95 files changed, 21676 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..6833f05
--- /dev/null
+++ b/.gitattributes
@@ -0,0 +1,3 @@
+* text=auto
+*.txt text
+*.md text
diff --git a/46015-0.txt b/46015-0.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..db7f943
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-0.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,9394 @@
+The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Gypsy's Parson, by George Hall,
+Illustrated by Fred Shaw
+
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+
+
+
+Title: The Gypsy's Parson
+       his experiences and adventures
+
+
+Author: George Hall
+
+
+
+Release Date: June 17, 2014  [eBook #46015]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+
+***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GYPSY'S PARSON***
+
+
+Transcribed from the J. B. Lippincott edition by David Price, email
+ccx074@pglaf.org
+
+             [Picture: The Rev. George Hall.  Photo: Brigham]
+
+
+
+
+
+                                   THE
+                              GYPSY’S PARSON
+
+
+                      HIS EXPERIENCES AND ADVENTURES
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+                                    BY
+
+                           THE REV. GEORGE HALL
+
+                     RECTOR OF RUCKLAND, LINCOLNSHIRE
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+                              _ILLUSTRATED_
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+                               PHILADELPHIA
+                         J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
+
+                 LONDON: SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON & CO. LTD.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+                                    TO
+                                 MY WIFE
+                               MY COMPANION
+                          ON MANY A GYPSY-JAUNT
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+                     “_They cast the glamour o’er him_.”
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+    “YOU must forgive us.  We are barbarians. . . .  We are ruffians of
+    the sun . . . and we must be forgiven everything.”
+
+    “It is easy to forgive in the sun,” Domini said.
+
+    “Madame, it is impossible to be anything but lenient in the sun.
+    That is my experience. . . .  But, as I was saying, the sun teaches
+    one a lesson of charity.  When I first came to live in Africa in the
+    midst of the sand-rascals—eh, Madame, I suppose as a priest I ought
+    to have been shocked by their goings-on.  And, indeed I tried to be,
+    I conscientiously did my best, but it was no good.  I couldn’t be
+    shocked.  The sunshine drove it all out of me.  I could only say, ‘It
+    is not for me to question le bon Dieu, and le bon Dieu has created
+    these people and set them here in the sand to behave as they do.
+    What is my business?  I can’t convert them.  I can’t change their
+    morals—I must just be a friend to them, cheer them up in their
+    sorrows, give them a bit if they’re starving, doctor them a
+    little—I’m a first-rate hand at making an Arab take a pill or a
+    powder—when they are ill, and I make them at home with the white
+    marabout.’  That’s what the sun has taught me, and every sand-rascal
+    and sand-rascal’s child in Amara is a friend of mine.”
+
+    “You are fond of the Arabs, then?” she said.
+
+    “Of course I am, Madame.  I can speak their language, and I’m as much
+    at home in their tents, and more, than I ever should be at the
+    Vatican—with all respect to the Holy Father.”
+
+(Conversation between Domini and Father Beret in _The Garden of Allah_,
+quoted here by the kind permission of Mr. Robert Hichens.)
+
+
+
+
+PREFACE
+
+
+NOT a few writers have essayed to study the Gypsies in dusty libraries.
+I have companioned with them on fell and common, racecourse and
+fairground, on the turfy wayside and in the city’s heart.  In my book,
+which is a record of actual experiences, I have tried to present the
+Gypsies just as I have found them, without minimising their faults or
+magnifying their virtues.  Most of the Gypsies mentioned in the following
+pages have now passed away, and of those who remain, many have, for
+obvious reasons, been renamed.
+
+For the majority of the pictures adorning my book, I owe a profound debt
+of gratitude to my friend, Mr. Fred Shaw; also, for their kind permission
+to include several pictures in my “Romany Gallery,” my cordial thanks are
+due to Mrs. Johnson, of Yatton, Rev. H. H. Malleson, Mr. William
+Ferguson, Mr. T. J. Lewis, Mr. H. Stimpson, and Mr. F. Wilkinson.
+
+The phonetics contained in this work are based upon a system invented by
+my friend, Mr. R. A. Scott Macfie, of the Gypsy Lore Society, whose
+innumerable kindnesses I most gratefully acknowledge.
+
+                                                                     G. H.
+
+RUCKLAND RECTORY,
+      NEAR LOUTH,
+         LINCOLNSHIRE.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+    CHAP.                                                         PAGE
+       I.  GYPSY COURT—MY INITIATION INTO GYPSYDOM                   1
+      II.  CHARACTERS OF THE COURT—READING BORROW                   16
+     III.  NORTH-COUNTRY GYPSIES                                    32
+      IV.  MY POACHING PUSSY—A ROMANY BENISON—MY FIRST TASTE        41
+           OF HEDGEHOG
+       V.  A GYPSY BAPTISM—ROMANY NAMES                             52
+      VI.  I MAKE A NEW ACQUAINTANCE                                57
+     VII.  THE BLACKPOOL GYPSYRY                                    71
+    VIII.  A TRENTSIDE FAIR                                         89
+      IX.  TAKEN FOR TRAMPS—AN EAST ANGLIAN FAMILY                  99
+       X.  PETERBOROUGH FAIR                                       118
+      XI.  A FORGOTTEN HIGHWAY—“ON THE ROAD” WITH                  134
+           JONATHAN—THE PATRIN—THE GHOST OF THE HAYSTACK
+     XII.  THE GYPSY OF THE TOWN                                   152
+    XIII.  WITH THE YORKSHIRE GYPSIES                              172
+     XIV.  A NIGHT WITH THE GYPSIES—THE SWEEP OF LYNN—LONDON       186
+           GYPSIES—ON EPSOM DOWNS
+      XV.  TINKERS AND GRINDERS                                    205
+     XVI.  THE INN ON THE RIDGEWAY—TALES BY THE FIRESIDE           213
+    XVII.  HORNCASTLE FAIR                                         229
+   XVIII.  A GYPSY SEPULCHRE—BURIAL LORE—THE PASSING OF            238
+           JONATHAN
+     XIX.  _BITSHADO PAWDEL_ (TRANSPORTED)                         247
+      XX.  A ROMANY MUNCHAUSEN                                     256
+     XXI.  THE GYPSY OF THE HILLS—IN THE HEART OF WALES—A          262
+           WESTMORLAND HORSE FAIR
+    XXII.  FURZEMOOR                                               278
+           GLOSSARY OF ROMANY WORDS                                291
+           GYPSY FORE OR CHRISTIAN NAMES                           299
+           INDEX                                                   303
+
+LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
+
+THE GYPSY’S PARSON                      _Frontispiece_
+                                           FACING PAGE
+A ROMANY LASS                                        6
+THE CAMP IN THE LANE                                20
+A DAUGHTER OF “JASPER PETULENGRO”                   28
+ON THE MOORLAND                                     36
+A NORTH-COUNTRY GYPSY GIRL                          36
+ROUND THE CAMP-FIRE                                 48
+A CHILD OF THE CARAVAN                              48
+A REST BY THE WAY                                   62
+A WAYSIDE IDYL                                      68
+CHILDREN OF THE OPEN AIR                            68
+ON THE LOOK-OUT                                     72
+THE GYPSY’S PARSON WITH HIS FRIENDS                 86
+FRIENDS AT THE FAIR                                 86
+A MAID OF THE TENTS                                112
+ON THE EVE OF THE FAIR                             118
+MIDLAND GYPSIES                                    128
+SOUTH-COUNTRY GYPSIES                              128
+NETTING RABBITS                                    139
+’NEATH THE HEDGEROW                                139
+THE GYPSY’S PARSON ON THE ROAD                     142
+GYPSIES AT HOME                                    146
+COMRADES                                           146
+“A MOTHER IN EGYPT”                                160
+HOUSE-DWELLING GYPSIES                             172
+A GYPSY LAD                                        184
+ON THE RACECOURSE                                  202
+A TINKER OF THE OLDEN TIMES                        208
+A WELSH GYPSY TINKER                               208
+A ROMANY FIDDLER                                   222
+HORNCASTLE HORSE FAIR                              230
+READY FOR THE FAIR                                 232
+YARD OF THE “GEORGE” INN, HORNCASTLE               232
+A LONDON GYPSY                                     246
+“BLACK AS A BOZ’LL”                                258
+OLI PURUM                                          264
+A GYPSY HARPIST                                    264
+A HAPPY PAIR                                       268
+A CHAT BY THE GATE                                 268
+’NEATH CAUTLEY CRAG                                272
+A BOTTOMLESS POOL                                  272
+A WANDERING MINSTREL                               274
+BROUGH HILL HORSE FAIR                             276
+GYPSY CHILDREN                                     280
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I
+GYPSY COURT—MY INITIATION INTO GYPSYDOM
+
+
+A TANGLE of sequestered streets lying around a triple-towered cathedral;
+red roofs and gables massed under the ramparts of an ancient castle; a
+grey Roman arch lit up every spring-time by the wallflower’s mimic gold;
+an old-world Bailgate over whose tavern yards drifted the sleepy music of
+the minster chimes; a crooked by-lane leading down to a wide common loved
+by the winds of heaven—these were the surroundings of my childhood’s home
+in that hilltop portion of Lincoln which has never quite thrown off its
+medieval drowsiness.
+
+Not far from my father’s doorstep, as you looked towards the common, lay
+a narrow court lined with poor tenements, and terminating in a bare yard
+bounded by a squat wall.  Every detail of this alley stands out in my
+memory with the sharpness of a photograph; the cramped perspective of the
+place as you entered it from our lane, the dreary-looking houses with
+their mud-floored living-rooms fronting upon the roadway, the paintless
+doors and windows, the blackened chimneys showing rakish against the sky,
+all combined to make a picture of dun-coloured misery.  There were, it is
+true, a few redeeming features gilding the prevailing drabness of the
+scene.  The entrance to the court had a southerly outlook upon green
+fields stretching up to the verge of the Castle Dyking, or, to revive its
+more gruesome name, “Hangman’s Ditch,” so called from the grim
+associations of a bygone day.  From these fields a clean air blew through
+the court, rendering it a less unwholesome haunt for the strange folk who
+dwelt within its precincts; while not half a mile distant lay the breezy
+common, a glorious playground for the children of Upper Lincoln.
+
+Seeing that this court and its denizens were destined in the order of
+things to make a profound impression upon my childish imagination, I may
+as well develop the picture rising so vividly before my mind’s eye.
+
+It was somewhere in the fifties of the last century, a few years, that is
+to say, before my entrance into the world, that several families of
+dark-featured “travellers” had pitched upon the court for their Gypsyry,
+a proceeding at which our quiet lane at first shrugged its shoulders,
+then focussed an interested gaze upon the intruders and their ways, and
+finally lapsed into an indulgent toleration of them.  Thus from day to
+day throughout my early years, there might have been seen emerging from
+the recesses of Gypsy Court swarthy men in twos and threes accompanied by
+the poacher’s useful lurcher; nut-brown girls with their black hair
+carelessly caught up in orange or crimson kerchiefs; wrinkled crones
+smoking short clays, as gaily they drove forth in their rickety
+donkey-carts; buxom mothers carrying babies slung, Indian fashion, across
+their shoulders, and bearing on their arms baskets replete with pegs,
+skewers, and small tin-ware of home manufacture.  As for children, troops
+of the brown imps were generally in evidence, their eldritch shrieks
+rending the air between the portals of the little court and the gate
+opening upon the common.
+
+No observes could possibly miss the fighting scenes and the ringing
+shouts which made the court echo again.  A passionate folk are the
+Gypsies, a provoking word being at any time sufficient to call forth a
+blow.  Even as I write these words, visions of gory fists and faces
+obtrude themselves through the mists of past days.
+
+However, the Gypsies were never reported to be otherwise than polite
+towards the outsider who ventured into the alley.  Diplomats rather than
+hooligans were they.  “Let’s ’eave ’alf a brick at ’im,” is not the
+Gypsy’s way with a stranger who happens to stroll into the camp.  At the
+same time I would not have it imagined that the inhabitants of the
+squalid court were of the best black Romany breed; far from it, they were
+mostly of diluted blood, else how came they to turn sedentary at all?
+For pure Gypsies (or _Romanitshelaw_, as they call themselves), the
+aristocrats of their race, abhor settled life, preferring to die on the
+road rather than wither inside four walls.
+
+On the occasion of a horse fair in the city, our lane would resound with
+the clanging of hoofs beyond the ordinary, and in front of the taverns
+there was much rattling of whipstocks on the insides of hard hats, in
+order to enliven some weedy “screw,” and so reward its owner for hours of
+patient “doctoring” in a corner well screened from prying eyes.  Then
+when the autumnal rains set in, and the leaves began to flutter down in
+showers, there would come from afar the rumbling of Romany “homes on
+wheels,” driven townwards by the oncoming of winter.  To me it was always
+a saddening sight to watch the travel-stained wanderers hying to their
+winter quarters through miry streets heavy with mist and gloom.
+_Staruben sî gav_ (town is a prison), an ancient vagabond was heard to
+remark on a like occasion.
+
+A spectacle far more inspiriting was the departure of a Gypsy cavalcade
+from the city on a gay spring morning.  For into the dingy purlieus where
+the travellers had wintered more or less cheerlessly, stray sunbeams and
+soft airs had begun to penetrate.  Tidings had reached them that away in
+the open something had stirred, or called, or breathed along the furzy
+lanes and among the tree boughs, and forthwith every Romany sojourner
+within the ash-strewn yards of the city became eager to resume the free,
+roving life of the roads.  How often have I longed for the brush of an
+artist to depict the company of merry Gypsies—men, women, and bairns,
+horses, dogs, and donkeys, jingling pot-carts and living-wagons bedizened
+with new paint, starting from the top of our lane for the open country,
+just when the wind-rocked woods were burgeoning and every green
+hedge-bottom had a sprinkling of purple violets.
+
+Now until my eleventh year I had seen no more than the mere outside of
+Romany life, and I might never have had any Gypsy experiences to relate
+but for a trivial blood-spilling, which, as I look back upon it, may well
+be called my initiation into Gypsydom.  Indeed, the small incident I am
+about to mention had for me a most important result, insomuch as it made
+me akin to Gypsies for the rest of my life.
+
+My earliest schools were dames’ academies—there were two of these
+old-time institutions in our lane.  Approached by a dark passage, the
+second of these had for its lecture-hall a large brick-floored room,
+whose presiding spirit was a dwarfish lady of sixty-five or more, before
+whom we sat in rows at long desks.  The school consisted of about a score
+of children who were awed into subjection by a threatening rod of supple
+ash, half as long again as the tapering stick around which the
+scarlet-runners in your kitchen garden love to entwine themselves.  This
+dread implement of discipline, reared in a recess near our mistress’s
+desk, would oft descend upon the head of a chattering boy or girl, and to
+the tip of that rod my own pate was no stranger.
+
+            [Picture: A Romany Lass.  Photo: Valentine & Sons]
+
+Among my acquaintances at this school was a Gypsy girl whose parents
+dwelt at the sunny end of the aforementioned court.  A year or two my
+senior, Sibby Smith was a shapely lass, having soft hazel eyes and a
+wealth of dark hair crowning an olive-tinted face.  Lissom as whalebone,
+she had a pretty way of capering along the lanes with hedgerow berries or
+leaves of autumn’s painting in her hair, and I, a silent, retiring boy,
+would watch her movements with admiring eyes.  Fittingly upon that lithe
+form sat a garb of tawny-brown, with here a wisp of red and there a tag
+of yellow, mingled as on the wings of a butterfly.  The girl had a
+harum-scarum brother, Snakey by name and slippery by nature, a little
+older than herself, with whom out of school hours she would be off and
+away searching the bushes for birds’ nests, or ransacking the thickets
+for nuts; and one day in school I remember how she pulled out
+inadvertently with her handkerchief a catapult—a Gypsy can bring down a
+pheasant with the like—and falling with a clatter at our teacher’s feet,
+the unholy weapon was straightway confiscated, whereat Sibby’s face grew
+darker by a shade, as with her pen-nib she savagely stabbed the desk on
+which our copybooks were outspread.  A roamer in all the copses and lanes
+around our city, and enjoying the freedom of the camps which tarried for
+little or for long in the old brickyards fringing the common, this
+schoolmate of mine expressed the out-of-door spirit in her very gait, and
+as she pirouetted along the causeway, you caught from her flying figure
+the smell of wood smoke and the mossy odour of deep dingles.
+
+In all the world it is hard to find the elusive Gypsy’s compeer.
+Whimsical as the wind, and brimful of mischief as an elf of the wilds,
+Sibby was to me the embodiment of bewitching mystery.  From a hillock by
+the hedge I have watched her seize a skittish pony by the mane and,
+leaping astride its back, gallop madly along a lane, to return a few
+moments later, breathless and dishevelled.  This was her frolicsome mood.
+
+Never very far below the surface of the Gypsy nature lurks a feeling of
+disdain, waxing fierce at times towards everything and everybody outside
+the Romany world.  To this mood the Gypsy life appears to be the only
+life worth living, and the Gypsy is the only real man in the world.  All
+other ways and all alien folk are suspect.  There were times therefore
+when Sibby’s eyes would pierce me through with arrows of detestation as
+though one had hailed from beneath the eaves of a constabulary.  Yet the
+next day, every shred of this dark feeling would be flung to the winds,
+as under a scented may-bush the girl was romancing merrily or instructing
+me in the peculiar whistle giving warning of the approach of Velveteens
+or a policeman.
+
+Is there in the whole bag of humanity, I wonder, a nut harder to crack
+than the Gypsy?
+
+One afternoon in turning a corner sharply on my way home from school, it
+happened that I ran full tilt into Sibby Smith, and before I could say
+“Jack Robinson” I received such a blow on the mouth as sent me sprawling
+all my length on the road.  There was, I suppose, something ludicrous in
+the sight of a prostrate boy with his legs in the air; so at least the
+girl seemed to think, for immediately she burst into laughter, and her
+merriment being ever of an infectious sort, I found myself laughing too,
+though inwardly I thought my punishment unmerited.  A moment later,
+however, as I stood wiping the blood from my lips, the puzzle was
+explained.  There in the dust lay a half-eaten, red-cheeked apple which
+the Gypsy had been munching when the shock of the collision sent it
+flying from her hand; hence the blow that descended upon me so swiftly.
+Nor after the lapse of nearly forty years have I forgotten the forceful
+stroke that laid me low on that autumn afternoon.
+
+On stormy days, when the loud-lunged gusts made a fanfaronade in the
+chimney-stacks at home, it was my delight as a boy to seek the brow of
+the grassy escarpment overlooking our common, and at that time I knew
+nothing more glorious than a tussle with the wind roaring over the
+hilltop.  Leaping on the springy turf, hatless and bare-armed, fighting a
+make-believe giant of sonorous voice, what high glee of spirit was mine!
+
+In those days the escarpment boasted a row of windmills, old-fashioned
+structures, built partly of timber and partly of brick and stone, and
+loud was the whirring of sails thereabouts in a brisk wind.  At the head
+of a cleft in the hillside, known as “Hobbler’s Hole,” was a mill which
+had fallen into desuetude, and its great sails, shattered by a tempest,
+lay in tangled heaps on the thistle-grown plot around the building.  To
+the tall thistles, tufted with downy seed, came goldfinches, dainty
+little fellows, shy as fairies.  Hitherward came also visitors of another
+kind, for, as might be expected, the unwritten invitation to such a
+harvest of firewood had duly spread to Gypsy Court.  More than once in
+the twilight Sibby got me to help her in carrying off fragments of
+timber, and to a boy with _Tiger Tom the Pirate_ secreted in the lining
+of his jacket, these small adventures were not without a tang of the
+picaresque.  As time went on, the door in the basement of the mill and
+most of the window-frames were dragged piecemeal from their places to
+boil Gypsy kettles, but there still remained the massive ladder giving
+access to the dusty chambers wherein nestled the strangest of shadows.
+Every youngster who came to play in Hobbler’s Hole knew quite well that
+the mill was haunted.  Readily enough we climbed the worm-eaten ladder in
+broad daylight, and scampered about the resounding floors, or sat at the
+frameless windows pelting bits of plaster at the jackdaws flitting to and
+fro, but to think of invading the mouldering mill in the dusk hour when
+hollow and common were visioned away into shadowy night was another
+matter.  Ah, then the mill took on an eeriness befitting a very
+borderland of goblindom.
+
+Picturing the crumbling ruin and the wrinkled declivity dipping below it
+towards the common, I recall how Snakey Smith said one day to me, “I
+likes to sit afore a fire on the ground.  You don’t feel nothing like so
+lonesome as you keeps pushing sticks into the fire and watching ’em burn
+away.”  The words aptly express a Gypsy’s joy in a fire for its own sake,
+regardless of utilitarian considerations.  At the moment there may be no
+kettle waiting to be boiled, no black stockpot demanding to be slung on
+the crooked kettle-prop, yet, for the pure pleasure of the thing, a Gypsy
+will light a small pile of dead sticks, and, lounging near, will gaze
+wistfully at the spiral of thin, sweet smoke upcurling between the trees
+in the lane.
+
+Without a doubt, if “you’s been a bit onlucky,” or, if your sky is cloudy
+with sorrow, there is solace in a fire, as in a folk-tale and in the
+voice of a violin.  Did not Provost M‘Cormick, lawyer and lover of
+Gypsies, find his Border Tinklers, amid their brown tents and shaggy
+“cuddies,” reciting traditional tales to banish gloom?  “Whenever he saw
+me dull he wad say, ‘Come on, Mary, and I’ll tell ye a fairy tale,’ and
+wi’ his gestures, girns, and granes, he wadna be lang till he had us a’
+roarin’.”
+
+A Gypsy who resided in a derelict railway carriage on a Cheshire common,
+having lost a dear child, refused to be comforted and even declined to
+take food.  To his old fiddle he confided his grief, his body swaying to
+and fro as he drew forth plaintive airs from the strings.
+
+Wandering one evening in cowslip-time below the decrepit windmill, I came
+to a stile in the hedge, and, passing into the lane, I found Sibby and
+Snakey heaping dead wood upon a fire on the margin of the common.
+
+“There!” exclaimed the Gypsy girl, “I know’d somebody was a-thinking of
+me, ’cos my boots kept coming unlaced.”
+
+“Well, well, you made me jump, _baw_ (mate), you did,” put in her
+brother.  “How did you _jin_ we were _akai_?” (know we were here).
+
+“See,” said I, “what a pother you are making.  I caught a whiff of your
+smoke right on top of the hill.”
+
+With that I dropped down beside the fire, and, yielding the soul to the
+witchery of red-gold flames dancing against the dark, it was easy enough
+to glide into the realm of Faerie.  Sibby, who had been lying at full
+length before the fire, now gathered herself into a cross-legged posture,
+and, lapsing into meditation, sat twisting a black elf-lock round her
+forefinger.  A touch of the “creepy” world seemed also to have fallen
+upon Snakey, for he lay in silence staring into the beyond as though he
+had sighted fairy faces peering between the brier sprays; or was it that
+the knotted tree-bole leaning from the hedge had begun to make grimaces?
