the turtles gave way to rabbits; and the rabbits in turn yielded to the superior charms of a small monkey, which the Captain bought of a sailor lately from the coast of Africa.

But Gypsy was the prime favorite, in spite of many rivals.  I never grew weary of her.  She was the most knowing little thing in the world.  Her proper sphere in life—­and the one to which she ultimately attained—­was the saw-dust arena of a travelling circus.  There was nothing short of the three R’s, reading, ’riting, and ’rithmetic, that Gypsy couldn’t be taught.  The gift of speech was not hers, but the faculty of thought was.

My little friend, to be sure, was not exempt from certain graceful weaknesses, inseparable, perhaps, from the female character.  She was very pretty, and she knew it.  She was also passionately fond of dress—­by which I mean her best harness.  When she had this on, her curvetings and prancings were laughable, though in ordinary tackle she went along demurely enough.  There was something in the enamelled leather and the silver-washed mountings that chimed with her artistic sense.  To have her mane braided, and a rose or a pansy stuck into her forelock, was to make her too conceited for anything.

She had another trait not rare among her sex.  She liked the attentions of young gentlemen, while the society of girls bored her.  She would drag them, sulkily, in the cart; but as for permitting one of them in the saddle, the idea was preposterous.  Once when Pepper Whitcomb’s sister, in spite of our remonstrances, ventured to mount her, Gypsy gave a little indignant neigh, and tossed the gentle Emma heels over head in no time.  But with any of the boys the mare was as docile as a lamb.

Her treatment of the several members of the family was comical.  For the Captain she entertained a wholesome respect, and was always on her good behavior when he was around.  As to Miss Abigail, Gypsy simply laughed at her—­literally laughed, contracting her upper lip and displaying all her snow-white teeth, as if something about Miss Abigail struck her, Gypsy, as being extremely ridiculous.

Kitty Collins, for some reason or another, was afraid of the pony, or pretended to be.  The sagacious little animal knew it, of course, and frequently, when Kitty was banging out clothes near the stable, the mare being loose in the yard, would make short plunges at her.  Once Gypsy seized the basket of clothespins with her teeth, and rising on her hind legs, pawing the air with her fore feet followed Kitty clear up to the scullery steps.