HI!!!!!
I am pressed for time and can't do shout outs for my reviews, I
will do that with the next fic, I promise!!! Here is chapter 6!!!
Enjoy!!! Hope you like!
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The Spanish gypsy. He had this strength in his eyes that I had never
seen before, particularly in someone so young. His energy astounded
me and the intelligence he possessed went beyond his years. It might
have come from his background. After all, gypsies are said to have
a type of enlightenment about life and people that others seem to
lack. He also seemed to see the world through the eyes of a child
yet still have the understanding of an adult. That is a rare thing,
and I should know.

I think his name meant "wanderer" or "vagrant", but I can never be
too sure. He received the name Bumlets before he came to us, but we
went along with it. The person was actually more interesting than
the name, to tell you the truth. When he was around, there was
always something to get into. He had thousands of stories in his
head for rainy nights and games to play for sunny days. These things
had been past down to him by his parents, who had moved to New York
like so many other had: in search for a better life.

What they found, instead, was hostility. They were supposedly filthy
creatures who deserved nothing more than to have scraps thrown at
them on the streets. Intolerance is the most savage of beasts,
because its spoiled by the ignorance of conformists and feeds off
the pain of individuals. Their Catholic faith was attacked by some,
while their gypsy heritage was attacked by others. This, of course,
made it impossible for Bumlet's father to find a job. And they call
this the land of opportunity? Right.

He arrived to the lodging house on an April evening, and I remember
distinctly that it had been storming. His black hair lay disheveled
and dripping as he asked if there was any possibility for him to get
a job as a newsie. He started the next morning and worked selling
every edition everyday , rain or shine. God, it could have been
hailing bullets and he would have continued like it was nothing.
That was Bumlets, though.

He stayed in the lodging house to relieve some stress from his
parents, and he gave them his profits each day. The beginning weeks
were harsh for the young vagrant. The others donated part of their
profits to help feed Bumlets. Sooner or later, his mother got a job
cleaning the tenements around the area and his father began working
in a coal mine where his gypsy heritage didn't matter.

Like all vagabonds, Bumlets soon felt the need to move on. Who am I
to argue with a restless soul? His family had done it for centuries,
and it would have been impractical to think it would have ended with
Bumlets. He walked out suddenly, which is the same way he walked in.

He did keep contact though. I'm not sure if sending letters to old
friends was a cultural thing or not, but he did it anyway. He
traveled all over the country, stopping in odd places to get odd
jobs in order to support himself to go on to the next odd place. He
sent pictures of mountain ranges, deserts, and grasslands. I saw
every site there was to see in this country through his photographs
and post cards. They stopped after a while. Why, I can't say.
Perhaps he was too much of a drifter to keep contact with past
friends. I miss his photographs, and am still unsure about that name
of his, but the person was what was truly the best to have known.
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There's Bumlets's story! Reviews are more than welcome!!!

Stretch