+At last the boy awoke with a start.  By his side lay a maiden ash-plant
+with numerous hearts and rings neatly cut on its green bark, and,
+whipping out a knife, he proceeded to add further touches to his _kosht_
+(stick).  This led me to talk of my own achievement of that day in
+carving my initials on a beech tree not far from where we were sitting.
+Whereat Sibby remarked—
+
+“Why, it was only last week that me and mother went in our cart past
+Dalton Brook, and we pulled up to look at the old tree what has _dui
+vastaw_ (two hands) cut into it by Orferus Herren, and there they were
+right enough.  It was his brother Evergreen who broke his neck by
+tumbling headlong into a stone-pit, wasn’t it, Snakey?”
+
+“For sure it was, _pen_ (sister), and our uncles Fennix and Euri were
+well-nigh killed the same way right up agen Scotland, as I’ve heard dad
+say times and agen.”
+
+“How was that?” I asked.
+
+Then followed Snakey’s story, which, as well as I remember, ran (in his
+own words) something like this—
+
+“One night my uncles Fennix and Euri was crossing a moor among the
+mountains, a long way up into the North Country.  They’d been sitting all
+the day in a _kitshima_ (tavern) and at last they begins to think it were
+time to be marching to their stopping-place, some five miles away across
+the moor, a wery nasty country with deep pits and ponds in it.  It was
+getting dark and the teeny stars were shining above the mountains.  Well,
+my uncles made off with a deal of bustle at first along a beaten track,
+but after going a mile or two, down comes a fog—a clear thick ’un it
+was—and they soon got off the path and were lost.  It looked like ’em
+having to _besh avrí_ (lie out) all night, as poor Jacob did.  Only my
+uncles didn’t see no silver ladder with angels dancing up and down on it,
+and _mi dîri Duvel_ (God) sitting atop of it.  But just as they were
+about dead beat after poddling up and down for I can’t tell you how long,
+they walked as nigh as nothing over the edge of a deep pit.  It were a
+narrow shave, for they only managed to save theirselves by clutching at
+the bushes atop of the pit.  Then what do you think, _baw_?  They just
+turned round, and there afore ’em stood a terrible crittur rearing itself
+up and groaning loud.  Their hearts was in their mouths.  They thought
+their time had come.
+
+“‘If that ain’t a _mulo_ (ghost), my name’s not Fennix,’ whispered my
+uncle.
+
+“‘_Keka_’ (No); ‘it’s the wery _Beng_ (Devil) hisself,’ says Euri.
+
+“And there they stands a-dithering like leaves, till at last my uncle
+Fennix pulls hisself together and walks on a yard or two, staring hard
+afore him, and weren’t Euri glad above a bit to hear his brother say in
+his nat’ral voice, ‘Come on, it’s nobbut a blessed _dunnock_ (steer)
+after all.’  And with that the crittur kicked up its heels and galloped
+away, and by a bit of luck my uncles stumbled right on to a cartway as
+led ’em straight to the tents.”
+
+Among Gypsies, when the tale-telling mood is on, story will follow story,
+often until drowsiness supervenes; for these folk dearly love a tale, and
+are themselves possessed of no small store of family legends and
+folk-narratives.
+
+“Now, it’s your turn, sister.  Let’s have that tale about Old Ruzlam
+Boz’ll’s boy.”
+
+Without stopping for a moment to think, Sibby began to reel off what was
+evidently a well-known and favourite story, punctuating her sentences by
+picking from her gown and flinging at me sundry prickly balls of burdock
+seed, telling of what prowlings in the woods!
+
+“It’s donkey’s ears (_i.e._ long years) since Ruzlam Boz’ll’s wife had a
+baby boy born’d in a tent near a spring what bubbled out betwixt two
+rocks, and every summer they used to _besh_ (rest) by the same spring.
+By and by, when the dear little boy grew big enough, his mammy sent him
+every morning to fill the kettle.  But one day he got a surprise.  There
+on the grass by the spring what should he see but a new silver shilling.
+Of course he picked it up and put it into his pocket, and never said
+nothing about it when he got back to the tent.  Next morning he found
+double the money at the spring-head, and so it went on until his pockets
+were chinking full of silver, and for all that he never breathed no word
+about his luck.  But one day Old Ruzlam heard the boy rattling the money
+in his pockets, and forced him to tell where he got it from.  Next
+morning the daddy went off, laughing to hisself and thinking of the nice
+heap of silver he was going to pick up, but after he had looked up and
+down and all over, he found just nothing at all, leastways he saw no
+money; but as he stood scratting his head, puzzled-like, there, on one
+side of the spring, he saw a dear little teeny old man, and on the other
+side a dear little teeny old woman, and, saying never a word, they
+stooped down and flung water right into Ruzlam’s eyes.  So away he ran
+home, and there, if he didn’t find his boy had gone cross-eyed.  What’s
+more, he never came right agen.”
+
+Thus, by pleasant steps amid scenes not lacking in glamour, I advanced
+little by little in my knowledge of these fascinating straylings with
+whom no stranger ever yet found it easy to mingle as one of themselves.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II
+CHARACTERS OF THE COURT—READING BORROW
+
+
+A FEW miles outside my native city, there stands on the bank of the Roman
+Fossdyke a lonely house known as “Drinsey Nook,” formerly a tavern with
+bowling greens, swings, and skittle alleys, a resort of wagonette and
+boating parties out for a frolic in the sunshine.  Often on bygone summer
+eves have I loitered about the old inn gleaming white amid its guardian
+trees, but best of all I loved to see the beechen boughs drop their fiery
+leaves upon its mossy roof in the fading of the year.
+
+To-day, as of yore, the brown-sailed barges, laden with grain or scented
+fir-planks, glide lazily past the place, and a motor-boat will at times
+go racing by, to the alarm of the waterhens which had almost come to look
+on the sleepy canal as their own.
+
+Does it ever dream of its gay past, I wonder—this old forgotten house
+fronting upon the rush-fringed waterway?
+
+One golden October morning, my father, who had a passion for boating on
+our local waters, hired a small sailing craft, and, the breezes aiding
+us, we were wafted along the Fossdyke as far as the said riparian house
+of call.  Hour after hour we wandered in the beech woods stretching
+behind the inn, resting now on some protruding snag or fallen bole to
+watch the squirrels at play, and again pushing our way breast-high
+through sheets of changing bracken to the hazel thickets where the nuts
+hung in clusters well within reach of our hooked sticks.
+
+Linked with this ramble in the time of the falling leaves is an
+impression I have never forgotten.  “Look,” said my father, pointing to a
+decayed stump of a post almost buried amid dank moss, “this is all that
+remains of Tom Otter’s gibbet-tree.”  I shuddered as he told how in other
+days he had heard the chains clanking in the wind, and he went on to
+relate that _his_ father was among the crowd of citizens who, starting
+from Lincoln Castle one March morning in the year 1806, followed the
+murderer’s corpse until it was hanged in irons on a post thirty feet high
+on Saxilby Moor.  For several days after the event, the vicinity of the
+gibbet resembled a country fair with drinking booths, ballad singers,
+Gypsy fiddlers, and fortune-tellers.
+
+The impressions of childhood are enduring; and just as the smell of the
+wallflowers after an April shower will revive for you, dear fellow, the
+vision of a garden walk under a lichened wall, and the dainty step of
+your lady love by your side, so for me the wild scent of withering
+bracken in the red autumn glades prompts my fancy to envisage anew the
+gruesome scene as depicted by my father on that October day long gone by.
+Nor is this all.
+
+To mention the name of Tom Otter is to call up for me more than one
+swarthy inhabitant of Gypsy Court who lived to make old bones and sit by
+the fire telling tales and smoking black tobacco.  I have but to close my
+eyes to behold a procession of these “characters” straggling out of the
+dark court, their faces and figures lingering for a moment in memory’s
+beam of light, then passing again into the shadows.  And what strange
+stories are wrapped up in the names and lives of some of these folk;
+quaint comedy, grim tragedy, riotous passion, tales of love, laughter,
+and tears.
+
+There was old Tom, nicknamed “Tom o’ the Gibbet,” whose patronymic was
+_Petulengro_, which is Gypsy for Smith.
+
+Each of the great Romany clans, be it known, duplicates its surname, one
+form being used before the _gawjê_ (non-Gypsies, aliens); the other form,
+of cryptic import, is for the brotherhood of the blood.
+
+Old Tom Petulengro, further known as “Sneezing Tommy,” owing to his
+liking for snuff, carried on a thriving trade in wooden meat-skewers and
+pegs, and in his backyard you might see him with infinite patience
+cutting up willow rods or splitting blocks of close-grained elder-wood;
+and for years I never used to hear in church the familiar words of the
+Psalmist, “Our bones lie strewn before the pit, like as when one heweth
+wood upon the earth,” without seeing that narrow yard with its shining
+axe lying midst a litter of chips and splinters.  Elder-wood is still in
+request for meat-skewers, and to this day not a few country butchers
+prefer to use the Gypsy-made article.  Old Tom used to say, with a
+twinkle in his eye, that he _found_ nearly all his raw material on his
+journeys up and down the countryside.  For, as you could not fail to
+observe, it was a habit with some of the dwellers in Gypsy Court to
+absent themselves periodically with their light carts and tents.  Halcyon
+days were those for the court Gypsies.
+
+Let it be remembered that the County Council legend, “No camping
+allowed,” had not yet begun to hit you in the eye from among the bramble
+brakes on bits of wayside waste.  The rural constable of that time had
+not the conveniences his successor enjoys in the bicycle and the village
+telephone.  There were farmers who still retained a soft place in their
+hearts for the Gypsy, and many a country squire viewed the nomads of the
+grassy lanes with a kindly eye.  If a carriage-horse grew restive in
+passing a roadside fire at twilight, up from the hedge-bottom sprang an
+obliging fellow who led the animal safely along and thereby won a cheery
+word from the squire or his lady.  Even Velveteens would hob-nob with the
+jovial campers on the lord’s waste, and, quaffing a dram from their black
+bottle, would toss a rabbit into the lap of a Romany mother and go on his
+way.  Here and there of course were tiresome believers in the hoary
+policy of harassment and oppression—
+
+    “Pack, and be out of this forthwith,
+    D’you know you have no business here?
+    ‘No, we hain’t got,’ said Samuel Smith,
+    ‘No business to be anywhere.’
+    So wearily they went away,
+    Yet soon were camped in t’other lane,
+    And soon they laughed as wild and gay,
+    And soon the kettle boiled again.”
+
+            [Picture: The Camp in the Lane.  Photo: Fred Shaw]
+
+Reverting to Tom Petulengro’s sobriquet, I confess it provoked my
+curiosity not a little.  Tom _o’ the Gibbet_—what could the strange “tag”
+mean?  Time passed, even a few years, and one day its origin came to
+light during a talk with Ashena Brown, Tom’s married sister, an elderly
+Gypsy with a furrowed countenance and deep-set eyes which flashed with
+fire as she grew excited in her talk.  I can see her bowed figure and
+long jetty curls, as in fancy I again stoop to enter the low-ceiled abode
+in the smoky court where I listened to her chatter to the persistent
+accompaniment of a donkey’s thump, thump, in an adjoining apartment.
+
+“Wonderful fond o’ the County o’ Nottingham was my people,” said the old
+lady.  “They know’d every stick and stone along the Trentside, and i’ the
+Shirewood (Sherwood), and many’s the time we’ve stopped at Five Lane Ends
+nigh Drinsey Nook.  Why, my poor dear mammy (Lord rest her soul) was once
+fired at by a foot-pad as she were coming outen the public upo’ the bank
+there.  The man’s pistol had nobbut powder in it, for he only meant to
+_trash_ (frighten) her into handing up her _lova_ (money), but she had
+none about her, for her last _shukora_ (sixpence) had gone in _levina_
+(ale).  And after that, my mammy allus wore a big _diklo_ (kerchief)
+round her head for to hide her cheek as were badly blued by the rascal’s
+powder.
+
+“Ay, and I minds how my daddy used to make teeny horseshoes, knife
+handles, and netting needles, outen the bits o’ wood he _tshin_’d (cut)
+off the gibbet post, and wery good oak it was.  Mebbe you’s heard o’ Tom
+Otter’s post nigh to the woods?  Ah, but p’raps you’s never been tell’d
+that our Tom was born’d under it?  The night my mammy were took bad, our
+tents was a’most blown to bits.  The wind banged the old irons agen the
+post all night long, as I’ve heard her say.  And when they wanted to name
+the boy, they couldn’t think of no other name but Tom, for sure as they
+tried to get away from it, the name kept coming back again—Tom, Tom,
+Tom—till it sort o’ dinned itself into their heads.  So at last my daddy
+says, ‘Let’s call him Tom and done with it,’ and i’ time, folks got
+a-calling him Tom o’ the Gibbet, and it stuck to him, it did.  There,
+now, I must give that here _maila_ (donkey) a bite o’ summut.”
+
+But I have not done with Tom Otter.
+
+Here is a story even more “creepy” than the last.  Ashena is again the
+speaker.  “I’ them days I’d some delations as did funny things that folks
+wouldn’t never think o’ doing nowadays.  I’d an uncle as used to talk to
+the _Beng_ (Devil).  If anything went wrong wi’ a hoss, he’d say,
+‘_Beng_, do this, and _Beng_, do that,’ like we talks to the _Duvel_
+(God) when we says ’ur prayers.  But he weren’t eddicated, you see, he
+didn’t know no better.  And whenever uncle and aunt used to pass by Tom
+Otter’s gibbet, they’d stop and look up at the poor man hanging there,
+and they allus _wuser_’d (threw) him a bit o’ _hawben_ (food).  They
+couldn’t let theirselves go by wi’out doing that.
+
+“And there was a baker from Harby, and whenever he passed by the place he
+would put a bread loaf on to the pointed end of a long rod and shove it
+into that part o’ the irons where poor Tom’s head was, and sure enough
+the bread allus went.  The baker got hisself into trouble for doing that,
+as I’ve heard our old people say.”
+
+Commenting on a parallel instance, occurring about the year 1779, in
+which some women were wont to throw up to a gibbeted man a bunch of
+tallow candles for him to eat, the Rev. S. Baring-Gould, in his _Book of
+Folk-Lore_, writes: “Obviously the idea was still prevalent that life
+continued to exist in the body after execution.”
+
+In the procession of “characters” issuing from the dark court, I see two
+familiar figures, the parents of my Gypsy schoolmate, who would surely
+have arrested even a stranger’s gaze.
+
+Partly from age, and partly from the habit of his calling, Plato Smith
+the tinman stooped somewhat, yet his legs, which were long in comparison
+with his body, carried him over the ground fast enough.  A nearer view of
+the old man’s countenance revealed certain scars concerning which tales
+were told to his credit as a fighter.  True, he had on one occasion been
+worsted by an adversary, for the bridge of his nose diverged somewhat
+from the straight line, a record of a telling blow.  Always alert, Plato
+looked the picture of spryness when soap and water had removed all traces
+of the workshop, and he had donned a green cutaway coat, a bright yellow
+neckcloth, and a felt “hat of antique shape,” high in the crown and broad
+of brim, which was pulled well over his eyes whenever he went out.  It
+was whispered that none knew better than he how to whistle a horse out of
+a field, but in this art I fancy he had grown rusty of late years.  To be
+sure, his long record as a poacher had brought him occasional lodgments
+in the local house of detention, yet so ingrained was this Gypsy habit
+that he could hardly refrain from chalking his gun-barrel and sallying
+forth on moonlit nights.
+
+A riverside incident associated with Sibby’s father is as fresh in my
+memory as if it happened but yesterday.  A stream neither broad nor deep
+is our homely Witham, crawling onward through fenny flats to the North
+Sea.  It was here that I learned on summer days to pull an oar in an old
+black coble, and to glide steel-shod over the ice in the Christmas
+holidays.  Along a certain reach of the river, I was initiated by an
+elder brother into the mysteries of angling on those tranquil evenings
+when the bold perch showed their heads above water, like the fishes that
+listened to St. Anthony’s sermon.  Now it fell upon a day that my brother
+and I were crossing the river by ferry-boat, a few miles outside the
+city, our companions being Plato Smith and an ecclesiastic from the
+minster-close—four happy anglers were we.  At one end of the
+flat-bottomed ferry-boat stood the parson fingering his rod and whistling
+a lively tune, when, in midstream, there was a sudden hitch in the chain,
+flinging the perspiring ferryman upon his face, and at the same time
+precipitating our friend from the minster-close headlong into the river.
+Never have I seen a wild duck, or a white-pate coot, disappear more
+cleanly from sight than did our brother of “the cloth” into the liquid
+element.  Thanks mainly to Gypsy Plato’s resourcefulness, he was
+extricated pretty quickly, and we left him in the care of an innkeeper,
+in whose parlour at dusk we met him in borrowed raiment, looking more
+than usually pallid of countenance beneath the broad eaves of our kindly
+host’s old-fashioned Sunday “topper” padded to fit with a vivid red
+handkerchief.
+
+A personality even more striking was Plato’s consort, Abigail, as you saw
+her sunning herself under the parapet of the Witham bridge hard by the
+“Three Magpies” Inn, her black eyes blinking as a gust from the river
+flapped the loose ends of her gay kerchiefs which she wore three or four
+deep, meeting on her bosom in old-time style.  Hooked like a falcon’s
+beak, her nose drooped over her pursed lips towards a prominent chin,
+giving her a witchlike mien.  Quadrupled strings of corals encircled her
+wizened neck, and a black velvet bodice bedecked with silver buttons, a
+skirt of bold check pattern, and a poke-bonnet formed her customary
+walking attire.  Often, on her homeward way after her daily round with
+the basket, have I met her puffing a small black pipe as she shuffled
+along our lane.  By _didakais_ (half-breeds) she was certainly feared,
+and they maintained it was bad luck to meet her first thing of a morning,
+and were known to turn back on seeing her in the street.  “Her eyes make
+you feel that queer” was a common saying, and it follows that she ranked
+high as a fortune-teller.  Seldom a fair passed but you met her in the
+noisy throng, chaffing the _gawjê_ (gentiles), or surrounded by a group
+of village Johnnies and Mollies eager to have their palms read.  What a
+picture she made as she stooped to tighten the girths of her shaggy
+donkey at whose head stood the wild, dusky Sibby with a spring wind
+whisking her black locks about her cheeks, out on the open road beyond
+the town, for maid and mother were devoted companions on many a foray
+into the villages dotted over Lincoln Heath.
+
+Another conspicuous character of the court was a quaint little hunchback,
+a pedlar by trade, whose sad deformity and resentful temper caused him to
+become the butt of every street gamin’s joke.  He would often be seen in
+company with Sammy Noble, a wooden-legged vendor of firewood.  The pair,
+I regret to say, called too frequently at taverns, and more than once I
+have seen them assisted home by kindly policemen, or “peelers,” as they
+were then called, who if resurrected to-day in their long black coats and
+chimney-pot hats, would surely be taken for nothing short of cathedral
+dignitaries.
+
+The hero of the Gypsy colony was a tall athletic fellow, “Soldier”
+’Plisti (or Supplistia) Boswell, who also bore the nickname of “Jumping
+Jack,” of whom I give a reminiscence or two here.
+
+One day a country squire was driving a pony chaise along a lane, and,
+rounding a corner, he came upon a ring of Gypsies roasting hedgehogs.
+Imagine his astonishment to see a slender lad spring up, and, running a
+few yards, take a flying leap clear over the pony’s back, a feat so
+pleasing to the squire that he called the boy to his side and, presenting
+him with a bright crown-piece, offered—so the tale runs—“to keep him like
+a gentleman for life.”  In return for which kindness, the Gypsy was
+expected to disown his people, a condition which was not jumped at by
+Jack.
+
+’Plisti’s home in Gypsy Court was one day the scene of a singular
+incident.  A fox closely pursued by the hounds dashed through the open
+door of the living-room, where before the fire lay the Gypsy asleep and
+snoring.  Reynard in his haste managed to sweep the sleeper’s face with
+his brush; and mighty was the yell that burst from ’Plisti’s throat on
+being thus disturbed, causing the fox to seek refuge in a hovel hard by,
+where the dogs fell upon him.  A brother of mine who was in the court at
+the time obtained possession of the brush, and the trophy was given a
+conspicuous place in our home.
+
+In those days it was no unusual course for the Gypsy lads to enlist in
+the Militia, and ’Plisti looked every inch a soldier as he marched
+homeward from the morning’s drill on the common.  In play he would level
+his musket at you, and laugh like a merry boy, if you caught his spirit
+and made believe that you were wounded.  If he was proud of his scarlet
+jacket, his characteristic Gypsy vanity led him to glory in shirts of
+dyes so resplendent that in comparison the vaunted multi-coloured coat of
+Joseph would indeed have been thrown into the shade.
+
+The Gypsy spell cast upon me in childhood was now reinforced by my
+discovery of the autobiographical writings of George Borrow.  It was in
+my teens that I devoured _Lavengro_ in its original three-volume form.
+By taper-light in an attic bedroom at home, or in some hollow on the
+common where the battered race-cards whitened the base of the gorse
+bushes—our old common is the annual scene of the Lincolnshire Handicap—I
+thrilled over the boy Borrow’s encounter with the Gypsies in the green
+lane at Norman Cross.  I followed him through the crowded horse-fair at
+Norwich, and into the smoky tents pitched upon Mousehold Heath.  But the
+episode which impressed me most of all was the fight with the Flaming
+Tinman.  The _dramatis personæ_ of that narrative would pursue me even
+into my dreams.  _The Romany Rye_, with its vivid picture of Horncastle
+Fair, was pleasant enough reading, though not nearly so fascinating as
+_Lavengro_.  Little did I think that the coming days were to bring some
+of Borrows originals within my ken.
+
+               [Picture: A daughter of “Jasper Petulengro”]
+
+How far Borrow’s Gypsies are portraits of individuals, and to what extent
+we are able to identify them, are questions which have often been asked.
+Don Jorge would probably have denied the charge of individual
+portraiture, yet there is no doubt that he had definite prototypes in his
+mind’s eye when penning his narratives.  Just as in _Guy Mannering_, Sir
+Walter Scott portrayed an actual Jean Gordon under the name of Meg
+Merrilies, so we know that Borrow has given us his old friend Ambrose
+Smith under the now famous cognomen of “Jasper Petulengro,” a fact made
+plain by Dr. Knapp in his monumental work {28} familiar to all Gypsy
+students.  Shortly before his death at Dunbar in October, 1878, Ambrose
+Smith and his wife Sanspirela (a Heron before marriage), together with
+their family, had been noticed and befriended by Queen Victoria.  To wit:
+the following entry in _More Leaves from the Journal of a Life in the
+Highlands_.
