That is to say, either gypsies might have lived in
it, or anyone that did live in it would soon be properly gipsified. It was
painted in gay colours, and had little white blinds with very neat waists
and red sashes round them. That is the right kind of caravan. The brown
caravans highly varnished are wrong: they may be more luxurious, but no
gypsy would look at them.
The body of it was green--a good apple green--and the panels were lined with
blue. Some people say that blue and green won't go together; but don't let
us take any notice of them. Just look at the bed of forget-me-nots, or a
copse of bluebells; or, for that matter, try to see the Avories' caravan.
The window frames and bars were white. The spokes and hubs of the wheels
were red. It was most awfully gay.
Inside--but the inside of a caravan is so exciting that I hardly know how
to hold my pen. The inside of a caravan! Can you imagine a better phrase
than that? I can't. If Coleridge's statement is true that poetry is the
best words in the best order, then that is the best poem: the inside of a
caravan!
The caravan was sixteen feet six inches long and six feet two inches high
inside. From the ground it stood ten feet. It was six feet four inches
wide.
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