Gypsies

He had, in his ninety years opened the cranky door that let the horses out and hay and fodder in, a hundred million times. And so he did this day, a beggar had been seen, he was, by all appearances a bloody gypsy from the east. They'd sell you something they had stolen down the road and cried with coal-black eyes in front of you and all who would still be receptive and a trifle soft. He saw the odour before he smelled it, unwashed and sly, with beards of gray he'd grabbed the pitchfork on his way and was prepared to stick it to the freaks. A little girl, of such angelic looks and beauty had walked the steps up to the stop and lifted soft and pudgy hands to help until together with the farmer it gave way and creaking sounds announced the dawn and the beginning of a novel New Year's Day.