+
+    “_August_ 26_th_, 1878.—At half-past three started with Beatrice,
+    Leopold, and the Duchess in the landau, and four, the Duke, Lady Ely,
+    General Ponsonby, and Mr. Yorke, going in the second carriage, and
+    Lord Haddington riding all the way.  We drove through the west part
+    of Dunbar, which was very full, and we were literally pelted with
+    small nosegays, till the carriage was full of them; then for some
+    distance past the village of Belheven, Knockendale Hill, where were
+    stationed in their best attire the queen of the gipsies, an oldish
+    woman [Sanspirela] with a yellow handkerchief on her head, and a
+    youngish, very dark, and truly gipsy-like woman in velvet and a red
+    shawl, and another woman.  The queen is a thorough gipsy, with a
+    scarlet cloak and a yellow handkerchief around her head.  Men in red
+    hunting-coats, all very dark, and all standing on a platform here,
+    bowed and waved their handkerchiefs.”
+
+In the seventh chapter of _The Romany Rye_, Borrow tells how he one day
+got his dinner “entirely off the body of a squirrel which had been shot
+the day before by a chal of the name of Piramus, who, besides being a
+good shot, was celebrated for his skill in playing on the fiddle.”
+
+Nieces of Piramus Gray, whom I know, have testified to their uncle’s
+excellence as a marksman, and on the authority of Sinfai, a daughter of
+Piramus, I have been told that Ambrose Smith’s praise of her father’s
+fiddling was well founded.
+
+    “About a week ago my people and myself” (the speaker is Ambrose,
+    _i.e._ Jasper Petulengro) “were encamped on a green by a plantation
+    in the neighbourhood of a great house.  In the evening we were making
+    merry, the girls dancing, while Piramus was playing on the fiddle a
+    tune of his own composing, to which he had given his own name,
+    Piramus of Rome, and which is much celebrated amongst our people, and
+    from which I have been told one of the grand gorgio composers who
+    once heard it has taken several hints.”
+
+The gifted fiddler was at that time only a slim fellow of twenty-eight
+summers.  Long years afterwards, when Piramus was a very old man and I a
+youth of twenty, I remember seeing him in our Lincolnshire town of Louth,
+where he was still tapping with his tinker’s hammer and fondling his
+violin in his cottage at the River Head.  A story which the old man never
+tired of telling was that of his brother Jack’s heroism.
+
+Upon a day, many years ago, the children of Piramus were boating on a
+river, and, their craft capsizing, all were flung into the stream.  Jack,
+who happened to be on the bank, leaped in and saved all but two, the
+oldest and the youngest, who were drowned.  In his day Piramus had
+excelled as a fighter, and certainly the knotty fists of the aged tinman
+looked as if they had done service in the bruising line.
+
+Two visitors who loved to cheer the last days of Piramus were his
+daughter Sinfai and her husband, Isaac Heron, who have themselves now
+passed away.  Whenever I think of the tall figure of Old Isaac, I recall
+one evening in the summer of 1876, when a camp of the Herons lay just
+outside of Lincoln.  What appeared to be a Gypsy trial was in progress,
+and I remember the inward thrill on beholding those Herons in a ring,
+chattering like a flock of daws.  Inside the circle stands a young man,
+bare-headed, stripped of coat and vest, and gesticulating wildly.  Now he
+flings his arms about, and now he thrusts his fingers through his shaggy
+black hair.  On his brow the sweat stands in beads.  I can hear the name
+“Wilhelmina,” as it comes in a piercing shriek from his lips.  The old
+men and women are muttering together as calmly they look on.  In that
+throng were Isaac and Sinfai, along with some of the older Yorkshire
+Herons, Golias, Khulai, and others.
+
+In after years I came to know very intimately many members of the clan
+Heron, and among them a niece of that weird old hag, Mrs. Herne (to use
+Borrow’s spelling of the name), who sent the poisoned cake to Lavengro in
+Mumper’s Dingle.
+
+Having had a romantic interest in the Gypsies aroused in me thus early, I
+naturally looked forward to the days when I should leave home and meet
+the people of the _kawlo rat_ (black blood) in other parts of the
+country.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III
+NORTH-COUNTRY GYPSIES
+
+
+A TYPICAL colliery village in a bleak northern county was the scene of my
+first curacy.  Silhouettes of ugliness were its black pit buildings,
+dominated by a mountain of burning refuse exhaling night and day a
+poisonous breath which tarnished your brass candlesticks and rendered
+noxious the “long, unlovely street” of the parish.  What in the name of
+wisdom induced me to pitch my tent in such a spot, I can scarcely say at
+this distance of time, unless perhaps it was a mad desire to rub against
+something rough and rude after having been reared in the drowsy
+atmosphere of pastoral Lincolnshire.
+
+But if the picture which met my gaze on parochial rounds possessed no
+inspiring feature, you may take my word for it that the setting of the
+picture was undeniably charming.  Close at hand lay the valley of the
+Wear, by whose brown and amber waters, broken by frequent beds of gravel,
+I used to wander, trout-rod in hand, or, wading ankle-deep in bluebells,
+I added to my store of nature-knowledge by observing the ways of the
+wood-folk—the tawny squirrel on his fir-bough, the red-polled woodpecker
+hammering at a decayed elm-branch, or a lank heron standing stiff as a
+stake on the margin of a pool.
+
+Across the airy uplands at the back of the village runs a road which was
+ever a favourite walk of mine.  Away in the distance, Durham’s towers
+lift their grey stones, and nearer across the fields, “like a roebuck at
+bay,” rises the castle, which together with the lordship of Brancepeth,
+Geoffrey, grandson of the Norman Gilbert de Nevil, received as dowry with
+Emma Bulmer, his Saxon bride.  Right well I came to know the weathered
+walls of Brancepeth Castle, where in fancy I used to hear the blare of
+bugle (_not the motor-horn_), and to a dreamer it is still a place where
+“the swords shine and the armour rings.”
+
+One June day I took the byway over the hills, and as I leaned upon a gate
+looking towards the castle, a sound of wheels not far off was heard on
+the gritty roadway, and from round the corner a party of Gypsies hove in
+sight.  There were two or three carts bearing the name of Watland, with
+several comely people aboard, and lagging in the rear came a pair of
+shaggy colts, whipped up by a shock-headed lad of fifteen.  When I
+greeted these wanderers, they drew rein and descended from the carts, and
+standing there in the sunshine on the road, they appeared to me more than
+anything like a gang of prehistoric folk risen from some tumulus on the
+moor; features, garments, horses, vehicles—all were tinctured with Mother
+Earth’s reds and browns picked up from wild heaths, clay-pits, and sandy
+lanes.  To my mind the sight was an agreeable variation from the daily
+procession of miners so black with coal-dust that you could not for the
+life of you distinguish Bill from Bob, or Jack from Jerry.
+
+“Are you stopping about here?” I asked, after an exchange of salutations.
+
+“Yes; come and see us to-night on top o’ the moor.  We’ll be fixed up by
+then.”  Turning to his wife, the leader of the party said—
+
+“Ay, doesn’t he remind you of that young priest up yonder by Newcastle,
+what used to come and take a cup of tea with us?”
+
+There was something about these Watlands which impressed me.  Although
+obviously poor, they were light-hearted—I had caught the lilt of a song
+before they came in sight.  A blithesome spirit of acceptance, a serenity
+drawn from Nature’s bosom was theirs, and I could imagine them whistling
+cheerily as they bent their heads to buffeting storms.
+
+“Take no thought for the morrow,” is the Gypsy’s own philosophy.  Were
+real road-folk ever able to tell you the route of the morrow’s itinerary?
+Break of day will be time enough to discuss the next stage of the
+journey.
+
+Sundown’s fires burned redly behind the black pines, as I found myself on
+the moor, a wide expanse tracked by little paths worn by passing feet, a
+haunt of whin-chats, grasshoppers, and bright-eyed lizards—sun-lovers
+all.
+
+Knowing the whimsicalities of the Gypsy nature, I had half expected to
+draw a blank after dawdling through the afternoon at Brancepeth Castle.
+I wondered whether my luck would be the same as on a past occasion
+whereon it happened that down a green lane I had located a picturesque
+lot of Gypsies who might almost have stepped straight out of a Morland
+canvas, and most anxious I was to secure a few snapshots, but
+unfortunately my camera had been left at home.
+
+“You’ll be here all day, I expect?”
+
+“To be sure we shall, my _rai_, you’ll find us here _koliko sawla_
+(to-morrow morning), if you’s a mind to come.”
+
+Preferring to act upon the _carpe diem_ principle, I returned with my
+camera as expeditiously as I could, and though but an hour and a half had
+elapsed, alas! my birds had flown.  Homewards I trudged, a joy-bereft
+soul for whom the world had suddenly grown empty.
+
+This leads me to remark that the Gypsies are far from easy to photograph.
+The degree of friendship does not enter into the problem.  I have known
+strangers to pose readily, while old friends have doggedly refused to be
+“took.”  Once a friend and I had talked one of the reticent Herons into a
+willingness to be photographed.  Yes, on the morrow he would be “took.”
+But with the morrow his mood had changed.  “No, _raia_, not for a
+thousand pounds.”
+
+I remember photographing a Gypsy girl under curious conditions.  Said I,
+as she sat upon the grass—
+
+“You’ll allow me to take a little picture?  Your hair is so pretty, and
+you have a happy face.”
+
+        [Picture: A North-Country Gypsy Girl.  Photo. H. Stimpson]
+
+But, no, my words were wasted.  Bad luck followed that sort of thing, a
+cousin of hers had died a fortnight after being “took.”
+
+“But isn’t there some charm for keeping off bad luck?”
+
+Looking thoughtful for a moment, she replied—
+
+“Oh yes, if you’ll give me a pair of bootlaces, you can _lel mi mui_
+(take my face) as many times as you _kom_” (like).
+
+I had a pair of laces, _but they were in my boots_.  Nothing daunted,
+however, I went off to a shop in the village half a mile away, and was
+soon back again presenting the laces to the girl with an Oriental salaam.
+
+Then I got my picture.
+
+              [Picture: On the Moorland.  Photo. Chas. Reid]
+
+Reverting to the Watlands, I was not disappointed.  There in a hollow on
+the moor I found them squatting around their fires.  Wearied by travel,
+some of the elders had retired for the night.  “_Dik lesti_’s _pîro_”
+(look at his foot), said one of the boys, pointing to a man’s bare brown
+foot protruding from beneath a tent cover.  Within view of Durham’s
+twinkling lights we sat, and my tobacco pouch having gone the round, we
+were soon deep in the sayings and doings of the Watlands of other days,
+for when business is off Gypsies ever talk of Gypsies.  As I looked at
+these folk, it seemed as though behind them through the dusk peered the
+shades of Romanies of an older, weirder sort, who shunned contact with
+cities and hated _gawjê_ (non-Gypsies) with a bitterness unknown to-day.
+
+Here is a tale of the old times, obtained from grizzled “Durham” Mike
+Watland, and translated more or less into my own words.
+
+    “When I was a little fellow, I used to listen with delight to a
+    blood-curdling story which my grandfather used to tell as we sat
+    watching the red embers die out at night.  One time he found himself
+    in a strange predicament, and got such a “gliff” as he had never
+    experienced before.  This of course was many years ago, for my
+    grandfather lived to the age of ninety-four, and I am one of the
+    third generation of a long-lived family of Gypsies.  The ways of our
+    people were a bit different then.  In those days, you saw no harm in
+    taking anything you had a fancy for, if you could get it.  My
+    grandfather was a young fellow, and on this particular morning he
+    crossed a moor and came to a hamlet containing three or four
+    straggling houses, and near one of these stood a cowshed and a low
+    barn.  In passing the shed he saw hanging there a nice porker which
+    had been killed early that morning, and round it was wrapped a sack
+    to prevent dogs or cats from gnawing it.  All this my grandfather
+    observed as he hawked his goods at the cottage door, inwardly
+    resolving to pay Mr. Piggy a visit by night.  All was quiet when at a
+    late hour he re-crossed the moor and arrived at the shed, on entering
+    which he put out his hands and felt for the pig where he had seen it
+    hanging in the morning, but, no, it had been removed.  It then
+    occurred to him that for greater safety it might have been carried
+    into the low-roofed barn, so in he went and felt all along the
+    cross-beam.  He was right.  Sure enough the pig’s face struck cold to
+    his hand.  Quickly he cut the rope, and, slinging piggy across his
+    shoulder, was soon making his way back to the camping-place.  But
+    crossing that rough land with a heavy load was no easy task, and you
+    may be sure that the farther he went the heavier it became.  When
+    descending a slope, he caught his foot in a hole, and down he tumbled
+    with his burden.  Now as he arose and laid hold of the rope in order
+    to hoist the pig once more, the moon came out from behind a cloud,
+    and revealed the face of—_a dead man_!  For a moment he stood
+    mesmerized by fright, then sick at heart he proceeded to acquaint the
+    nearest constable with the fact.  The corpse was identified as that
+    of a feeble-minded cottager who had hanged himself in the barn.”
+
+One day I was exploring the city of Durham, for my early life in Lincoln
+had imbued me with a love of old architecture, and the nave of Durham
+minster profoundly gratified my love of the sombre, when, lo, just over
+the way, I saw a weather-beaten _vâdo_ (living-van), and near it was the
+owner, looking up and down the street as if expecting someone to appear.
+Crossing the road, I greeted the Gypsy, who turned out to be one of the
+Winters, a North-Country family to whom has been applied (not without
+reason) the epithet “wild,” and I remembered how Hoyland, in his
+_Historical Survey of the Gypsies_, had written—
+
+    “The distinguished Northern poet, Walter Scott, who is Sheriff of
+    Selkirkshire, has in a very obliging manner communicated the
+    following statement—‘ . . . some of the most atrocious families have
+    been extirpated.  I allude to the Winters, a Northumberland clan,
+    who, I fancy, are all buried by this time.’”
+
+But Sheriff Scott was wrong.
+
+The Winters had only changed their haunts, and on being driven out of the
+Border Country had moved southward.
+
+As I stood chatting with Mr. Winter, his handsome wife came up with a
+hawking-basket on her arm.  I shall always remember her in connection
+with a story she told me.
+
+    “One day I was sitting on a bank under a garden hedge.  It was a hot
+    day and I was very thirsty.  I said aloud, ‘Oh, for a drink of beer.’
+    Just then a voice came over the hedge, a nice, clear, silvery voice
+    it was, like as if an angel from heaven was a-talking to me—‘You
+    shall have one, my dearie.’  And in a minute or two a kind lady came
+    down with a big jug of beer.  How I did bless that lady for her
+    kindness to a poor Gypsy, and I drank the lot.  About a month
+    afterwards, I heard of the death of that lady, and I vowed to myself
+    and to the _rawni_’s _muli_ (lady’s spirit) that I would never touch
+    another drop of beer as long as I lived, and I never have done and
+    never will no more.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV
+MY POACHING PUSSY—A ROMANY BENISON—MY FIRST TASTE OF HEDGEHOG
+
+
+MY clerical life has been spent for the most part in green country
+places, chiefly amid wind-swept hills.  Consequently one has learned to
+delight in the creatures that run and fly, the wild things of wood and
+wold and brookside, and this love of Nature and her children has never
+left me; it has companioned with me throughout my wanderings.  Give me
+now an elevated crest commanding a broad sweep of field and forest, with
+the swift rush of keen air over the furze bushes, a footpath among the
+thorn-scrub where the finches chatter, the sedgy bank of a moorland
+stream from which I can hear the “flup” of the trout, or the call of the
+peewits somersaulting in the sunlight: simple pleasures are these, yet
+they bring a world of happiness to a man who loves the wilds more than
+cities, and the windy wold better than the stifling street.
+
+Contrary to the popular notion that Lincolnshire is no more than a dreary
+expanse of black fenland soil intersected by drains of geometric
+straightness, I may point out that there are two well-defined hill ranges
+extending almost throughout the county—the chalk and greensand Wolds, and
+the limestone “Heights,” running parallel after the manner of the _duplex
+spina_ of Virgil’s well-bred horse.
+
+On the western edge of the Wolds, overlooking a richly varied landscape,
+nestles the hamlet where I made my first home after marriage, and the
+country lying around our hilltop parsonage was an ideal hunting-ground
+for a naturalist.  Borne on the rude March gales the wild pipe of the
+curlew greeted the ear as you met the buffeting gusts along the
+unfrequented ridgeways, and over winter snows an observant eye might
+trace the badger’s spoor.  On summer evenings when the far-away minster
+of Lincoln was a purple cameo upon an amber ground, and the shadows
+creeping out of the woods began to spread over the hills, a brown owl
+would sail by on noiseless wings, or Reynard might be seen trotting
+across the sheep-nibbled sward towards the warren below the clustering
+firs.
+
+Rambling along the wold one gleaming autumn afternoon, my attention was
+attracted by the rapid movements of some diminutive, fluffy-looking
+creature, which to a casual saunterer might have been a wren or a
+hedgesparrow; but after having stood quietly for a moment or two, a dark
+velvety ball of fur darted towards me, and in a most confiding manner ran
+over my boots, and sniffed at the stout ash-plant which I invariably
+carry with me along the lanes.  For some time I stood watching the
+unconscious play of this tiny mouse.  At last, however, I made a move and
+my wee friend fled like a thought to his retreat in the hedge.
+
+On another occasion, I was seated in my old oak stall in the village
+church.  It was a harvest festival, and a college friend was in the midst
+of his sermon, when I distinctly felt something nibbling at the hem of my
+cassock.  It was a plump grey mouse, and on moving my foot I saw him
+speed down the aisle like an arrow.  As fortune had it, the ladies in the
+front pew, being properly rapt in the eloquent discourse, escaped the
+disquieting vision of my church mousie.
+
+These mice incidents, with a few more like them, were strung together and
+dispatched to the _Pall Mall Budget_, edited at that time by Mr. Charles
+Morley.  My literary effort was duly printed, with pleasing sketches from
+the pencil of that peerless lover of pussies, Mr. Louis Wain, the then
+president of the Cat Club.
+
+It was in the same parish that I had a favourite pussy, “Tony” by name,
+who would daily follow me to church, and wait at the vestry door for my
+reappearance after matin-prayers.  But, alas, he acquired the poaching
+habit, a sure path to destruction, as I learned one day to my sorrow in
+passing the keeper’s gibbet at the end of a woodland glade.
+
+One of my rambles with this pussy I recall quite vividly.  One afternoon
+I set off across the wold intending to make pastoral visits upon a few
+outlying cottagers.  I had got about half a mile from home, and, looking
+round, there was Tony just at my heels.  I strolled along, and presently
+heard a squealing, and out of a clump of nettles came my cat dragging a
+plump rabbit.  It was dead, and the cat, panting after his effort, looked
+up at me, as much as to say, “You’re not going to leave it here, are
+you?”  Whereupon I remembered the saying of an old Gypsy, “If you had a
+dog that brought a hare or a rabbit to your feet, wouldn’t it be flying
+in the face of providence to refuse to take it?”  So, picking up the
+rabbit, I put it in one of the roomy pockets of my long-tailed coat, and
+went on.  The cat persisted in following.  By and by, we drew near to a
+disused quarry, where the cat captured a second rabbit, which went into
+the other pocket of my long coat.  By this time I began to feel the charm
+of the sport of that gentleman who sallies forth on “a shiny night at the
+season of the year.”  The pastoral visits had now perforce to be
+abandoned, but on turning my face homeward, oh, horrors! there, not a
+hundred yards away, was a man on horseback, accompanied by a dog, and,
+seeing them, my cat scooted along a gulley up the hill, and was gone.  I
+could not disappear quite so easily.  However, as I did not altogether
+fancy a strange dog sniffing at my coat-tails, I made a detour, and the
+horseman passed a good way below me on the slope.  You should have seen
+my wife smile as I plumped two nice bunnies on the kitchen table.  We
+observed that those rabbits tasted quite as good as any you purchase at a
+game-dealer’s stall in the market.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+Gypsies, as all the world knows, are fond of the hedgehog.
+
+They do not keep him as a pet.  They eat him, and roast hedgehog
+accompanied with sage and onions is a dish for an episcopal table.  I
+never see one of these prickly fellows without being reminded of several
+experiences.
+
+Once in passing along a town street on my way to the Archdeacon’s
+Visitation, I noticed not far ahead of me an elderly woman stepping out
+with a swinging stride.  Her face I could not see, but she wore a
+tattered shawl about her shoulders, and her black hair was done up in
+small plaits like a horse’s mane at fair-time.  “Gypsy,” said I to
+myself, and, hastening alongside, I greeted her in the Romany tongue.
+The words had a magical effect.  Instantly she wheeled round and scanned
+me up and down with a puzzled air.  There before her, wearing an orthodox
+collar and black coat, stood a parson who nevertheless talked like a
+Gypsy.  Now in common with some ladies of high degree, nearly all Gypsy
+women enjoy a whiff of tobacco smoke.  This old lady, however, declined a
+gift of the weed on the ground that “the brantitus” had troubled her of
+late, but she gladly stepped with me into a snug coffeehouse close by,
+where over our steaming cups we conversed aloud in the Gypsy language, to
+the complete mystification of the prim-looking manageress whose curiosity
+kept her hovering near.  What that good woman’s thoughts were, I have not
+the faintest idea.  I only know that she seemed amazed at the sight of a
+Gypsy in easy intercourse with a simple-looking cleric who appeared to be
+enjoying himself.  Both, too, were speaking a queer-sounding language
+understandable to each other, but utterly incomprehensible to the
+listener.  What could it all mean?  Well, Gypsies at anyrate are not
+without a sense of humour; indeed, no one enjoys a bit of fun more than
+they.  Taking in the situation at a glance, my Gypsy companion gave me a
+sly look, and, waving her hand playfully, exclaimed, “Never mind him,
+missis, he’s nobbut an Irishman, and can’t a boy and his mither talk a
+word or two in their own language?”
+
+On my taking leave of the Gypsy mother, she bestowed this benison upon
+me: “The Lord love you, my son, and _may you always have a big hedgehog
+in your mouth_.”
+
+Hedgehog, as I have said, is a dainty dish with Gypsies, and the old
+woman was no more than kindly wishing that there might ever be a titbit
+ready to slip into my mouth.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+I am not likely to forget the occasion of my first actual taste of this
+Romany delicacy.
+
+Charley Watland (brother of “Durham” Mike), a wide traveller, had told me
+much of the delights of a certain old-fashioned Midland horse-fair,
+concluding one of his glowing descriptions by inviting me to meet him in
+mid-September at this fair.  Thus it came to pass that I set out one fine
+morning with my face towards the distant hills of Leicestershire.  Of the
+day-long journey, I am now concerned only with its closing scenes.
+Pushing up a long, tiring hill, I spied over a hedge in the dusk two or
+three _vâdê_ (living-vans), some low tents with flickering fires before
+them, and dark figures moving to and fro.  With what energy I had left, I
+climbed over a fence and made straight for the Gypsy fires.  A tall
+_Romanitshel_, leaning against a tree-bole, was singing snatches of a
+song in which I caught the words _Beng_ (Devil) and _puri-dai_
+(grandmother), but, on seeing a stranger approach, he ceased.  The Romany
+greeting, which I flung on the evening air, caused a stoutish woman to
+thrust her head from the doorway of the nearest caravan.
+
+“He’s one o’ the Lees, I’ll be bound.  He talks like ’em.  He’s come back
+from over the _pâni_” (water).  Which, being interpreted, meant that I
+was a “lag’s” boy returned from over-sea.  The idea tickled me so that I
+laughed outright.
