Here, I'll go first and help you, and Sarah can come next." So up went Gypsy, nimble as a squirrel, over the low-hanging boughs that swayed with her weight.
"Come, Joy! I can't wait." Joy trembled and screamed, and came.

She crawled a little ways up the lowest of the branches, and stopped, frightened by the motion.
"Catch hold of the upper bough and stand up; then you can walk it," called Gypsy, half out of sight now among the thick leaves.
Joy did as she was told--her feet slipped, the lower branch swung away from under her, and there she hung by both hands in mid-air.

She was not more than four feet from the ground, and could have jumped down without the slightest difficulty, but that she was altogether too frightened to do.

So she swung back and forth like a lantern, screaming as loud as she could scream.
Gypsy was peculiarly sensitive to anything funny, and she quite forgot that Joy was really frightened; indeed, used as she was to the science of tree-climbing all her life, that a girl could hang within four feet of the ground, and not know enough to jump, seemed to her perfectly incomprehensible.
"Jump, Joy, jump!" she called, between her shouts of laughter.
"No, no, don't, you might break your arm," cried Delia Guest, who hadn't the slightest scruple about telling a falsehood if she were going to have something to laugh at by the means.

Poor Joy was between Scylla and Charybdis.