+
+Beside the fire which was burning brightly at the feet of the tall Gypsy
+man, children and dogs were rolling over one another in perfect
+happiness, and at my elbow a lad, peering into my face, exclaimed—
+
+“I’ll swop _diklo_s (kerchiefs) with you, _rai_.”
+
+“No, you won’t,” I replied; “mine’s silk and yours cotton.”
+
+“_Pen mandi_, _baw_” (Tell me, friend), I inquired of the tall man under
+the trees, “Is Charley Watland here this time?”
+
+“_Keka_, _mi pal_, the _puro_’s _poger_’d his _hĕro_ (No, my brother, the
+old man’s broken his leg) at Peterborough.  He’s got kicked by a hoss,
+and he’s in the infirmary.”  This was bad news, for I had hoped to meet
+my friend here and spend the night with him.
+
+          [Picture: Round the camp-fire.  Photo. F. R. Hinkins]
+
+A little way across the fields the lights of a village gleamed through
+the darkness, and, making my way thither, I sought for a resting-place,
+but in vain.  Every available bed was already engaged.  In and out of the
+taverns passed horse-dealers and rollicking Gypsies.  Groups of Romany
+lads and lasses stood talking in the lane.  Burly women with foaming jugs
+bumped against you in the shadows.  Between the barking of dogs and the
+whinnying of horses, a word or two of Romany floated now and then to
+one’s ear.
+
+           [Picture: A child of the caravan.  Photo. Fred Shaw]
+
+Tired after my day in the open air, I turned into a by-lane to think
+matters over.  A gentle wind rustled the leaves on the trees, and on the
+eastern horizon a growing light told of approaching moon-rise.  I sat on
+a fence and watched Old Silver appear above the hills.  Away from the
+village, I began to notice the sights and sounds of night.  An owl on
+velvety wing fluttered by.  Little birds cheeped in the thicket behind
+me.  Field-mice squeaked in the grass on the bank.  I began to feel cut
+off from the world.  What was I to do?  Walk about all night?  Make a bed
+on the bracken in a neighbouring wood?  Renew my search for a more
+civilized couch in one or other of the adjacent villages?  Tramp down the
+long dusty road to a small town some few miles off, where I knew of more
+than one snug hostelry?  Why indeed?  Was I not out for adventure?  I
+resolved to ask the Gypsies to give me a bed.  Therefore, without further
+ado, I slipped through a gap in the hedge, and made tracks for the Gypsy
+fires already mentioned.
+
+“Hello, here’s the _rai_ back again.”  It was the tall Gypsy’s wife who
+spoke.  My tale was soon told, and I was promptly offered a corner under
+Arthur West’s tilt-hood placed tent-wise on the ground.  Now that my mind
+was at ease, I sat me down by the fire near which a savoury smell of
+supper arose.  It was astonishing how quickly we cleaned the bones of
+several bird-like objects set before us.
+
+“Did you ever taste of these little things afore?”
+
+“Well, whatever they are, I shouldn’t mind if they had been larger.”
+
+At this they all laughed aloud.
+
+“_Dawdi_, the _rai_ doesn’t _jin_ he’s _haw_’d _hotshwitshi_” (Fancy, the
+gentleman doesn’t know he’s eaten hedgehog).
+
+So this was the much-vaunted Romany dish, nor did it disappoint me.  The
+blended flavours of pheasant and sucking-pig are still present to my
+memory as I recall that moonlit meal washed down by a jug of brown ale.
+
+On awaking next morning, I realized the truth of the saying, “Gypsies get
+something straight from heaven which is never known to people who sleep
+in stuffy houses and get up to wash in warm water.”
+
+When I recall awakenings in lodgings with the bedclothes, valances,
+curtains, falderals, antimacassars, all heavy with suggestions of
+humanity, I marvel no more at the Gypsy’s choice of a bed of crisp
+bracken or sweet straw, with maybe a wisp of dried river-mint or wild
+thyme mingled with it.
+
+Walking bare-foot in the dewy grass with the Gypsy children, we made our
+toilet together in the open, with the light airs of the wold playing
+about us.  Then came breakfast by the wood fire, and during the meal my
+host’s donkey affectionately put his cold nose on the bare of my neck.
+In a little while we stood on the common where the fair was in full
+swing, and, strolling among the horses and dealers, I spied a
+curly-haired son of old Horace Boswell, just arrived from Leicester, who
+found time to tell me a funny tale about his father.
+
+Since early morn Horace had been riding a lively horse, and, dismounting,
+handed the reins to a pal and walked a few yards into the fair.  As he
+was looking about him, he lighted upon George Smith of Coalville, who,
+arching his bushy eyebrows and stroking his great beard, stood shocked at
+the sight of a Gypsy walking unsteadily.  As a matter of fact, Horace’s
+legs had not yet thrown off the cramp of many hours’ riding on a skittish
+animal.  When solemn George opened his mouth it was to ask a question—
+
+“Do you drink beer, my good man?”
+
+“Well, my kind gentleman,” replied Horace, “afore I answers that
+question, I’d reely like to know whether it’s a simple inquiry or an
+inwitation.”
+
+This was too much for the worthy philanthropist who, turning swiftly on
+his heel, went his way swinging his Gladstone-bag and gingham.
+
+About the middle of the afternoon I sought out my hospitable friend
+Arthur West before quitting the fair, and, looking me straight in the
+eyes, he said, “Are you quite sure that you have enough _lova_ (money) to
+see you home?  For if I thought you hadn’t, I should chuck a handful on
+the _drom_ (road) and leave it for you to pick up.”
+
+How shall we ever get you to understand the spirit of these wanderers;
+you who coddle yourselves in hot, close rooms; who are wedded to the life
+of a mill-horse jogging in convention’s dusty track, and whose souls are
+imprisoned within the dimensions of a red-ochred flower-pot?
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V
+A GYPSY BAPTISM—ROMANY NAMES
+
+
+QUITTING the Wolds, described in the preceding chapter, I took up my
+abode in a large village situated on Lincoln Heath, where I had further
+opportunities of pursuing my Gypsy studies round about home.
+
+In a sinuous turfy lane which ran behind our house, the Gypsies would
+pitch their camp from time to time, and one of these wandering families
+conceived the notion of renting a cottage in the village.  In my mind’s
+eye I can see that little house, wearing a lost, desolate air.  It stood
+in a walled-in yard, where loose stones lay strewn, and the ridge of the
+red-tiled roof sunken in the middle threatened a collapse.
+
+Unaccustomed to sleeping under a roof, and a rickety one at that, the
+Gypsies fled in alarm from their chamber one wild, boisterous night,
+fearing lest the chimney-pots should tumble in upon them.  Near by stood
+their green caravan, and snugly abed therein they felt secure from all
+harm.  Next day a timid rap came at the Rectory door, and a black-eyed
+girl whispered in my ear that her mother would like the baby, a few hours
+old, to be christened.  This I did, and a day or two afterwards I was
+agreeably surprised to meet the Gypsy mother with her baby taking the
+fresh air on the high road.  What mother in any other rank of life could
+carry her child in the open so soon after its birth?
+
+“It’s a way we have,” said Walter Heron, when explaining to me that a
+plate, cup, and saucer are set apart for the mother’s use during the four
+weeks following the birth of a child.  The vessels are then destroyed in
+accordance with an old puerperal tabu.  This custom is still observed in
+all good Romany families.
+
+Tom Lee, an English Gypsy, broke up a loaf of bread and strewed the
+crumbs around his tent when his son Bendigo was born, for some of the
+old-time Gypsies hold the notion that bread possesses a protective magic
+against evil influences.  Seated one day in the tent of Bendigo Lee on
+the South Shore at Blackpool, I questioned him about his father’s
+practice.  “In the days when I was born,” he replied, “there were people
+that could do hurt by looking at you, and I s’pose my _dadus_ (father)
+sprinkled the crumbs lest any evil person going by should cast harm upon
+me.”
+
+A distinct survival of the belief in the evil eye.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+Romany “fore,” or Christian names, {53} are often peculiar, and afford
+much material for reflection.
+
+Whence come such names as Khulai, Maireni, Malini, Mori, Shuri?  In these
+names Sir Richard Temple discerns Indian forms or terminations.  The
+Anglo-Romany names, Fenela, Siari, and Trenit, have been identified by
+Mr. H. T. Crofton with the Continental forms, Vennel, Cihari, and
+Tranitza, the last being a common feminine Gypsy name in Hungary.
+
+Euphonious and out-of-the-way names are irresistible to the Gypsy.
+
+“What metal is that box made of, sir?” asked a Gypsy mother on seeing a
+gentleman’s cigarette-case.
+
+“Aluminium,” was the reply.
+
+“What a beautiful name for my gell’s baby!”
+
+According to Charles G. Leland, a Gypsy father, hearing two gentlemen
+talking about Mount Vesuvius, was greatly impressed by the name, and
+consulted with them as to the propriety of giving it to his little boy.
+
+Gypsies dislike to be addressed by their peculiar “fore” or Christian
+names in the presence of _gawjê_; hence to the postman, Ènos become Amos,
+Fèmi—Amy, and Poley—George, and so on.  As a rule, you find a Gypsy is
+unwilling to impart his true name to a stranger.  May not this reluctance
+be due to a lingering subconscious belief that the possession of one’s
+true name would enable a stranger to work harmful spells upon the owner?
+
+Time was when the belief was widely spread that the utterance of a man’s
+true name drew him to the speaker.  Medieval records are full of
+legendary accounts of spirits who were summoned by the casual
+pronunciation of their names.  Until lately there were peasants in the
+North of Ireland and Arran who absolutely refused to tell their names to
+a stranger because such knowledge, it was believed, would enable him to
+“call” them, no matter how far he was from them, and whenever he cared to
+do so.  They also believed that any spell worked on the written name
+would have the same effect as if worked on the owner.
+
+It is a fact that not a few Gypsy surnames are identical with those of
+ancient noble families, _e.g._ Boswell, or Bosville (sometimes contracted
+to Boss), Gray, Heron, Hearne, or Herne, Lees, Lovells, and Stanleys.  It
+has been surmised, by way of explanation, that the Gypsies soon after
+their arrival in this country adopted the surnames of the owners of the
+estates on which particular hordes usually encamped, or the names of
+those landed families who afforded protection to the persecuted
+wanderers.
+
+Speaking of the Gypsies, Gilbert White of Selborne, says, “One of these
+tribes calls itself by the noble name of Stanley.”  This mention of the
+Stanleys reminds me that once on Gonerby Hill, near Grantham, on the
+Great North Road, I met a young man who looked like a mechanic out of
+work, yet his bearing was that of a Gypsy.  In our talk he admitted that
+he was of Romany blood.  He had been a horseman in Lord George Sanger’s
+circus, but something had gone wrong and he was thrown out of employ.  At
+first he gave his name as Richardson (not a Gypsy name), but he
+afterwards told me that his grandfather, a Stanley, had been transported,
+for which reason the family assumed the name of Richardson.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI
+I MAKE A NEW ACQUAINTANCE
+
+
+FOR several years I was curate-in-charge of a parish abutting upon the
+Great North Road, and during that time I used to meet many Gypsies on the
+famous highway.  There passed along it members of the Boswell clan,
+making their way from Edinburgh to London; the dark Herons, after
+spending the summer months in the Northern Counties, came by this route
+to their winter quarters at Nottingham; a lawless horde of Lovells also
+knew this road well.  Sometimes these Gypsies would turn aside from the
+dusty highway for a brief rest in the green lanes across an adjacent
+river, but they rarely tarried longer than a day.  With one of these
+Gypsies I became intimately acquainted, and this is how our friendship
+began.
+
+One May morning I had been strolling along the aforesaid road, and,
+turning towards the river where it is spanned by an old mill-bridge, I
+loitered there in expectation of the arrival of a pack of otter-hounds,
+visitors from another county; for complaints had long been accumulating
+to the effect that _Lutra_ had been making depredations among the fish,
+game, and poultry all along the reaches of the river.  Adjoining the
+bridge was a watermill where often might be heard the humming of the
+great wheel and the roar of foam-flecked water.  Mellowed by time’s
+gentle touch, the irregular outlines of the building seemed verily as if
+arranged to be imaged on canvas; timbers and weathered stones were
+everywhere mottled with rosettes of orange and grey lichen, and when the
+sunbeams warmed the tints and tones of the old mill into rich masses of
+colour you experienced a thrill which made you wish to repeat it.
+
+A little way off, our river was crossed by a shallow ford rarely used by
+vehicular traffic, which mostly passed by the bridge.  Once a year,
+however, the miller closed the bridge in order to preserve a right-of-way
+through his yard, and on this occasion toll was taken of every cart,
+while a free way was allowed by the ford.  But the astute fellow usually
+arranged that the closing of the bridge should coincide with a market day
+at the nearest town, and he would choose a time when the river was
+swollen by flood-water beyond its ordinary dimensions, thus rendering the
+ford a dangerous crossing.
+
+After waiting awhile, a murmur of deep voices broke upon my ear, as with
+a rush and a splash about a score of bonny, rough-coated dogs burst into
+view round a bend in the stream.  It was not in my plans to follow the
+dogs, so when the pack and its excited companions had gone by, I
+proceeded leisurely along a lane leading towards the green uplands
+looking down upon the valley.
+
+A little way up the lane I came upon two dark-featured lads, and, going
+up to one of them who was tacking strips of straw-plait upon the top of a
+three-legged table, I said—
+
+“You seem very busy this morning.”
+
+“We must do something for a living.”
+
+“You’re certainly a good hand at your business.  How long are you
+stopping here?”
+
+“That’s more nor I know.”  (This with a shrewd look at me from top to
+toe.)  “Ax grandfather, up yonder wi’ the hosses.”
+
+Higher up the lane, and almost hidden by outlying tangles of bramble and
+wild-rose, sat a man of sixty or more, puffing tobacco smoke from his
+black clay, and near him on the wayside three horses ripped the tender
+grasses.
+
+Looking up at me with a start, the man said—
+
+“Well, you fairly took me by surprise, sir.  For a wonder I never heard
+you a-coming.  I must be getting deaf.”
+
+“_Romanitshel_?” (Gypsy) I queried.
+
+“_Âvali_, _mi tshavo_” (Yes, my son), he replied; “you’s been among our
+people, that’s plain, or you wouldn’t talk like you do.  Mebbe you’s
+heard tell o’ Jonathan Boswell—that’s me.  But I must be off now with
+these here hosses to the smithy.  We’s _besh_in _akai_ (stopping here)
+for a day or two.  Our wagon’s in the _kitshima_ (tavern) yard just past
+the mill.”
+
+“Well, Jonathan, I want you to bring one of those Gypsy-tables the boys
+are making to my place this afternoon; don’t fail to come.  I shall _dik
+avrî_ for _tîro mui_ about _trin ora_” (look out for your face about
+three o’clock).
+
+“Right, I’ll be there, _raia_.”
+
+In due course the Gypsy presented himself at my door in company with his
+two grandsons, and among them they carried three tables.  I had only
+asked for one, but Jonathan was such a “find” that I gladly purchased all
+the articles and bade the little party follow me into the garden.  The
+two grandsons displayed a remarkable knowledge of trees, which they were
+able to identify not merely by their foliage, but by the character of
+their bark.  Wild birds they knew by note and flight as well as by
+plumage.  There is so much a Gypsy boy knows about nature.
+
+How meagre, by contrast, is the information possessed by the average
+County Council schoolboy; which reminds me that I was once giving an
+object-lesson to a class of fifth-standard children attending our village
+school.  We were seated on a river bank whose insect life and botanical
+treasures I had been pointing out to an interested group of listeners.
+As nothing had been said about the scaly denizens of the stream, I
+concluded my talk by putting a question to the entire class.
+
+“Hands up, those who can tell me the names of any fish to be found in
+this river.”
+
+Quickly a dozen pink palms were uplifted, and I could see that several
+lips were bursting with information.  Imagine my surprise when I was
+informed—“red-herring, sprats, and mackerel.”
+
+On the following evening I went across the fields to see my friends by
+the watermill.  The amber light of sunset was falling upon green hedge
+and rippling river.  From a thorn bush a nightingale jug-jugged
+deliciously.  There was poetry in the air.  Nor was it dispelled by the
+discovery that my friends had drawn their “house on wheels” into the
+grassy lane leading down to the ford.
+
+Seated on a mound of sand, Jonathan was chatting with a stranger who had
+the looks of an Irishman.  I joined them, but no sooner had I dropped a
+word or two of Romany than the stranger arose, saying, “I don’t
+understand your talk, so I’d better be going.”  He then left us, and,
+seeing he had gone away, old Fazenti, Jonathan’s wife, stepped down from
+the living-wagon, and our discourse became considerably enlivened by her
+presence.
+
+Speaking of _duker_in (fortune-telling), she said, “It’ll go on while the
+world lasts,” which was Fazzy’s way of saying that the credulous will be
+in the world after the poor have left it.  “It’s the hawking-basket that
+gi’s us our chance, don’t you _dik_ (see)?  I takes care never to be
+without my licence, and the _muskro_ (policeman) would have to get up
+wery early to catch old Fazzy asleep.  Did I ever have any _mulo-mas_?
+{61}  Many’s the time I’ve had a bit.  In spring, when lambs are about,
+that’s the time for _mulo-mas_.
+
+“A good country for hedgehogs is this, but we don’t eat ’em in the
+spring.  The back end of the year is the best time for ’em; there’s a bit
+of flesh on ’em then.  When you find one, if he’s rolled up in a ball,
+you rub his back with a stick right down his spine, and he’ll open out
+fast enough.  Then you hit him hard on the nose, and he’s as dead as a
+door nail.  The old way of cooking him was to cover him with clay and
+bake him in the fire.  When he was cooked you tapped the clay ball, and
+the prickles and skin came away with the clay.  Nowadays we burn down the
+bristles, then shave ’em off, draw and clean him and roast him on a spit
+before a hot fire.  He’s wery good with _puvengri_s (potatoes), sage, and
+onions.  _Bouri_s (snails) are good to eat in winter.  You get them in a
+hard frost from behind old stumps of trees.  You put salt on ’em and they
+make fine broth.  Wery strengthening is _bouri-zimen_” (snail broth).
+
+             [Picture: A rest by the way.  Photo. Fred Shaw]
+
+While we were conversing, Jonathan’s grandsons passed by with a lurcher.
+
+“A useful dog, that, I should think,” said I.
+
+“_Kushto yek sî dova_ for _shushiaw_ and _kanengrê_” (A good one is that
+for rabbits and hares), replied the old man.  “I minds well the day I
+bought him off a man with a pot-cart as was stopping along with us.  We’d
+got leave from a farmer to draw into a lane running between some clover
+fields, and we were just sitting down to a cup o’ tea when a keeper comes
+along and says—
+
+“‘I’m afraid some of you fellows have been up to mischief, because
+there’s a hare in a snare along this hedge.’
+
+“‘Then it’s somebody else’s snare, not ours,’ I says, ‘for we’s only just
+got here, and yon farmer as give us leave to stop will tell you the same
+if you ask him.’
+
+“‘Well, see here,’ says the keeper, ‘there’s a rabbit for your pot.  Keep
+a sharp look out, and mind you let me know if anybody comes to fetch that
+hare.  There’s my cottage up yonder.’
+
+“Then he went away, and would you believe it, a bit after the moon got up
+we see a man coming across the field and straight to that snare he went,
+and as he was taking the hare out of it, there was a tap on his shoulder
+from the keeper.  Now, who do you think the man was that got catched so
+nicely?  _It was the willage policeman_.  And that night I bought that
+here _jukel_ (dog), I did, and me and the dog had a fine time among the
+_shushiaw_ (rabbits) after the keeper and the policeman had gone away.
+About a week after, the _muskro_ (policeman) had to appear in court, and
+a wery poor figure he cut afore the _pukinger_ (magistrate).  You see, he
+was catched proper, and couldn’t get out of it no-how.  The pot-cart man
+and me had to go up as witnesses.”
+
+“You’ll know this countryside well, I expect.  Do you ever spend the
+night in Dark Lane, as I believe they call it?”
+
+“One time we used to stop there a lot, _rai_, but they won’t let us now.
+How’smiver, we _hatsh odoi_ (encamp there) for a _râti_ (night) at odd
+times, spite of everybody.”
+
+This remark was accompanied by a half-smothered chuckle from Jonathan,
+who, while filling his pipe from my tobacco pouch, seemed to be
+ruminating upon a reminiscence which presently came out.
+
+The said lane lies pleasantly between a neighbouring village and the
+river, and about the month of May the grass down there begins to be
+sweet, but woe to the Gypsies whom the constable finds encamped
+thereabouts.
+
+Jonathan went on to tell how he and his party once passed a night very
+happily there when the may-buds were bursting.  And this is how it was
+done.
+
+In a wayside tavern the Gypsy had heard it whispered that the County
+Police had gone to the town for the annual inspection, which involved a
+temporary absence of the constables from their respective localities.
+But, to make quite sure of this, on arriving at the village of F—,
+Jonathan sought out a certain cottage and thus addressed himself to a
+constable’s wife—
+
+“Is the sergeant at home?”
+
+“No, my man.  What do you want him for?”
+
+“A pony of mine has gone astray, and I want him to let me know if he
+hears anything about it.  Perhaps he’ll be at home to-night?”
+
+“He won’t, I’m afraid.”
+
+“Thank you, ma’am.”
+
+Thus Jonathan camped down Dark Lane with impunity.
+
+One morning shortly after my meeting with Jonathan, a Gypsy mother called
+at my Rectory.  She led her black-eyed, five-year-old boy by the hand.
+Brown as a berry, the handsome little fellow would have served admirably
+for an artist’s model, and his mother had many pleasing touches of Gypsy
+colour about her attire.  From beneath a bright red _diklo_ (kerchief)
+which she wore, a few black curls straggled out on to her forehead, and a
+gay bodice showed under her green shawl.  The woman said that she had
+heard so much of me from her father—Jonathan Boswell—that she had come on
+purpose to see me.  I invited her into the kitchen, and over bread and
+cheese and ale we chatted.
+
+“Ain’t we all delated, _raia_, come to think of it?  There’s a Man above
+as made us all.”
+
+Quickly I made friends with the little boy, and at my request his mother
+afforded our household no small delight by leaving her son with us for
+the day.  The tiny lad was entirely unaccustomed to house ways, and his
+behaviour was a study.  On seeing a Christmas card with the Christ-child
+lying in the manger guarded by a white-winged angel, he exclaimed, “I
+know what that is” (pointing to the heavenly visitant); “we often sees
+’em flying over the fields.  _It’s a seagull_.”
+
+With great readiness he joined in the games of my children, such as
+shuttlecock and battledore, skipping, and the like.  Sitting at a table
+for a meal was evidently a novel experience for the little chap, and it
+was amusing to see him slip off his chair and squat on the hearthrug,
+putting his plate on his knee as though a Gypsy boy ought not to do
+exactly as the _gawjê_, and he used his fingers freely in lieu of fork
+and spoon.  After the meal we sat round the fire, and talked of his life
+on the road.
+
+“I found a hen’s nest in the hedge-bottom, this morning, I did.”
+
+“Any eggs in?” I asked.
+
+“Yes; three.”
+
+“Did you take them?”
+
+“No, I left ’em—_till there was more_.”
+
+Then I told him fairy tales of green woods, ghosts, and goblins, and he
+became excited, springing once or twice from his chair, as if he would
+like to have danced about the room.
+
+“Oh, I knows a lot about _mulo_s” (ghosts), said the little Gypsy.
+“There’s different sorts—milk-white ’uns and coal-black ’uns.  When we’re
+abed at nights, they come screaming round our wagon and flapping at the
+windows.  My daddy gets his gun and shoots, then we hears ’em no more for
+a bit.  But they are soon back agen, and I’m that frit when I hears ’em,
+I can’t sleep.  When mammy’s going out with her basket of a morning, and
+daddy’s gone somewhere to see about a hoss, I daren’t go far into the big
+wood agen our stopping-place, ’cos of the black pig what lives there.
+Daddy has seen it, and nobody can’t kill it, for you can bang a stick
+right through it without hurting it.  Mammy allus says, ‘Don’t you never
+go into that wood, else the black pig’ll get you.’”
+
+We showed him picture books, and, pointing to an ass and a foal, he said,
+“My daddy’s got a little donkey just like that, three months old, and
+when it’s bigger I shall ride on it, like that man’s doing in the
+pictur’.”
+
+We rambled in the Rectory garden, and he quickly found a hedgehog in its
+nest.  All the senses of this little fellow were extremely alert.
+
+In the early evening his mother returned for him, and their meeting was a
+pretty sight.  Placing her hawking-basket on the ground, she picked up
+her laddie in her arms and kissed him.  Slowly the pair walked away,
+casting more than one backward glance at the house.
+
+A few days later, news reached me of a Gypsy arrival in a green lane
+about a mile from my Rectory.  I therefore hastened across the fields,
+and, long before sighting the party, whiffs of wood-smoke, which the
+breeze brought my way, told that they were already encamped.  On reaching
+the spot, Farmer W—’s best bullock pasture, I spied Jonathan’s cart along
+with other vehicles drawn up with their backs towards a high hedge.
+There were fires on the grass, and from family groups merry voices rang
+out on the air.  In the lane a troop of children were hovering around a
+little black donkey, a pretty young foal, which allowed them to fondle it
+to their hearts’ content.  What a picture it was which greeted
+me—tree-boles, tilt-carts, and hedgerows lit up by the fading sunlight,
+and the blue smoke of the fires wafted about the undulating field dipping
+down to the river.  Quickly I dropped into a corner by one of the fires,
+and the mirth was just at its height when up rode Farmer W— on his
+chestnut cob.
+
+               [Picture: A Wayside Idyl.  Photo. Fred Shaw]
+
+“Where’s that scamp of a Boswell?” he shouted angrily.
+
+Jonathan stepped forward, hanging his head somewhat.
+
+“What does all this mean?” asked the farmer.  “I thought it was only for
+yourself that you begged leave to stop here.  Who the divil’s all this
+gang?”
+
+“I really couldn’t help it,” said Jonathan.  “They stuck to me, and would
+come in.  They’re all delations of mine, don’t you see, sir?”
+
+A look from the Gypsy made me step forward and plead for the party, which
+I did with success.
+
+          [Picture: Children of the Open Air.  Photo. Fred Shaw]
+
+About the middle of June I was again in Old Boswell’s company.  Under a
+hedge pink with wild-roses, we sat smoking and waiting for the fair to
+begin on Stow Green, a South Lincolnshire common.  Already horses were
+assembling and dealers were beginning to arrive in all sorts of
+conveyances.  Hot sunshine blazed down upon the common, whose only
+building was a wretched-looking lockup, around which lounged several
+representatives of the county constabulary.  Wandering in and about the
+motley throng, I caught a whisper going the round that a fight was to
+take place before the end of the day.  It had been explained to me that
+this fight was not the result of any quarrel arising at the fair.  It had
+been arranged long beforehand.  Whenever a difference arose between two
+families, champions were told off to fight the matter out at Stow Green
+Fair.
+
+Somewhere about the middle of the afternoon, as the business began to
+slacken, a number of people were seen to move to one corner of the
+common.  Evidently something was afoot.  I wandered across and found a
+crowd consisting mainly of Gypsies, and in order to get a better view, I
+climbed upon a trestle table outside a booth.  In the middle of a ring of
+people stood two of the dark Grays, stripped to the waist, and, at a
+signal given by an elderly man, the combatants put up their “maulers” and
+the fight began.  It was by no means a one-sided contest, the men being
+well matched with regard to weight and strength.  Blow followed blow in
+quick succession, and at the first drawing of blood the Gypsy onlookers
+became excited, and the entire crowd began to surge to and fro.  Of
+course, the police hurried up, but soon perceived that it was useless to
+interfere.
+
+“Let ’em have it out,” cried many voices.  After a breathing space, the
+fighters again closed in, and, parting a little, one of them stepped back
+a pace or two and, springing towards his opponent, dealt him a heavy blow
+which determined the battle, and all was over.  At this juncture, the
+table on which I and others stood suddenly gave way, and we were
+precipitated to the grass, but no harm was done, beyond a few bruises and
+the shattering of sundry jugs and glasses.
+
+An echo of a fighting song haunts me as I recall this Gypsy contest on
+Stow Green—
+
+    “Whack it on the grinders, thump it on the jaw,
+    Smack it on the tater-trap a dozen times or more.
+    Slap it on the snuff-box, make the claret fly,
+    Thump it on the jaw again, never say die.”
+
+After the fair was over I sat under a hedge and took tea with Jonathan
+and Fazenti.
+
+A hare’s back adorned my plate.
+
+“Why, mother, I didn’t know that this was in season.”
+
+“My _dinelo_ (simpleton), don’t you _jin_ (know) _it’s always in season
+with the likes of us_?”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII
+THE BLACKPOOL GYPSYRY
+
+
+IT has been said that if an architect, a caterer, and a poet were
+commissioned to construct out of our existing south and east coast
+resorts a place which, in its appeal to the million, might compare with
+Blackpool, they would utterly fail, a saying not to be questioned for a
+moment.
+
+Yet the sight which thrilled me most, as I beheld it years ago, was not
+the cluster of gilded pleasure-palaces in the town, but the gay Gypsyry
+squatting on the sand-dunes at the extremity of the South Shore.
+Living-vans of green and gold with their flapping canvas covers; domed
+tents whose blankets of red and grey had faded at the touch of sun and
+wind; boarden porches and outgrowths of a fantastic character, the work
+of Romany carpenters; unabashed advertisements announcing Gypsy queens
+patronized by duchesses and lords; bevies of black-eyed, wheedling
+witches eager to pounce upon the stroller into Gypsydom; and troops of
+fine children, shock-headed and jolly—all these I beheld in the Gypsyry
+which is now no more.  “Life enjoyed to the last” might well have been
+its epitaph.
+
+Those were the days of Old Sarah Boswell and her nephews Kenza and Oscar;
+Johnny and Wasti Gray; Elijah Heron and his son Poley; Bendigo and
+Morjiana Purum; the vivacious Robinsons; Dolferus Petulengro and Noarus
+Tâno; some of whom, alas, “have joined the people whom no true Romany
+will call by name.”
+
+             [Picture: On the Look-Out.  Photo. T. J. Lewis]
+
+Hot June sunshine flooded the sandhills on the afternoon of my entry into
+the encampment, which, by the way, was made strategetically from the
+rear.  Thus it was that I lighted upon the retired tent of the oldest
+occupants of the Gypsyry.  Unlike the alert and expectant Romany mothers
+and maids who hovered about this Gypsy town’s front gate, Ned Boswell’s
+widow sat drowsing at the tent door, overpowered by the midsummer heat.
+I was about to turn away, intending to revisit the old lady later on,
+when her son Alma, the lynx-eyed, popped upon me from round the corner,
+and in a sandy hollow a little way off we were soon deep in conversation.
+
+“Now, _rashai_,” said Alma, after we had talked awhile, “there’s one
+thing I would like to ask you.  Where do you think us _Romanitshel_s
+reely origin’d from?”
+
+Here I was confronted by a question which has been asked throughout the
+ages, and addressed to myself how many times?
+
+Who are the Gypsies, and where did they come from?  Bulky tomes have been
+filled with scholarly speculations upon these questions, and so varied
+have been the conclusions arrived at that we appear to be no nearer to
+the solution of the mystery than when about the year 1777 the German
+Rudiger first made known to the world that the Gypsies spoke an Indian
+dialect, which discovery is said “to have injured more than it served in
+the quest after the origin of the Gypsies, because it has prevented
+scholars from searching for it.”  Taking philology for our guide, we may
+believe that the ancestors of our Gypsies tarried for centuries in
+North-West India, a region which they quitted with their faces set
+towards the west not later than about 1000 A.D.  To quote the words of an
+authority {73} on the linguistic side of the problem: “Their language
+proves that they once inhabited Northern India, but as no Indian writers
+have left any documents describing this people, their mode of life in
+India, and the most interesting point of all, why they emigrated, must
+for ever remain a matter for conjecture.  It is, however, surprising what
+can be proved from our present knowledge of their language, which, it is
+generally admitted, must rank as an independent eighth among the seven
+modern Indian languages of the Aryan stock, based on Sanskrit.  To begin
+with, the grammatical peculiarities of the language of the Gypsies
+resemble those of the modern Aryan languages of India so closely that it
+is impossible not to believe that they were developed side by side.
+Comparing Gypsy and Hindi, for example, we find that their declensions
+are based exactly on the same principle, that neither has a real genitive
+case, that both decline their adjectives only when used as nouns.  Now it
+is generally held that these modern forms came slowly into existence
+throughout the eleventh century, when the old synthetical structure of
+the Sanskrit was broken up and thrown into confusion, but not quite lost,
+while the modern auxiliary verbs and prepositions were as yet hardly
+fully established in their stead.  Therefore, it is extremely unlikely
+that the Gypsies left India before the tenth century, when they could
+have carried away with them, so to speak, the germs of the new
+construction, absorbed on Indian soil.”
+
+From the words they borrowed from Persia, Armenia, and Greece, we know
+that the wanderers passed through these countries on their way westward,
+but, since no Arabic or Coptic words are found in the Gypsy tongue, we
+infer that they were never in Egypt.  The theory of the Egyptian origin
+of the _Romanitshel_s probably arose from legends which they themselves
+set afloat.
+
+Two stories were repeated by the Gypsies.  They said that they were
+Egyptian penitents on a seven years’ pilgrimage.  The Saracens had
+attacked them in Egypt, and, having surrendered to their enemies, they
+became Saracens themselves and denied Christ.  Now, as a penance, they
+were ordered to travel for seven years without sleeping in a bed.  A
+second story was that their exile was a punishment for the sin of having
+refused hospitality to Joseph and the Virgin Mary when they fled into
+Egypt with the newborn Christ-child to escape the anger of Herod.
+
+Associated with the Gypsies are other legends which may have been
+invented by them for similar purposes.  An old tradition asserts that
+Caspar, one of the three Magi, was a Gypsy, and that it was he who (as
+their ruler) first converted them to the Christian religion.  The
+Lithuanian Gypsies say that stealing has been permitted in their favour
+by God because the Gypsies, being present at the Crucifixion, stole one
+of the four nails, and therefore God allows them to steal, and it is not
+accounted a sin to them.
+
+Needless to say, the foregoing statements were not delivered to Alma
+Boswell.  Of their actual history the Anglo-Romany folk know nothing, but
+this does not prevent them from holding some curious notions about
+themselves.  So, in response to Alma’s question about the origin of the
+Gypsies, I replied that great scholars believed his race to have come
+from India.
+
+“Oh, I think they’re wrong,” said Alma.  “Far more likely we came from
+the land of Bethlehem.  Being a _rashai_ (parson), you’ll know the Bible,
+I suppose, from cover to cover.  Well, you’ve heard of the man called
+Cain.  Now, don’t the Old Book say that he went away and married a
+black-eyed camper-gal, one of our roving folks?  I reckons we sprang from
+them.  We was the first people what the dear Lord made, and mebbe we
+shall be the last on earth.  When all the rest is wore out, there’ll
+still be a few of our folks travelling with tents and wagons.”
+
+Such was Alma’s idea of the origin of the Gypsies.
+
+“But there,” he continued, “you must read my Uncle Westarus’s big book
+all about our people.  There was a doctor and a lawyer, wery kind
+gentlemen, real _bawrê raiaw_ (swells), who used to talk to my uncle for
+hours on end, and they wrote down every word he said, and then he wrote
+them a sight of letters, wery long ones, and they are all of ’em in
+print.  So if you reads that book, you’ll larn all as is’ known about
+us.”
+
+Alma’s Uncle Westarus was certainly a remarkable Gypsy, possessing quite
+a library, which he carried about with him on his travels.  It is on
+record that at the age of fifty-five his library included several volumes
+of fiction, history, poetry, and science, a large Bible, a Church of
+England Prayer Book, Burns’s _Justice_, as well as English, Greek, and
+Latin dictionaries.
+
+For the information of those who may not already know it, the volume
+designated by Alma “my uncle’s book” is a most valuable _vade mecum_ for
+Gypsy students entitled _The Dialect of the English Gypsies_, by Dr. Bath
+Smart and Mr. H. T. Crofton.
+
+There was a strong dash of Gypsy pride in Alma’s remark that the Boswells
+were the only real Gypsies left.  “These others all about us are _kek
+tatsho_” (not genuine), he said, with a wave of the hand; “they’re only
+half-breeds.”
+
+“But,” I queried, “are not the Herons and Lees good Gypsies?”  Then,
+veering from his first statement, he admitted that the families I had
+named might be allowed a place among the old roots.
+
+Then followed a discussion about grades of Gypsy blood.  These were
+classified by Alma—
+
+1.  The Black _Romanitshel_s, “the real thing.”
+
+2.  The _Didakai_s, or half-breeds, who pronounce the Romany words _dik
+akai_ (look here) as _did akai_.
+
+3.  Hedge-crawlers, or mumpers.  “There’s a lot of ’em up London way,”
+said Alma.  “We’d scorn to go near the likes of them—a _tshikli_ (dirty)
+lot, not Gypsies at all.”
+
+In his last remark Alma certainly hit the nail on the head.  The
+distinction between the Gypsy and the mumper cannot be too strongly
+emphasized.  Anyone who has known members of our old Gypsy families, such
+as the Boswells, Grays, Herons, Lees, Lovells, Smiths, Stanleys, and
+Woods, will never again make the grave error of confounding the Gypsy
+with the mumper.
+
+Rising from our hollow in the sand, we walked a little way between the
+tents, and when Alma took the railway crossing for a ramble in the town,
+I betook myself to his mother’s tent.  Having just aroused from sleep,
+the old lady was somewhat absent-minded, but she was quickly on the alert
+at hearing my greeting in Romany.
+
+“What gibberish is it you’re talking, my gentleman?”
+
+“You understand it well enough, I’m thinking, mother.”
+
+So blank was her look, so well-feigned her ignorance, that for the nonce
+it seemed that after all the ancient language of the tents was a delusion
+and a dream.
+
+Then methought of a plan I had tried before.  Having for many years made
+a study of Gypsy pedigrees, I have often been able to give a temporary
+shock to a Gypsy’s mind by telling him the names of his
+great-grandfathers and of his uncles and aunts, paternal and maternal.
+“How came you to know all this, Mr. Hall?” my Gypsy will ask.  “You
+certainly don’t look an old man.”
+
+It was now my turn to pretend ignorance.
+
+“If it’s not being very inquisitive, Mrs. Boswell, I am wondering what
+your maiden-name may have been?”
+
+“That I won’t tell you, and nobody in this town knows what it was.”
+
+“Is that really so?  Fancy, no one in Blackpool knows your maiden-name.”
+
+“Not a soul.”  (This very solemnly.)
+
+“Then what if I can tell you?”
+
+“Well, what was it, my gentleman?” eyeing me curiously.
+
+“You are one of the Drapers—Old Israel’s daughter, if I’m not mistaken”
+(looking straight into her large eyes as though reading the information
+at the back of her brain), “and your two sisters were Rodi and Lani.”
+
+If a stone figure had spoken, she could scarcely have looked more amazed,
+and, quite forgetting herself, she exclaimed—
+
+“_Av adrê_, _mi tshavo_, and _besh tălê_” (Come inside, my son, and sit
+down).
+
+Mrs. Boswell’s manner was now so amiable, and her voice so soft, that as
+she handed me cake and tea, I felt as if I had known her all my life.
+All who have ever met a pure-bred Gypsy will know what Romany politeness
+is, and how charming a sense of the fitness of things these wanderers
+possess.  As one who has worked hard at Gypsy genealogy, I have myself
+often been surprised at one thing.  A member of the _kawlo rat_ (black
+blood) will betray no inquisitiveness in regard to his tiresome
+interlocutor who may be a perfect stranger to him.  How many of us, I
+wonder, would care to be subjected to such an inquisition as we sometimes
+inflict upon a Gypsy by our interrogations as to his ancestry?  Yet the
+Gypsy apparently takes it all with complacence and good humour.
+
+When taking mine ease behind the scenes in a Gypsy camp, it has often
+amused me to observe how extremes meet.  After all, the tastes of the
+high and the low are not so very far removed.  If the duchess is proud of
+her blue blood and her ancestral tree, so is the Gypsy of her black blood
+and lengthy pedigree.  I have known “swells” who liked their game so
+“high” that it almost ran into the fields again, a taste akin to the
+Gypsy’s liking for _mulo-mas_.  The Gypsy mother’s love for her black
+cutty joins hands with the after-dinner cigarette in my lady’s boudoir.
+It goes without saying that politeness is a stamp of both extremes.
+
+In the cool of the evening I wandered inland to a sequestered camp, where
+Isaac and Sinfai Heron, those aristocrats of their race, sat by their
+fire in an angle where two hedgerows met.
+
+“We likes a bit o’ quiet, you see,” said the slender, gracious Sinfai,
+when I asked why they had pitched on a spot so far from Blackpool’s South
+Shore.
+
+“Get the _rai_ one o’ the rugs to _besh oprê_” (sit upon), said Isaac to
+his grandson Walter, who trotted off briskly to a large tent, and
+reappeared with a smartly striped coverlet, which he spread for me
+beneath the hedge.  A second grandson, with a similar alacrity, set off
+at Sinfai’s bidding to find sticks for the fire.  The devotion of these
+lads to their grandparents seemed to spring from a sense of comradery
+rather than reverence, and the quaint deference paid in turn by the old
+people to the boys impressed me not a little—a thing I have often
+observed in Romany camps.
+
+Old Isaac’s memory carried him back to Mousehold Heath of the long ago,
+and, listening to his talk, one could see the brown tents and smoking
+fires amid the ling and fern.  Among the Gypsies reclining by those fires
+were the Smiths, the Maces, the Pinfolds, and the Grays—Sinfai’s folk—and
+of course some of the old Herons.  Niabai, Isaac’s father, would sit
+mending kettles, for, like many of the Gypsies of those days, he was a
+tinker by calling, and when on travel would carry his grindstone on his
+back.  Sometimes of an evening, “Mister Burrow” would walk up on to the
+Heath for a chat with Niabai and his wife “Crowy,” so called by reason of
+her very dark features.  Borrow picked up from Crowy many a Romany _lav_
+(word).  Gypsy fights were common on the Heath, and at times the fern
+would be trampled down by the crowds who came from far and near to
+witness these thrilling scenes.
+
+Old Isaac had two uncles of whom he made mention—William Heron, always
+known as “the handsome man,” and Robert Heron, known as “the lame man.”
+Examples of a remarkable exactness of observation are Borrow’s
+pen-portraits of the two last-named brothers contained in the
+Introduction to _The Zincali_.  The writer does not mention them by name,
+but when I submitted a memorized version of these word-pictures to my
+friend Isaac he at once recognized his uncles, William and Robert.
+
+Let us open _The Zincali_.
+
+Handsome William is standing by his horse.  He is tall, as were all the
+men of his clan.
+
+    “Almost a giant, for his height could not have been less than six
+    feet three.  It is impossible for the imagination to conceive
+    anything more perfectly beautiful than were the features of this man,
+    and the most skilful sculptor of Greece might have taken them as his
+    model for a hero and a god.  The forehead was exceedingly lofty—a
+    rare thing in a Gypsy; the nose less Roman than Grecian—fine, yet
+    delicate; the eyes large, overhung with long, drooping lashes, giving
+    them almost a melancholy expression; it was only when the lashes were
+    elevated that the Gypsy glance was seen, if that can be called a
+    glance which is a strange stare, like nothing else in the world.  His
+    complexion was a beautiful olive, and his teeth were of a brilliance
+    uncommon even amongst these people, who have all fine teeth.  He was
+    dressed in a coarse wagoner’s slop, which, however, was unable to
+    conceal altogether his noble and Herculean figure.  He might be about
+    twenty-eight.”
+
+William is said to have persisted in carrying his own silver mug in his
+coat pocket, and would drink out of no other vessel.  “I’d scorn to wet
+my lips with a drop of drink out of a _gawjikeno kuro_,” meaning the
+publican’s mugs.
+
+Robert, William’s elder brother, remained on horseback, looking “more
+like a phantom than anything human.  His complexion was the colour of
+pale dust, and of that same colour was all that pertained to him, hat and
+clothes.  His boots were dusty of course, for it was midsummer, and his
+very horse was of a dusty dun.  His features were whimsically ugly, most
+of his teeth were gone, and as to age, he might be thirty or sixty.  He
+was somewhat lame and halt, but an unequalled rider when once upon his
+steed, which he was naturally not very solicitous to quit.”
+
+Robert was always considered the wizard of the clan.  Never having been
+married, he dispensed with a tent, preferring, like some of the deep
+Woods of Wales, to sleep in a barn.  He was nicknamed “Church” Robert,
+because he was a reader and had a wonderful memory, and sometimes going
+to church he listened to lessons and psalms and would afterwards reel
+them off like a _roker_in _tshiriklo_ (parrot).
+
+When I made a move to go, Old Isaac drew himself to his full height and
+said, “_Av akai apopli_, _rashai_” (Come here again, parson), and the
+boys to whom I had mentioned my roving experiences urged me to come and
+camp near them.  “Let us put up a tent for you here next to ours.”
+Sinfai, who walked to the field-gate with me, slipped into my pocket a
+_bita delaben_ (small gift), a green wineglass.
+
+A sunset of rare beauty was reddening the sandhills when I returned to
+the Gypsyry on the South Shore.  For a while I walked up and down in the
+miniature fair, and before I turned my face towards the town, lights
+began to appear in the tent baulks and the stars came out over the
+darkening sea.
+
+Next morning I was walking along the spacious sea-front with Archie Smith
+for companion, and in the distance appeared a little man pushing a
+grinding-barrow.  Quickening our steps, we overtook him and found he was
+Elijah Heron on his morning round.  I inquired where he was stopping, and
+promised to visit him later in the day.  My companion, the lively Archie,
+was reeling off for my benefit a list of the inhabitants of the South
+Shore Gypsyry, and had just mentioned Bendigo Purum, when, rounding a
+corner, we met the man himself, a very swarthy Gypsy—almost black, one
+might say.
+
+“_Roker_ of the _Beng_,” whispered Archie, “and you’ll _dik lesti_” (see
+him).
+
+Farther along in a narrow thoroughfare we observed several Gypsy women
+out a-shopping, their gay _diklo_s and blouses making splashes of bright
+colour in the crowded street.  It seemed to me that Blackpool was alive
+with Gypsies.  In the afternoon I returned to the South Shore, and,
+hearing the strains of a violin proceeding from a gorgeous red blanket
+tent in a field near the railway, I made my way thither, and to my joy I
+discovered Eros and Lias Robinson at home.
+
+Here is a song which I heard from the lips of Lias—
+
+    “_Mandi’s tshori puri dai_
+    _Jaw_’d _adrê kongri_ to _shun_ the _rashai_;
+    The _gawjê saw sal_’d as _yoi besh_’d _talê_;
+    _Yoi dik_’d ’_drê_ the _lil_, but _yoi keka del-aprê_;
+    The _rashai roker_’d agen _duker_in, _pen_’d _dova sos_ a _laj_,
+    But _yov keka jin_’d _mandi duker_’d _yov_’s _tshai_,
+    _Puker_’d _yoi_’d _romer_ a _barvdo rai_.”
+
+_Translation_.
+
+    “My poor old mother
+    Went into church to hear the parson;
+    The gentiles all laughed as she sat down;
+    She looked into the book, but she could not read;
+    The parson talked against fortune-telling, said it was a shame,
+    But he never knew I had told his daughter’s fortune,
+    Told her she’d marry a wealthy squire.”
+
+Lias was full of reminiscences of wanderings through the heart of Wales,
+and I listened with keen interest to his talk about the deep Woods.  In
+my readings of Leland’s writings I had come upon the mention of Mat Wood
+whom, in after years, I had the good fortune to meet in Wales.  During
+his Welsh wanderings, Lias had met several sons of John Roberts, the
+harpist, concerning whom I had learned much from Groome’s delightful
+book, _In Gipsy Tents_.  Here I may mention that Old John Roberts was an
+occasional visitor to Lincolnshire in days gone by.  He travelled widely
+with his harp, on which he was a talented player.  My wife, who hails
+from the Fen country, remembers John’s visits to her native village of
+Fleet, near Holbeach in Lincolnshire, where he would play on the parish
+green, as well as on the lawns of private houses.  A venerable-looking,
+bearded man, who might have passed for a clergyman, he was a welcome
+guest in the home of my father-in-law, where he would play old airs to a
+pianoforte accompaniment.
+
+    [Picture: The gypsy’s parson with his friends.  Photo. Fred Shaw]
+
+The afternoon and evening which followed my morning ramble were crowded
+with Gypsy experiences.  At the back of a large tent sat Kenza Boswell
+fiddling, while his daughters danced with exceeding grace.
+
+Next, Noarus Tâno, in one of his skittish moods, kept me in fits of
+laughter for ten minutes.  He was the humorist of the Blackpool camp.
+
+Entirely unaccustomed to controlling his imagination, Noarus will tell an
+extraordinary tale in which he himself plays a part, with no other object
+than to amuse his hearer, or to lift himself a little higher in your
+esteem.  And just as no one is expected to believe the narratives of
+Baron Munchausen, so the Gypsy in telling his “lying tale” is perfectly
+content with the laughter of the listener.  This gay spirit of
+exaggeration certainly stamps the following tale told by Old Tâno.
+
+            [Picture: Friends at the fair.  Photo. Fred Shaw]
+
+The scene is the kitchen of the village inn, and poultry-lifting is the
+topic of conversation.  It is Noarus who speaks—
+
+    “There’s a farmer’s wife up in the willage what’s been blaming a
+    two-legged fox for robbing her hen-roost.  I say it’s some low dealer
+    what comes out of the town with a light cart on a shiny night when
+    the stormy winds are blowing, so as folks shan’t hear him at work.
+    You knows the sort, but us Gypsies has a different way.  When did you
+    ever know any of us to meddle with anythink in these here parts?
+    Don’t your farmers buy ponies off us?  Ain’t we highly respected by
+    the gentle-folk for miles round?  Why, there was a squire up in
+    Yorkshire, a prize-poultry fancier, as know’d my people wery well.
+    We often camped on his land and never meddled with nothink.  He
+    trusted us so much that he comes down to our tents one day and says
+    to my daddy—
+
+    “‘I want to beg a favour of you, Tâno.  I’m going abroad for a while,
+    and I want you and your son to take charge of my poultry farm while
+    I’m away.’
+
+    “Well, my daddy and me took charge of his prize fowls, and when he
+    come back again, how do you think he found things, my gentlemen?”
+
+    The company, profoundly impressed by the speaker’s discourse,
+    exclaimed with one voice—
+
+    “All right to a feather.”
+
+    “Nay, that he never did.  _We_’d _ate the hull blessed lot_!”
+
+Mindful of my promise to visit Elijah Heron, I sought out his tent, and I
+had to stoop very low to get in the doorway.  In my pocket was a heavy,
+silver-mounted brier pipe possessing a large amber mouthpiece.  This I
+presented to the old man, and it was good to see his face light up with
+pleasure.  “_Tatsheni rup si kova_” (Real silver is this), he said,
+pointing to the mountings.  “A _swêgler_’s _kek kushto_ without _tuvalo_”
+(A pipe’s no good without tobacco), I remarked, handing him a cake of
+Black Jack.  He lighted up and looked as happy as a king.
+
+Noticing that I was slightly deaf, he recommended oil extracted from
+vipers as good for deafness.  The mention of snakes took him back to his
+sojourn in the Antipodes.  “I never talks of _saps_ (snakes) but I thinks
+of the days when I was travelling in ’Stralia.  One night I got leave
+from a farmer to stop near a river, but I didn’t _hatsh odoi_ (remain
+there) for more than an hour or two, for I found there was _saps_
+about—nasty, hissing critturs.  A black man as come down to the river to
+water some hosses told me that the _saps_ sometimes _maw_’d (killed)
+animals near the river, so I packed up my traps and kept on the road all
+night.  Give me Old England, I say.  I’m right glad to be back here.”
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+In a little tent hard by, I heard Poley and his wife singing as I said
+“Good-night” to Elijah.  Happy, twinkling eyes they were that looked out
+at me from that little tent door as I passed.  I envy you that merry
+heart, Poley, that evergreen spirit of yours, and, recalling your face, I
+see again the array of Gypsy tents as twilight dropped its purple veil on
+Blackpool’s pleasant shore.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII
+A TRENTSIDE FAIR
+
+
+OVERNIGHT a welcome rain had fallen upon a thirsty land, and morning
+broke cool and grey, with a lively breeze stirring the tree-tops, and
+shaking the raindrops from the grasses, as I strode along the banks of
+the river Trent, with my face set towards West Stockwith Horse Fair.  The
+long, dry summer was drawing to a close, and there was an agreeable sense
+of novelty in the rain-drenched aspect of the countryside.  After a
+harvest prematurely ripened by an exuberance of sunshine, brown-cheeked
+September was now hastening to splash here a leaf and there a spray with
+rich colour, and on this particular morning it seemed to me that reeds,
+flags, and willows were taking on autumnal tints earlier than usual.
+Occasionally, from the river bank, I spied a water-rat or a coot swimming
+amongst the sedges, and once on the path stretching before me a pert
+wagtail—the Gypsy bird—foretold, as the Gypsies say, a coming encounter
+with roving friends.
+
+Pleasantly enough my early morning walk terminated at the old-world
+Trentside village of my destination.  By this time, between the vapours
+rolling overhead, the sun had appeared, and was gilding the barges moored
+to a primitive quay below the long line of straggling houses.  On the
+Lincolnshire side of the Trent quite a colony of Gypsy vans had drawn up
+on a turfy plateau, and their owners were now to be seen crossing the
+river by ferry-boat, their laughter floating to me over the water.  This
+was by no means my first visit to the riverside horse fair, and after
+refreshing at one of the inns, I went down the lane to the fair-ground
+occupying two fields, in the larger of which were already assembled
+horses and dealers in a state of lively commotion beyond a fringe of
+ale-booths and luncheon tents; while in the smaller field were gathered
+numerous Gypsy families with their carts and smoking fires.
+
+Never in my life do I remember to have witnessed such a horde of ancient
+vagabonds of both sexes as on this occasion, and with no little delight I
+stood and gazed upon the picture.  What struck me in particular was the
+motley character of the party.  Decrepit great-grandfolks mumbling
+together; grandfathers in ragged garb and battered hats; wizened
+grandmothers sucking their pipes; aged uncles and aunts in time-stained
+tatters; wives in their teens dandling babies; bright-eyed children
+drumming happily on the bottoms of inverted pots and pans; merry lads and
+lasses, interspersed amongst an assembly of the quaintest rag dolls it
+has ever been my fortune to behold.  It seemed to me as if all the old
+Romany folk of several counties had met together for the last time in
+their lives.
+
+Moving into the larger field, I had not gone far before I felt a tug at
+my sleeve, and, looking round, I saw the two lads whom I had met with
+Jonathan by the watermill.  They led me straight to a little covered cart
+drawn under the hedge where Boswell was conversing with ’Plisti Smith.
+
+As I have said elsewhere, the play-spirit is strong in the Gypsy, even in
+his latter years, and while talking with my two friends up came a
+comical-looking Gypsy, Charley Welch, who must have been nearer ninety
+than seventy, and, picking up a potato lying on the ground—the large
+field had grown a crop of potatoes that summer—he laughingly dropped it
+into Jonathan’s coat pocket.
+
+“There, don’t say that Old Charley never gave you nothink.”
+
+After that I walked with Jonathan among the horses, and we came upon
+Flash Arno and Black Înan, who found time to accompany us to one of the
+refreshment booths where the talk ranged through a variety of topics.
+Înan knew Mister Groome, the book-writer, up Edinburgh way.  He had met
+him there not long before in company with my friend Frampton Boswell.  I
+soon found that these Gypsies did not hold with folks writing books about
+their race and telling the _mumpli gawjê_ (nasty gentiles) about their
+ways.
+
+No one loves a little fun more than the Gypsy, and generally he means no
+harm by his playful romancing.  After all, he is but a grown-up child,
+and loves to make-believe.  The Gypsy’s world is a haphazard one, in
+which luck plays a large part.  He knows nothing of the orderly cosmos of
+providence or science.  I make these remarks by way of prelude to
+examples of this spirit.
+
+Who can help laughing inwardly as the Gypsy weaves a romantic tale about
+you, all for the benefit of a stranger?  And in the course of my
+morning’s ramble through West Stockwith Fair I had several experiences of
+the kind.
+
+“See that little dealer over there?” said Peter Smith, indicating a small
+Gypsy man holding a tall black horse by a halter.  The animal looked
+gigantic by the side of its owner.
+
+“Come along with me, and while I _roker_ (talk) to him, _maw puker_ a
+_lav_” (don’t speak a word).  Then we both went up to the little Gypsy,
+and with the gravest of countenances Peter began to spin a long romance
+all about an imaginary sister of mine who lived at Brighton and was
+wanting just such a horse as the one before us.  It really was a fine
+animal, and I could not refrain from stroking its glossy skin.
+
+Peter continued: “This here gentleman doesn’t ride hisself, you see, but
+his sister has asked him to look out for a horse, and this one ’ull just
+suit her.”  I found it difficult to preserve silence, but somehow I
+managed to do so.  Finally, Peter took me aside and talked mysteriously
+about nothing in particular, and quietly bade me walk away.  A few
+minutes later I beheld Peter quaffing a large mug of ale evidently at the
+little man’s expense.
+
+Moving in and out among the throng, I presently walked out along the
+road, and there I came upon Hamalên Smith, who, after some talk,
+suggested a bit of fun.  Pointing to a Gypsy camp down a lane, he said—
+
+“That’s Belinda Trickett sitting by the fire with her children.  Go you
+down the lane and have a little game.  I’ll stop here and see how you get
+on.  You don’t know the woman, I suppose?”
+
+“Not I.  She’s a stranger to me.”
+
+“That’s all right.  Togged as you are, she’ll never take you for a
+parson, not she.  Mind you look severe-like and say to Belinda, ‘Is your
+husband at home?  What’s his name?’  It’s Harry, but she’s sure to say
+it’s something else.”
+
+Down the lane I went, and, approaching Mrs. Trickett and family, I drew
+out a notebook and pencil—a sure way to frighten a Gypsy.  Why these
+things should suggest “police” I can scarcely say, but they do.  The
+woman’s clay pipe dropped from her mouth and fell upon the grass, and
+beneath the brown of her cheeks a pallor crept.  Mrs. Trickett was
+alarmed.
+
+“What is your husband’s name?”
+
+“George Smith.”
+
+“When will he be at home?”
+
+“I can’t say.  He’s gone to the fair.”
+
+Under their mother’s shawl three tiny children huddled like little brown
+partridges beneath an outspread wing, a sight which caused me some
+pricking of heart.  The biggest child kept saying, “What does the _gawjo_
+want, mammy?”  Just then I looked up the lane and saw a man coming down,
+who by his jaunty air I guessed was the woman’s husband.
+
+“_Kushti sawla_ (Good morning), Mr. Trickett; take a little _tuvalo_.”  I
+handed him my tobacco pouch.  “I’ve come a long way to see you.  Ask me
+to sit down a bit, now I’ve got here.”
+
+Mrs. Trickett’s face was a study in wonderment, as I sat down for a
+friendly chat.  “_Dawdi_,” said she, “you did _trasher mandi_ (frighten
+me).  I thought there was _tshumani oprê_” (something up).
+
+When Hamalên Smith, from the top of the lane, saw that the episode had
+arrived at a happy termination, he strolled down the lane and joined us.
+
+A far-travelled Gypsy is Hamalên, and many a tale can he unfold.
+
+    “One morning,” said he, “a policeman came up to my wagon and told me
+    as how twenty-four fowls was missing from the next field to where we
+    was stopping.  Somebody had stole ’em in the night.  ‘Of course you
+    suspects us,’ says I to the policeman, ‘but you’re wrong.  We’ve
+    never touched a feather of ’em.’  However, nothing would do but the
+    man must search my wagon from top to bottom, and for all his trouble
+    he found nothing.  I know’d very well I hadn’t touched ’em, and I was
+    telling him the truth.
+
+    “‘Wait a bit,’ says he.  ‘Didn’t I see _three_ vans in this field
+    last night as I was going along the high road?’
+
+    “‘Yes,’ I replied.  ‘My boys have gone on in front with the other
+    wagons.’
+
+    “Says he, ‘That looks suspicious.  I must make haste and find them.
+    Where have they gone?’
+
+    “‘I can’t say, for I don’t know myself.’
+
+    “‘Well, I shall have to come with you, and you must show me where to
+    find them.’  The policeman jumped up and sat on the seat along with
+    me and my wife, and off we went to find the boys.  Of course it was
+    plain to see by the wheel-marks just outside the gate which way they
+    had turned, but when we got to the cross-roads about three miles
+    furder on, the road was that hard and dry that no wheel-marks could
+    be seen.  Now I could easily have misled the policeman, but I thought
+    it best to try to find the boys as quick as I could, for I didn’t
+    believe for a minute they had done it.  Looking down the road, I saw
+    the boys’ _patrin_ (guiding sign).  The policeman didn’t know what I
+    was looking at, and it wasn’t likely as I should show him our signs,
+    so I says we’ll take this road, and we turned off to the left.
+
+    “‘How did you know which way the boys had gone?’ asked the policeman.
+    ‘Was it some thing tied on that tree bough hanging over the road?’
+
+    “‘I never sees nothing on the tree bough,’ says I.
+
+    “I thought to myself the policeman must have been reading some tale
+    about the Gypsies.  Anyway, he had heard something about _patrin_s
+    and such-like, but I wasn’t going to be the one to larn him our
+    signs, so I changed the subject.
+
+    “‘Yon’s my boys on in front,’ says I.  The policeman began rubbing
+    his hands and smiling.  At last we caught up with the boys, and the
+    policeman searched inside the two wagons and found nothing.  Then he
+    says—
+
+    “‘I might as well look on the top,’ and he climbed on to the roofs of
+    the wagons.
+
+    “‘Hello, what have we here?’ says he, in a way that made me turn
+    warm.  He lifted up a dead pigeon.
+
+    “‘Where did you get that from?’ I asked the boys.
+
+    “‘Picked it up a bit o’ way down the road.  It had just killed itself
+    on the telegraph wires by the wood side.’
+
+    “After that, the disappointed policeman went away, and the thieves
+    were never found out.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+    “Another time we draw’d into a rutted lane lying off the high road.
+    We had our three wagons, and at night we always covered the big one
+    up, because we didn’t sleep in it.  It was a nice quiet lane, and we
+    thought there would be nobody to trouble us as there was no willage
+    near.  But about midnight a man knocked on the wagon and woke us up.
+
+    “‘What are you doing here?’
+
+    “‘No harm, I hope.  We’ll clear out first thing in the morning.’  He
+    said he’d been knocking at the big wagon what was covered up, and he
+    couldn’t make anybody hear.
+
+    “‘Well,’ says I, ‘whatever you do, don’t you touch that big wagon
+    agen.’
+
+    “‘Why, what’s in it?’
+
+    “‘Wild beasts, for sure—_a lion and a tiger_.’
+
+    “You’d ha’ laughed at the way that man made hisself scarce.  Next
+    morning, as we draw’d out of the lane, we met a policeman.
+
+    “‘I hear you have some wild beasts in that big wagon of yours.
+    Wasn’t it a bit dangerous stopping so near the highway?’
+
+    “‘Well, we’re clearing out in good time.’
+
+    “‘Get along with you then.’
+
+    “A few miles furder on the road we come to a little town, and as it
+    was market day we pulled up in the big square, and I took the cover
+    off the big wagon.  Just as I was doing this, who should come up but
+    the policeman we’d met in the early morning.
+
+    “‘Where’s those wild beasts of yours?’ says he.
+
+    “‘Oh,’ says I, ‘I’ll soon show you.’  And I went inside my brush and
+    carpet wagon and brought out two big rugs, and I showed him a tiger
+    skin and a lion skin, both lined with red.  ‘There’s my wild beasts,’
+    said I.
+
+    “Talk about laughing, I thought that policeman would never ha’
+    stopped.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX
+TAKEN FOR TRAMPS—AN EAST ANGLIAN FAMILY
+
+
+DAY after day, in the woods around our village, the autumnal gales roared
+and ravened with unabated fury, snapping brittle boughs, cracking
+decrepit boles, and piling up drifts of brown leaves around grey roots
+protruding like half-buried bones through the mossy woodland floor.  Then
+right in the midst of it all came a spell of calm weather, as if summer
+had stolen back to her former haunts in sylvan glade and ferny lane.
+Call it by what name you please, this brief season of sunny repose
+following upon the heels of the tempestuous equinoctials is a time when
+some of us are impelled, as by a primal instinct, to shake off the collar
+of routine and take the road leading over the hill into what realm of
+adventure beyond.
+
+Fully a week the summer-like interlude had held sway in the land.  Upon
+the newly-turned furrows shimmered a golden light.  A dreamy haze trailed
+its filmy skirts over hill and dale.  In narrow lanes invisible threads
+of spiders’ silk stretched from hedge to hedge, and wayside tangles again
+were silvered over with a fine dust suggestive of July.  Amid the
+lingering clover-flowers bees buzzed and blundered.  Through the still
+air, leaves of maple and chestnut, like red-winged insects, twirled down
+to the grass, and the tall elms in the village churchyard littered their
+yellow foliage upon the graves.  Everywhere, serenitude, repose, peace,
+save in restless hearts chafing at the humdrum of tasks grown monotonous
+by reason of long-continued performance.  For who with a soul fully awake
+can resist the lure of the road at gossamer-time?
+
+Thus it came to pass one afternoon that my wife and I, slipping out of
+our drowsy village, took the upland way which after numerous windings
+brought us into the Great North Road.  Our plans were of the flimsiest.
+It mattered little whether we went north or south, so long as we were
+absent for a few days.  On reaching the far-famed highway we stood under
+the branching arms of a finger-post, and tossed pennies to determine the
+course of our itinerary.  “North” having won the toss, we footed it gaily
+in that direction.  To be sure, our semi-Gypsy garb, donned for this
+jaunt, was not long in taking on a coating of road dust, and we were
+about to shake off this clinging powder, when the rattle of wheels was
+heard behind us, and almost immediately a dogcart slowed down by our
+side, and the driver, a rubicund farmer, amicably invited us to take a
+lift, an offer which was gladly accepted, and we climbed aboard the
+conveyance.
+
+“I’ve allus had a feeling for folks like you, and I offens give ’em a
+lift as I’m passing back’ards and forrards on the ramper.  Afore I pulled
+up just now I says to myself, ‘They’ve seen better days, I’ll be bound.’
+Maybe you’ve been in the army?  Leastways, I thought you seemed to hold
+yourself up pretty straight in your walk.  I’ve done a bit of soldiering
+myself.  Once at a big do-ment in London, I was in the Queen’s Escort.
+Yes, I’ve been about a bit in my time.  I dessay you two’s got a goodish
+way to go yet afore you come to your night’s lodgings.
+
+“Ay, dear me,” he went on, “we offens has your sort calling at our
+place—my farm’s a few miles farther along this way—and one day not long
+since a poor chap knocked at our door and asked for work.  He was a
+parson’s son, so we gave him a lightish job and fed him well and bedded
+him in the barn for three or four nights, till his sore feet got right
+agen.  Poor fellow, he worn’t much good at labouring work, but we liked
+to listen to his tales; he could tell you summut now.”
+
+Thus he rambled on after the manner of a garrulous Guardian of the Poor
+who had acquired an interest in tramps.
+
+“Yon’s my place among the trees, so I must leave you here.”
+
+We thanked him for his kindly lift, and, rounding a bend in the highway,
+were glad to relieve our pent-up feelings in laughter over the good man’s
+misconception.
+
+Now, as everyone knows, who has journeyed along it, the fine old turnpike
+abounds in travellers of every shade and grade.  Not once or twice on its
+turfy wayside have I fraternized with “Weary Willies” boiling their tea
+in discarded treacle-tins.  Even now as we went along, two or three
+tramps passed by, one of them coming up to beg a few matches, the others
+scarcely giving us a glance.
+
+Hearing the rumble of an approaching vehicle, we looked towards the bend
+of the road, and round it came what looked like a carrier’s cart drawn by
+a horse apparently old, for it proceeded slowly, and the cart creaked and
+jolted as if it, too, were ancient.  As it jogged nearer, I saw it
+contained but a single occupant—a brown-faced little man who wore a faded
+yellow kerchief—and, stepping into the roadway, I greeted him with _sâ
+shan_ (how do?).  Whereupon he pulled up.  “I heard what you said just
+now, but you’ve made a mistake.  I’m no Romany—I’m a showman, an Aunt
+Sally man, bound for Retford.”
+
+Now a Gypsy will frequently deny his blood.  Knowing that his kind live
+under a ban, he has no desire to draw attention to himself.  But, looking
+at this Aunt Sally man, I saw that he had told the truth.  His face was
+freckled.  No real Gypsy freckles.  After all, as Groome says, “It is not
+the caravan that makes the Gypsy, any more than my cat becomes a dog if
+she takes to living in a kennel.”
+
+Our road now became a gradual descent into a clean, flower-loving
+village, where amid the trees we caught the gleam of a large canvas booth
+in a field, and there were knockings of a mallet to be heard.  Nor was it
+long before we learned what was afoot.  Within a tavern’s comfortable
+parlour, a coloured playbill informed the world that Harrison’s
+travelling theatre would that evening present a sensational drama—_Gypsy
+Jack_—and in due time we found ourselves seated among the cottagers and
+farm-hands, enjoying a highly entertaining, though garbled, version of
+Mr. G. R. Sims’s _Romany Rye_.  Opening with a Gypsy encampment in which
+the gaily dressed Lees sat talking round a fire in a forest glade, we
+were successively shown Joe Hackett’s shop, the race-course at Epsom, the
+deck of the _Saratoga_, the cellar near Rotherhithe, and the Thames by
+night.  The play seemed a not inappropriate episode in our Gypsy jaunt.
+
+Years afterwards, during one Derby week, I saw Mr. Sims’s _Romany Rye_
+remarkably well played at a South London theatre.  In connection with
+this play an amusing story is told.  The managers of the Princess’s
+Theatre in London were anxious that the new drama should be announced in
+the “Agony” column of _The Times_.  Like many another one, the
+advertisement clerk at _The Times_ office could make nothing whatever of
+the mysterious words _Romany Rye_.
+
+“What the deuce is this _Romany Rye_?” he asked the bearer of the strange
+document.
+
+“If you please, sir,” said the messenger, whom the manager of the theatre
+had sworn to secrecy—“if you please, sir, I think it’s the name of a new
+liver-pad.”
+
+“Well,” remarked the official, “_The Times_ is a great paper and can do
+without padding.  Take it away.”
+
+And the advertisement was declined.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+From the door of the canvas theatre it was an easy walk to the little
+town of Newark-on-Trent, at one of whose pleasant hostelries we spent the
+night, our window overlooking the ruined castle by the waterside.  It had
+been in our minds to continue our walk next morning along the Great North
+Road, but at breakfast a small paragraph in a newspaper brought about a
+quick change in our plans.  The item of news ran thus—
+
+                            “_THE ROMANIES AGAIN_.
+
+    “Our friends, the gipsy Greys, are still with us in Grimsby, lamented
+    Mr. Councillor E— last evening, and he wanted to know whether
+    something could not be done to get them to clear out.  The Town Clerk
+    had assisted them somewhat, and one or two had gone, but there were
+    still four families encamped at the back of T— Street, New Clee.
+    Inspector M— said he had visited the encampment and he must say that
+    the caravans were very clean.  They could not be said to create a
+    nuisance.  ‘It is not the tents that are a nuisance,’ replied the
+    lively representative of the H— Ward, ‘but the parties themselves,
+    who trespass in the backyards of the houses in that neighbourhood.
+    It is no uncommon thing on waking up in the morning to find a donkey
+    or a goat in your backyard or garden.’  The Inspector stated that
+    Eliza Grey, the owner of the vans, had informed him they would all be
+    going away in a few days.”
+
+It was the sight of the Romany family name which altered our plans.  The
+East Anglian Grays are a good type of Gypsy not to be encountered every
+day, hence we decided to lose no time in taking the train for Grimsby.
+It was a crawling “ordinary” by which we travelled, and at a little
+wayside station a few miles out of Newark, a lithe, dark fellow carrying
+a pedlar’s basket stepped into our compartment, and at once I recognized
+in him my old friend Snakey Petulengro.  How his face lit up on seeing
+me, for we had not met for years.  I was so much struck by his altered
+bearing that I could scarcely believe my eyes.  He seemed now as gentle
+in his manner as once he had been wild.  The sight of him brought back
+Gypsy Court and all its associations.  He said he had left the old home,
+his father and mother having passed away.  On my inquiring about his
+sister Sibby, he said she had married a Gypsy and, tiring of Old England,
+had gone to ’Merikay.  As Snakey quitted the carriage at Lincoln, an
+observant passenger remarked—
+
+“There goes one of Nature’s gentlemen.”
+
+By mid-afternoon the slender hydraulic tower glowed rosily in the
+sunlight above Grimsby Docks; and since the fishing-port had no
+particular charm for us, we proceeded to Cleethorpes, preferring the more
+airy shore and being eager to see the Gypsies.  As might be expected, the
+summer-like day had brought a goodly number of late holiday-makers to the
+sands, and as we moved in and out among the groups near the pier foot, I
+heard a donkey-boy address someone not far away—
+
+“Would the lady like a ride?”  The lad’s features, bearing, and tone of
+voice were distinctly Gypsy, and, seeing he was within hail, I looked
+towards him and said—
+
+“_Dova sî kushto maila odoi_” (That’s a good donkey there).
+
+His face beamed with delight, and from his lips sprang the question—
+
+“_Romano Rai_?” (Gypsy gentleman?)
+
+“_Âwa_; _kai shan tîro foki hatsh_in?” (Yes; where are your people
+camping?)
+
+In gratitude for the explicit directions he gave, I placed a sixpence in
+his hand, and his remark was “_Dova_’s too _kisi_, _raia_” (That’s too
+much, sir).  “A _hora_ (penny) would have been _dosta_ (enough) for
+_mandi_” (me).  This boy was one of the Grays, and, following his
+instructions, we had no difficulty in locating the Romany camp.
+
+It was early evening when we strolled forth upon an expanse of grass
+parcelled into building plots, where in a corner between the hedgerows
+were drawn up, with the doorways facing south, several substantial _vâdê_
+(caravans) near which some large tents had been erected.  The Grays, who
+were silently moving to and fro, revealed by their interested
+side-glances that they had already heard of somebody’s inquiries
+concerning themselves, and when we advanced to offer our civil and
+friendly greetings to two women who were washing pots before an outside
+fire, every politeness was shown to us.  They rose and spread a horse-rug
+for us upon the ground.  “_Dai ta tshai_” (mother and daughter), thought
+I; nor was I wrong.  The older woman, diminutive, lean, and somewhat bent
+with age, informed me that she was Eliza Gray, and the younger was her
+daughter Lena.  As we talked by the fire, a goat appeared and rubbed its
+nose affectionately against Eliza’s knee.  Said she: “This is an old pet
+of ours.  We’s had it for years.  I picked it up in Scotland.”
+
+In late September the sun goes down early, and a chilly wind now set in
+from the North Sea.  In the baulk of the old lady’s tent a coke brazier
+was glowing invitingly, so we all moved under cover, and, seated on a
+dais of clean straw covered with rugs, listened to tales and talk, the
+brazier’s crimson gleam being our only light.  After some discussion of
+mutual acquaintances, the conversation drifted towards _duker_in
+(fortune-telling), a subject never very far from the thoughts of a Gypsy
+woman.
+
+“How I’ve _sal_’d” (laughed), said Eliza, “at those _dinelê gawjê_
+(foolish gentiles) what come to our tent to be _duker_’d.  One time I put
+a crystal on a little table covered with oilcloth, and I ax’d the young
+lady if she couldn’t see her sweetheart in it.  ‘Yes, I can,’ she says,
+‘and it’s just like his face, but oh, lor, in this glass ball he’s got a
+tail.’  I nearly laughed straight out, for I’d sort of accidentally put
+the crystal on top of a monkey picture.  The oilcloth was covered with
+all sorts of beastses, don’t you see?”
+
+A superstitious family, the Grays have a characteristic way of recounting
+their own traditions.  Here is one of Eliza’s tales—
+
+    “Once we were stopping by a woodside.  The back of our tent was nigh
+    agen a dry ditch full of dead leaves, and one night we lay abed
+    listening to sounds, a thing I can’t abide.  Well, there was rummy
+    folk about in them days, so when we hears a footstep in the wood just
+    t’other side of that there ditch, I ups wi’ the kettle-prop and peeps
+    outen the tent, and listens, but no, never a sound could I catch; all
+    was still as the grave.  Till long and by last there comes a rustling
+    in the leaves, and the bushes parts like something trying to make a
+    way through.  Then I lifts up the kettle-prop, and I says to myself,
+    if blows are to be struck, Liza had better be the first to strike,
+    when there, straight afore me, stands a woman waving her poor thin
+    arms about, but saying nothing.  At that I drops the kettle-prop and
+    screams, and my man Perun jumps straight up.  ‘They’re killing my
+    Liza, they are.’  But by that the _muli_ (ghost) had gone like a
+    flash of lightning.  Next morning we ax’d at the keeper’s house down
+    the lane, and the missis tell’d us as how a _rawni_ (lady) was once
+    _maw_’d (murdered) in that wood, so it would be her _muli_ as I saw
+    that night.  Oh, yes, I believe in _mulê_, I do.”
+
+During the telling of this tale two of Eliza’s sons, Yoben and Poley,
+sauntered up and stood listening behind their sister Lena.  It was Yoben
+who now added his contribution of ghost-lore.
+
+    “Why, yes, of course, mother, there’s _mulê_ (ghosts).  Don’t you
+    remember after Dolferus died, his voice used to speak in the tent to
+    Delaia?  She says it really was his voice as nat’ral as life, and it
+    made her shiver to hear it.  One day she went to a parson for advice.
+    He told her the next time it spoke, to say: ‘I promise you nothing.
+    Begone!’  Well, sure enough, the voice came again, and she remembered
+    to say what the parson had told her, and she never heard the voice no
+    more.  My Uncle Ike asked Delaia one day—
+
+    “‘I say, my gal, did you really hear Dolferus’s voice?’
+
+    “‘Yes; it was his and no one else’s.’
+
+    “‘Is that the _tatshipen_ (truth), my gal?’  Ike seemed anxious to
+    know the truth of the matter.”
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+    “Dreams is funny things,” put in Poley, “and I’ve had some wery queer
+    ’uns in my time.  Once I dreamt I was walking along a narrow shelf of
+    rock, and on one side of me was a stony wall like a cliff, and on the
+    other side the edge of the path hung over a terrible steep place.
+    Right away below was a river of fiery red stuff pouring along.  You
+    could smell it.  I thought this rocky road was the path to heaven,
+    and I was trying to get there, but, ’pon my word, it was no easy
+    matter.  Now I see’d a tiger chained to the rocky wall on my left
+    hand, and a bit furder on a big lion was tied up.  These here
+    critturs was hard to get past.  I had to go wery near the dangerous
+    edge what looked down on to the burning river.  What a fright I was
+    in; it made the sweat run off me.  Sometimes I had to crawl on my
+    hands and knees to get round a big rock in the middle of the path.  I
+    felt as if I never should get where I wanted to.  Well, after a lot
+    of scrambling and slithering, for my feet gave way sometimes—I had
+    naily boots on—I got to the top of the path, and in the dazzling
+    light, like the sun itself on a summer day, there sat a grey-haired,
+    doubled-up man, a wery aged man, with his chin resting on his hand.
+    It was the _Duvel_ (God), and when he see’d me coming, he sat up and
+    held up his hand, forbidding me to go any furder.  He didn’t speak a
+    word, but I knew that his uplifted hand meant ‘Go back.’  And just
+    then I woke.  That’s my dream of trying to get to heaven.”
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+    “There’s a lot about heaven and hell in God’s Book, isn’t there,
+    _rashai_?” said Old Eliza.  “A _rawni_ (lady) used to read all about
+    them places to us on a Sunday, but that were years ago, and I used to
+    like to hear her talk about the blessed Saviour riding on a _maila_
+    (donkey) into the big town.  She said they nailed him to a cross on
+    Good Friday, and when we was young I remember we all used to fast on
+    that day.  We ate no flesh—nothing with blood in it—it would be a sin
+    to do that.  If we took anything to stay our hunger it was nothing
+    but dry bread, and our drink was water.  We didn’t _tuv_ (smoke), and
+    we didn’t _tov_ our _kokerê_ (wash ourselves) on that day.  I don’t
+    know whether there be such places as heaven and hell.  I reckons we
+    makes our own destiny.  Heaven and hell’s inside us; that’s what I
+    think.”
+
+Lena, however, had her own ideas.  “This life is everything there is, I
+reckons, and when we’re dead, that’s the end of us.  Life is sweet, mind
+you, and we’s a right to be as happy as we can.  Mother’s getting old,
+you see, and has had her fling.  I mean to have a good time.  Why, last
+Sunday me and Poley was going off to get some nuts in the woods, but
+mother stopped us—
+
+“It’s _Beng_’s work getting nuts on the dear Lord’s day.”
+
+“Yes,” says Yoben; “I’ve heard our old daddy say that the _Beng_ likes
+nuts, and I’d sartinly scorn to go getting them onlucky things on a
+Sunday; I wouldn’t like to put myself in the _Beng_’s power, like poor
+Zuba Lovell.”
+
+“What about Zuba?” asked my wife.
+
+Then Yoben told a weird tale.
+
+                      [Picture: A Maid of the Tents]
+
+    “A handsome lass was Zuba, but bad luck dogged her like her own
+    shadow.  One night she came back to the camp, for she lived with her
+    old people, and, throwing down a few coppers she had in her hand, she
+    said—
+
+    “‘There, mother, what do you think of that for a hard day’s work?’
+    She had done wery badly, you see.  Luck never seemed to come her way
+    at all.  And after supper she wandered out a little way from the
+    camp.  The moon and stars was shining as she walked round and round
+    an old tree, a blasted old stump, black as a gallows-post.  As she
+    kept on walking round it, she said aloud, ‘This game won’t do for me.
+    It’s money I want and money I’ll have.  I’d sell my blood to the
+    _Beng_ to have plenty of money in my pocket always.’  The words was
+    hardly out of her mouth when a black thing, like the shadow of the
+    tree, rose up from the ground, and, lor, there was the wery _Beng_
+    hisself, and after he’d promised her what she had wished for, he
+    wanished.  And after that no more grumbling from Zuba; no more
+    complaints about her bad luck.  She always had plenty of money now,
+    and she bought herself trinkets and fine clothes till everybody was
+    ’mazed at her, and of course she had kept it to herself what took
+    place that night by the old tree.  Days and weeks went by, till one
+    night Zuba was missing from the camp.  Her old folks sat up by the
+    fire waiting for her, but no Zuba came.  At last her daddy set out to
+    look for her, and there by the foot of the tree lay Zuba’s frock and
+    shawl, and when he took ’em back to his wife’s tent, the poor woman
+    screamed and fainted right away, and old man Lovell walked up and
+    down all night, saying, ‘Oh, my Zuba, my blessed gal, we shall never
+    see you no more,’ and they never did.  The _Beng_ had fetched her.
+    That’s the end of Zuba Lovell.”
+
+While listening to these tales in the tent, the flight of the hours
+passed unobserved, till a distant clock boomed out the hour of ten.
+
+“You’ll _wel apopli_ (come again), my dears?” said Eliza, as we retired
+amid the smiles and bows of the Gypsy family.
+
+Next morning found us again in the camp.  Already the Gypsies had
+breakfasted, and were making preparations for “_tov_in-_divus_”
+(washing-day).  Sun and wind promised an ideal day for such a purpose.
+It was a thing to be noticed that the articles about to be dealt with lay
+in two heaps on the grass.
+
+Among the Gypsies there is a ceremonial rule which holds it to be
+_mokadi_ (unclean) to wash together in the same vessel “what you eat off
+with what you wear.”  This was the meaning of the separated articles, and
+then I observed two zinc vessels lying ready on the ground.  Said Old
+Eliza to Lena, “I’ll take this lot, and you take that lot.”  To begin
+with, they both cleansed their hands and arms in hot water, and as they
+did this I remarked how brown were Lena’s arms, whereupon she replied
+with a laugh—
+
+“_Âwa_, _raia_ (Yes, sir), monkey soap won’t fetch that off”—a modern
+rendering, I take it, of Ferdousi’s saying, “No washing will turn a Gypsy
+white.”
+
+Now as our friends were about to become much occupied, we proposed to
+stroll round the camp and pay calls on the other Gypsies in the same
+field.  “Stop a bit,” said Eliza, and, slipping into the tent, she came
+out with a black bottle.  “You’ll take a drop of my elderberry wine and a
+bite o’ cake,” pouring out the claret-coloured liquid into two glasses
+fished out from an inner recess.  While enjoying this snack on the grass,
+I took out from a breast pocket a white unused handkerchief which I
+spread on my knee.  Presently Old Eliza slyly took it by the corner and
+twitched it away, giving me in place thereof a neatly folded napkin
+brought from the tent, and I saw that I had broken a Gypsy custom in
+converting a handkerchief into a crumbcloth.  Said the old mother, “That
+_mol_ (wine) is old, and should be _kushto_ (good).  It’s some we buried
+in a place till we came round again.”
+
+In another corner of the field were encamped Fennix Boswell and his
+stepson Shanny, and, going forward, we found the pair seated at their
+tent door handling fishing-rods.  On seeing us they rose and invited us
+into the tent, where we sat down.  Shanny showed us some of his pencil
+drawings.
+
+“I’ve got one of a parrot somewhere; I must find it,” said he.
+
+“_Âwali_, _muk man dik o roker_in-_tshiriklo_” (Yes, let me see the
+talking-bird), I replied, and in a minute or two he handed me a really
+clever sketch.
+
+These two Gypsies had just come down from Scotland, where they had been
+travelling during the summer months, and we got talking about Kirk
+Yetholm.  The Blythes, related to old King Charley Faa, were
+acquaintances of theirs.  It appears that one of the King’s sons named
+Robert, a rollicking fellow, was fond, as Gypsies are, of practical
+jokes, and some of his escapades are still remembered in the Border
+Country.  One of Fennix’s tales about this fun-loving Faa may well find a
+place here.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+One spring morning Bobbie started off on a foray with some of his pals.
+The air was clear, and a soft wind was blowing over the Lammer-moors on
+whose slopes the lambs were gambolling.  The Gypsies had walked a few
+miles, and the mountain air had sharpened the edge of their appetites.
+Looking round for a farmhouse or a cottage where they might ask for a
+kettle of boiling water to brew their tea in the can—such as few of the
+Faas would ever travel without—Bobbie was the first to espy some
+outbuildings, at the back of which stood a shepherd’s cottage, and,
+taking upon himself to be spokesman, he bravely started off for the
+cottage, the men resting meanwhile at the foot of the hill.  As he
+approached the door, a fine savoury smell greeted Bobbie, making him feel
+ten times more hungry than before.  He knocked gently at the door, which
+stood ajar, but no one came, and all was quiet within.  He repeated his
+knock, and, taking a step forward, found the kitchen empty.  Before the
+fire stood a tempting shepherds-pie of a most extraordinary size, and its
+appetizing steam quite overcame any scruples which otherwise might have
+lurked in the heart of Bobbie Faa.  Not for one moment did he hesitate,
+but, nipping up the dish, he speedily ran down the hill with the pie
+under his arm.  Not knowing how he had come by it, his mates could
+scarcely believe their eyes when he laid the pie on the grass, and they
+praised the gude-wife who had so kindly given them such a feast.  When
+the dish was empty, he gave it to a pal, telling him to take it back to
+the gude woman and say how much they had enjoyed the pie.  It happened to
+be a sheep-shearing day, and the shepherd’s wife had gone to call her
+husband and his fellows to their dinner.  She had just returned to the
+kitchen when the Gypsy lad arrived with the empty dish, and on handing it
+back to her with smiles and thanks, a torrent of abuse was poured forth
+on the poor boy’s head, as the woman now grasped the situation and became
+aware of the fate of her pie.  Just then her husband and the other
+shearers appeared round the corner, and, hearing what had befallen their
+dinner, the infuriated men seized the lad and gave him a sound drubbing.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X
+PETERBOROUGH FAIR
+
+
+THE twentieth century has witnessed a remarkable revival of certain
+old-time pleasures in the form of pageants and pastoral plays,
+folk-songs, and dances, but it should not be overlooked that in our midst
+still linger those popular revels, tattered survivals of medieval mirth,
+called pleasure-fairs, held periodically in most of our old country
+towns.  It is true, these ancient fairs are not what they were, Father
+Time having laid his hand heavily upon them, with the result that not a
+few of their features which were reckoned among our childhood’s joys have
+vanished.
+
+      [Picture: On the Eve of the Fair.  Photo. Rev. H. H. Malleson]
+
+Gone are the marionettes, the wax-works, the ghost-shows.  Departed, too,
+are many of the mysterious little booths, behind whose canvas walls queer
+freaks and abnormalities were wont to hide.  Perhaps, however, when the
+travelling cinema has outworn its vogue, the older “mystery” shows will
+reappear by the side of the Alpine slide, the scenic railway, and the joy
+wheel.
+
+Still renowned for their wondrous gaiety are a few of our larger fairs,
+whither huge crowds flock by road and rail for a few hours of rollicking
+carnival.  I have in mind such events as Barnet September Fair,
+Birmingham Onion Fair, the October merry-makings at Hull, Nottingham
+Goose Fair, and the like, but even these, owing to a variety of reasons,
+are now of shrunken dimensions.
+
+Fairs of whatever sort are generally occasions of friendly reunion, not
+only for show-people and _gawjê_ visitors, but also for Gypsies who love
+to forgather on the margins of the fair-ground, or upon an adjacent
+common, where they compare notes and discuss the happenings since their
+last meeting.
+
+Borne on the crisp October air, the chimes of Peterborough floated over
+the city roofs, reaching even to the fair-grounds, where I was one of the
+large holiday crowd which hustled and laughed and tossed confetti in
+mimic snow-showers.  When in quest of Gypsies, the first half-hour you
+spend in wandering about a fair is a time of pleasurable excitement.  Who
+can tell how many old friends you may meet, or what fresh dark faces you
+are about to encounter?
+
+As I was saying, the crowd was hilarious, and, having so far recognized
+no Romany countenance up and down the footways between the coco-nut shies
+and shooting-galleries, swing-boats and merry-go-rounds, it occurred to
+me that a little more breathing-space might be found upon the open
+pasture where horses were being bought and sold, and, pushing along in
+that direction, I was brought to a standstill at the foot of the steps
+leading down from a gilded show-front.  Walking with the airs of a fine
+lady, there came down those steps a young Gypsy attired in a yellow gown
+and tartan blouse, with a blazing red scarf thrown over her shoulders
+upon which her hair fell in black curls.  It was this coloured vision as
+much as the block in the footway that held me up for the nonce.  Another
+moment, and Lena Gray, Old Eliza’s daughter, brushed against my shoulder,
+yet, as often happens in a crowd, she failed to see me.  Therefore, into
+her ear I dropped a whispered Romany phrase at which she started, and,
+recognizing me, exclaimed—
+
+“_Dawdi_, _raia_, this _is_ a surprise!”
+
+It was but a few steps to the sheltered spot in a field opposite the
+horse-fair where her brother Yoben sat fiddling by the side of the
+living-van.  Even before we came up to him, something arrested my
+attention—the unusual shape of his violin, which, as Lena informed me,
+her brother had made out of a cigar-box picked up in a public-house.
+
+Our field corner had a most agreeable outlook.  Beyond a stretch of
+greenest turf, dotted with caravans and bounded by the reddening autumn
+hedgerows, lay the pleasure-fair, a sunlit fantasia of colour, from
+which, like feathery plumes, ascended puffs of white steam topping
+numerous whirling roundabouts.  Pleasant it was to sit out here in the
+calm weather chatting with the Grays, whom I had so recently met on the
+Lincolnshire sea-border, and even while we conversed there passed by a
+little party of gaily-dressed Gypsies—two rather portly women of middle
+age and two slender girls.
+
+“Who are those people?” I asked.
+
+“Some of the _gozverê_ (cunning) Lovells,” replied Lena.  Then I
+remembered that for some time past I had carried in my notebook several
+cuttings grown dingy with age, relating to traditional practices
+characteristic of this family.  Two paragraphs will suffice as specimens.
+
+    “A domestic servant told a remarkable story yesterday before a West
+    London magistrate.  She said that a gipsy called at the house and
+    asked her to buy some laces.  She refused, and prisoner then offered
+    to tell her fortune for a shilling.  Witness agreed, and the woman
+    told her fortune, and she (witness) gave her two shillings, and asked
+    her for the change.  Prisoner said she would tell her young man’s
+    name by the planet.  Witness had a half-sovereign and two half-crowns
+    in her purse, and prisoner asked her to let her have the coins to
+    cross the palm of her hand with.  She handed her the coins, and the
+    woman crossed her palm.  She then asked her to fetch a glass of
+    water, and, on her returning with it, told her to drink it.
+    Afterwards she told her to pray, and then, apparently putting the
+    10s. and the two half-crowns in her pocket-handkerchief, placed the
+    handkerchief in her bodice, and told her not to take it out for
+    twenty minutes.  After that the woman left.
+
+    “The magistrate: ‘Did you take the handkerchief out?’
+
+    “‘Well, I waited for twenty minutes or so, and then I took it out,
+    and instead of the 10s. and the two half-crowns I found two pennies
+    and a farthing.’  (Laughter.)”
+
+Obviously, the above is a variant of the ancient Gypsy trick known as the
+_hokano bawro_ (big swindle).  Something equally Gypsy, as we shall see,
+clings to our second example.
+
+    “The local police have had their attention engaged during the week in
+    connection with an alleged extraordinary occurrence whereby a
+    shopgirl became, under supposed hypnotic influence, the dupe of two
+    gipsy women.  From inquiry it appears that on Saturday afternoon two
+    gipsy women, having the appearance of mother and daughter, entered a
+    baby-linen shop, and seem to have exerted such a remarkable influence
+    over the girl that she was induced to hand over to them articles of
+    wear amounting in value to between £8 and £9.  Before they left the
+    shop she recovered her self-possession sufficiently to express doubt
+    as to whether they would return with the goods or money, and her
+    fears were allayed somewhat by receiving from her visitors in the
+    shape of security a lady’s beautiful gold ring and chain.
+    Subsequently the young lady, suspecting the genuineness of the
+    pledges, took them to a jeweller, who declared the value of the ring
+    and chain to be not more than a couple of shillings.  The shopgirl is
+    unable to account for her want of self-possession in the presence of
+    the gipsies, and states that she felt she might have given them
+    anything they asked for.  There were a good many gipsies located in
+    the district, but on a visit to the encampment in company with the
+    police the girl did not recognize her two visitors.  The remarkable
+    occurrence has given rise to much comment in the locality.”
+
+Here is something strangely akin to the Romany mesmerism to which
+allusion is made by “The Scholar-Gipsy,” whose
+
+    “. . . mates had arts to rule as they desir’d
+    The workings of men’s brains;
+    And they can bind them to what thoughts they will.”
+
+As is well known, Matthew Arnold’s poem is based upon the following
+passage in Joseph Glanvill’s _Vanity of Dogmatizing_:—
+
+    “That one man should be able to bind the thoughts of another, and
+    determine them to their particular objects, will be reckoned in the
+    first rank of Impossibles; Yet by the power of advanc’d Imagination
+    it may very probably be effected; and story abounds with Instances.
+    I’le trouble the Reader but with one; and the hands from which I had
+    it, make me secure of the truth on’t.  There was very lately a lad in
+    the University of Oxford, who, being of very pregnant and ready
+    parts, and yet wanting the encouragement of preferment, was by his
+    poverty forced to leave his studies there, and to cast himself upon
+    the wide world for livelyhood.  Now, his necessities growing daily on
+    him, and wanting the help of friends to relieve him; he was at last
+    forced to joyn himself to a company of Vagabond Gypsies, whom
+    occasionally he met with, and to follow their trade for a
+    maintenance.  Among these extravagant people, by the insinuating
+    subtility of his carriage, he quickly got so much of their love and
+    esteem; that they discover’d to him their Mystery; in the practice of
+    which, by the pregnancy of his wit and partz he soon grew so good a
+    proficient, as to out-do his Instructours.  After he had been a
+    pretty while well exercis’d in the Trade; there chanc’d to ride by a
+    couple of Scholars who had formerly bin of his acquaintance.  The
+    Scholars had quickly spyed out their old friend, among the Gypsies;
+    and their amazement to see him among such society, had well-nigh
+    discover’d him; but by a sign he prevented their owning him before
+    that crew; and taking one of them aside privately, desir’d him with
+    his friend to go to an Inn, not far distant thence, promising there
+    to come to them.  They accordingly went thither, and he follows;
+    after their first salutations, his friends enquire how he came to
+    live so odd a life as that was, and to joyn himself with such a
+    cheating beggerly company.  The Scholar-Gypsy having given them an
+    account of the necessity, which drove him to that kind of life; told
+    them, that the people he went with were not such Impostours as they
+    were taken for, but that they had a traditional kind of learning
+    among them, and could do wonders by the power of Imagination, and
+    that himself had learned much of their Art, and improved it further
+    than themselves could.  And to evince the truth of what he told them,
+    he said he’d remove into another room, leaving them to discourse
+    together; and upon his return tell them the sum of what they had
+    talked of; which accordingly he perform’d, giving them a full account
+    of what had pass’d between them in his absence.  The Scholars being
+    amaz’d at so unexpected a discovery, earnestly desir’d him to
+    unriddle the mystery.  In which he gave them satisfaction, by telling
+    them, that what he did was by the power of Imagination, his Phancy
+    binding theirs; and that himself had dictated to them the discourse
+    they held together, while he was from them: That there were
+    warrantable wayes of heightening the Imagination to that pitch, as to
+    bind another’s; and that when he had compass’d the whole secret, some
+    parts of which he said he was yet ignorant of, he intended to leave
+    their company, and give the world an account of what he had learned.”
+
+One sometimes wonders whether the world would have cared one jot about
+the revelations which the Oxford Scholar here promises, for to the
+majority the “Gypsies” are almost tabu.
+
+In a letter which I received from that perfect Scholar-Gypsy and
+Gypsy-Scholar, the late Francis Hindes Groome, he tells how he once
+stumbled upon a typical critic.
+
+    “Three or four years ago I gave a lecture on Gypsies at Greenock, and
+    a well-dressed man came up after it.
+
+    “‘There were some things,’ he remarked, ‘that I quite liked in your
+    lecture, but on a good many points _you were absolutely wrong_.’
+
+    “‘Of course you’ve studied the question?’ I asked him.
+
+    “‘Yes,’ he replied.  ‘I looked up the article “Gypsies” in Dr.
+    Brewer’s _Dictionary of Fable_ just before coming along.’”
+
+Talking of critics reminds me how I once received something of a shock to
+the nerves during the opening sentences of a lecture on “Gypsy Customs.”
+Not far from the platform where I stood, there sat a well-to-do
+horse-dealer who, having married a pure-bred Gypsy, was presumably in
+possession of “inside information.”  The vision of his face, all
+alertness and curiosity, caused me a momentary disturbance.  What would
+this critic make of my disclosures?  How would he take my revelations?
+Warming to my subject, however, I was made happy by my auditor
+interjecting such remarks as “That’s right.”  “He’s got it.”  “Where does
+the man get it all from?”  Sometimes he would punctuate his exclamations
+by vigorously slapping his knee and laughing aloud.  Certainly his
+ejaculations added a piquancy to my tales gathered from Gypsy tents.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+But to return to Peterborough Fair.
+
+About the middle of the afternoon, as I stood on a grassy mound
+overlooking the horses, I spied near a group of animals my old friend,
+Anselo Draper, flourishing a long-handled whip.  This swart East Anglian
+roamer wore a dark brown coat of Newmarket cut, slouch hat of soft green
+felt, and crimson neckerchief neatly tied at the throat.  Along an open
+space between the rows of horses sauntered his two pretty daughters,
+Jemima and Phœbe, bareheaded and bare-armed, their laughing voices
+ringing out merrily, while at their heels followed two little brothers
+cracking whips as became budding horse-dealers.
+
+Quite a head above the Gaskins and Brinkleys with whom she was talking
+loudly, stood Wythen, Anselo’s wife, who, happening to look my way,
+smiled and came towards me, holding out the empty bowl of her pipe.
+
+“Got a bit of _tuvalo_ (tobacco) about you, _rashai_ (parson)?  I’m dying
+for a smoke.”
+
+“_So bok ke-divus_?” (What luck to-day?) I inquired, handing over my
+pouch.
+
+“_Bikin_’d _tshîtshî_” (Sold nothing), she replied, jerking her whip
+towards the ponies, “but I’ll _duker_ (tell fortunes) a bit this
+evening,” adjusting her black hat with its large ostrich feathers and
+gaudy orange bow set jauntily at the side.
+
+              [Picture: Midland Gypsies.  Photo. Fred Shaw]
+
+On my pretending to ridicule _duker_in, she said—
+
+“Look here, now, what’s the difference between a Gypsy telling fortunes
+at a fair and a parson _roker_in (preaching) in church of a Sunday?”
+
+“If that’s a riddle,” said I, “it’s beyond me to answer it.”
+
+“Well, when folks do bad things, you foretell a bad future for them,
+don’t you?  And when they do right, you promises ’em a good time?  What’s
+the difference then between you and me?  I’m a low-class fortune-teller
+and you’s a high-class fortune-teller.  You’s had a deal of eddication.
+My only school has been the fairs, race-courses, and sich-like.  But I
+bet I can tell a fortune as well as you any day.  Let me tell yours.”
+
+And she did.
+
+           [Picture: South-Country Gypsies.  Photo. Fred Shaw]
+
+As we stood there and talked, I noticed that the woman looked worried
+about something, and presently I heard her say to Anselo, “I haven’t
+found it yet.”  It was a brooch that she had lost.  Then I told how once
+I lost and found a ring.  One Sunday morning just before service, I stood
+on the gravel swinging my arms in physical exercises as a freshener
+before going to church, and suddenly I heard the tinkle of my ring on the
+yellow gravel.  As only a few minutes remained before church time, I
+thought of a child’s method of finding a thing quickly, and, turning
+myself round three times, I tossed upon the ground a smooth black pebble,
+and, going, forward, lo, there was the ring close to the pebble.
+
+Eyeing me curiously, Wythen remarked—
+
+“Do you know what we says about people as does that sort of thing?  Well,
+we reckons they has dealings with the _Beng_ (Devil).
+
+“When I was a little ’un, my old granny would do things like that, and
+she used to say that when you sees a star falling you must wish a wish,
+and if you do it afore the _stari pogers_ (the star breaks) your wish
+will come true.”
+
+It seems that among Gypsies “wishing a wish” sometimes means a curse.  It
+was at Peterborough Fair in 1872 that Groome saw a blind Gypsy child—made
+blind, he was told, through the father wishing a wish.  Akin to this is
+the belief in the evil eye.  A Battersea Gypsy mother would not let her
+baby be seen by its half-witted uncle, for fear his looking at it should
+turn its black hair red.
+
+After leaving Wythen, I sauntered along, making mental notes of Gypsies
+all around, among whom were local Brinkleys, the far-travelled Greens,
+some Loveridges, and other Midland Gypsies.  I was about to move away
+towards the pleasure fair, when a dealer standing near some ponies caught
+my eye.  I had never seen the man before, but as he looked a thorough
+Gypsy, I drew alongside and accosted him in Romany.  For a moment he
+stared at my clerical frock-coat and broad-brimmed hat, and then calmly
+remarked—
+
+“I say, pal, you look born to them things you’ve got on, you do really.
+You reckons to attend fairs at these here cathedral places, don’t you?
+Didn’t I once see you at Ely, or was it Chester?”
+
+To this man I was nothing more than a Gypsy “dragsman” disguised in
+clerical garb.  Accordingly, he lowered his voice as he said—
+
+“See this here pony?  Will you sell it for me?  You’ll do it easy enough
+with your experience.  On my honour it ain’t a _bongo yek_ (wrong ’un),
+nor yet a _tshordo grai_” (stolen horse).
+
+“What about the price?” I asked.
+
+“If you get a tenner for it,” he replied, “there’ll be a _bâ_ (sovereign)
+for yourself.  What say?”
+
+“_Saw tatsho_ (All right).  _Jaw_ ’_vrî konaw_” (Go away now).  And in
+less than ten minutes after taking my stand by the little animal, I had a
+bid from a young farmer of the small-holder type.  His offer was
+accompanied by some adverse criticism.  Who ever heard a man praise the
+horse he intended to buy?
+
+“Examine the pony for yourself,” said I.
+
+He looked at its teeth.  He lifted its feet one by one.  He pinched and
+punched it all over.  The pony was next trotted to and fro, and so
+pleased was the farmer with the animal’s behaviour that he promptly
+handed over ten pounds and led the pony away.  On seeing that I had
+completed the business, my Gypsy friend, who was just round the corner,
+came up, and on my giving up the money, he put one of the sovereigns into
+my hand.  When I got away I had a good laugh to myself, and it took me
+some time to get my face straight.
+
+Walking back into the heart of the town, I saw a dusty, ill-clad party of
+Gypsies going slowly along with a light dray drawn by a young horse with
+flowing mane and long tail, and when they reached the corner where I was
+standing, I spoke to the woman who was at the horse’s head.  She said she
+was a Smith, and when I pointed to the name Hardy on the dray, she
+remarked, “Oh, that’s nobbut a travelling name.”  It may be noted that
+Gypsies are extremely careless about their names.
+
+At a later hour in a field behind the pleasure fair, I found the
+comfortable _vâdo_ of my friend, Anselo Draper, and tapped at the van
+door with the knob of my stick.  Quickly the door opened, and thrusting
+out his dark, handsome head, Anselo shouted, “_Av adrê_, _baw_” (Come in,
+friend).
+
+What a contrast!  Outside: a very babel of blaring sounds, a dark sky
+reflecting the glow of a myriad naphtha flares.  Within: cosiness and
+warmth, red curtains, glittering mirrors, polished brasses, and a good
+fire.  Over the best teacups (taken tenderly from a corner cupboard)
+Anselo and his wife talked of their travels.  They had been as far north
+as Glasgow that summer, and had sold a good _vâdo_ (van) to one of the
+Boswells at Newcastle Fair.  They had decided to winter at
+Southend-on-Sea.  “We shall make a tent, a big one, and very jolly it
+will be with a _yog_ (fire) in the baulk.  To be sure, there will be
+plenty of mumpers (low-class van-dwellers) around us, but we shall not be
+the only _tatshenê Romanitshel_s (real Gypsies) stopping there.”
+
+Next, Anselo plunged into an account of a low dealer’s trick at the horse
+fair.  It seemed that this dealer had sold two horses to a farmer for
+forty pounds.  A stranger coming up to the farmer offered to buy them at
+a higher price, so into a tavern they retired to talk things over.
+During drinks the stranger continually offered more money for the horses,
+and the farmer remained there a longer time than was good for him.  At
+last when the man was hopelessly muddled the stranger disappeared.  Nor
+had the horses so far been seen again.
+
+“But there’s not so much of that done as there was.  My father knew a
+Gypsy who died up in Yorkshire, a desprit hand at _grai-tshor_in
+(horse-stealing), and to this day they say, ‘If you shake a bridle over
+his grave, he’ll jump up and steal a horse.’”  Both Wythen and Anselo
+laughed merrily as I told a tale I once heard of a Gypsy who had been
+“away” for a space.  Coming out of the prison gate, he was met by a
+fellow who asked him what he had been in there for.
+
+“For finding a horse,” was the reply.
+
+“But surely they would never jug you for finding a horse?”
+
+“Well, but you see I found this one before his owner had lost him.”
+
+Anselo admitted that this sort of thing was not at all uncommon in the
+old days, and two of his uncles had to take a trip across the water for
+similar practices.
+
+When I left my friends and hastened to catch my train, the pleasure fair
+was in full blast, noisy organs, cymbals and drums, shrieking whistles,
+and the dull muffled roar of innumerable human voices, sounds which long
+haunted my ears, and, looking back from the moving train, there still
+floated from the distance the din and rattle of the receding fair.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI
+A FORGOTTEN HIGHWAY—“ON THE ROAD” WITH JONATHAN—THE PATRIN—THE GHOST OF
+THE HAYSTACK
+
+
+“WE was all brought up on this Old Dyke.  We’s _hatsh_’d (camped) on it
+in all weathers.  I knows every yard of it.  Ay, the fine _kanengrê_
+(hares) we’s taken from these here fields.”
+
+The speaker was my old friend, Jonathan Boswell, who with his tilt-cart
+had overtaken me whilst strolling along the grass-grown Roman Ermine
+Street which traverses the broad Heath stretching southward of Lincoln.
+At the Gypsy’s cheery invitation, I joined him on his seat under the
+overarching tilt.  Behind us were the diminishing towers of the old city,
+and right on ahead the chariot-way of the Imperial legions ran, straight
+as an arrow along the Heath.  Not a wild expanse, mind you, like your
+Yorkshire moorland with its wimpling burns and leagues of heather, though
+I daresay our Heath, now so admirably tilled, was savage enough in the
+days when “the long, lone, level line of the well-kept warpath, marked at
+intervals with high stones or posts as a guiding-line in fog or snow,
+stretched through a solitude but rarely broken, except by the footfall of
+the legionaries and the plaint of the golden plover sounding sweet from
+off the moorland.”  Turf-covered from hedge to hedge for many a mile, the
+High Dyke, as the old road is now called, may well be described as a
+forgotten highway.  Indeed, I have tramped along it mile on mile without
+meeting a soul, unless mayhap it was a sun-tanned drover slouching at the
+heels of half a dozen bullocks, or a village lad asleep in a
+hedge-bottom, with a soft-eyed motherly cow or two grazing not far away.
+
+On this particular morning near the end of April, an unclouded sun lit up
+the verdant cornlands and larch spinneys.  It shone upon the loins of the
+sturdy nag between the shafts.  It touched into a brighter gold the
+gorse-bloom on the wayside bushes, and provoked the green-finches to
+fling their songs into the air from lichened palings and bramble sprays.
+Onward we journeyed, bumping and jolting over the uneven turfy road, and
+occasionally dodging the mounds of earth thrown up by the burrowing
+rabbits.  What a picturesque figure my companion presented in his faded
+bottle-green coat adorned with large pearl buttons.  His close-fitting
+dogskin cap imparted to his swarthy, sharply-cut features a not
+inappropriate poacher-like air, and I fancied the old man’s wrinkles had
+deepened on his brow since our last meeting, just after his wife’s death
+up in Yorkshire.
+
+Sitting back under the hood, Jonathan here burst out with a pretty little
+reminiscence.
+
+“D’ye know, my pal, what this here bit o’ the Old Dyke brings to my mind?
+Ay, deary me, it takes me back to times as’ll never, never come no
+more—the days when I were a lad along with my people, and our delations
+a-_besh_in (resting) on this here wery grass we’s passing over.  See,
+there, under that warm bank topped with thick thorns: well, I’s slept
+there times on end with my dear mammy and daddy in our tent, and my
+uncles and aunts would be _hatsh_in (camping) right along this sheltered
+bit.  I can see it all while I’s talking to you—the carts with their
+shafts propped up and the smook a-going up from the fires afore the
+tents, and the ponies and donkeys grazing under the trees yonder.  Ay, my
+son, them were the times for the likes of us.
+
+“There’s one thing I minds” (this with a merry twinkle in his eye).
+“I’ll tell you about it.  It were a fine summer morning, somewheres about
+six o’clock.  My mammy and daddy was up making a fire to boil the kettle.
+I heard ’em bustling about, and I ought to ha’ been up to help, but I
+were lazy-like that morning.  Then comes my daddy a-talking quick to
+hisself, and I know’d summut were the matter.  He lifts up the _tan-kopa_
+(tent-blanket) and hollers at me as I lay stretched out upo’ the straw—
+
+“_Hatsh oprê_, _tshavo_, _kèr sig_.  _De graiaw_ and _mailas saw
+praster_’d _avrî_.  _Jaw_’_vrî_ an’ _dik_ for _len._’  (Get up, boy, make
+haste.  The horses and donkeys have all run away.  Go forth and look for
+them.)
+
+“I were out and off in a jiffey.  I never stopped to get dressed.  What’s
+more, me not thinking what I was a-doing, I throws away the only thing I
+had on my back—my shirt—just as you toss off your coat when you’s in a
+hurry, and away I goes down the long road to find the animals.  Whilst I
+were away, all the family, my big brothers and sisters, and them
+delations as I spoke of, had gathered round the fires for _sawla-hawben_
+(breakfast), an’ they hadn’t finished when I got back with the hosses and
+donkeys.  I’d clean forgot how I were fixed, an’, my gom, didn’t they
+laff when they set eyes on me; an’ my blessed mammy, she shouts—
+
+“‘_Kai sî tîro gad_, _m’o rinkeno tshavo_?’ (Where’s your shirt, my
+pretty boy?)  Into the tent I dived, an’ I weren’t long dressing, for I
+wanted to be gitting my share o’ the _balovas_ an’ _yora_s (ham and
+eggs).”
+
+Occasionally the spinneys skirting the deserted road obscured the view of
+the far-off Wolds, but one could forgive these temporary interventions,
+for the sprays of larch and beech hanging out from the little woods were
+delicate in their new spring garb, and as the breezes caught them they
+rose and sank with a beautiful feathery droop.  Now across the fields on
+our left hand there came into view a familiar landmark, Dunston Pillar,
+concerning which I once heard a story from the lips of Bishop Edward
+Trollope, a whilom neighbour of mine.
+
+At one time Lincoln Heath was a vast unenclosed rabbit warren dotted over
+with fir woods and quarries, and at times travellers lost their way upon
+it.  So Dunston Pillar was erected, and a lantern was placed on top to
+guide benighted wayfarers over the Heath.  Doubtless the old lighthouse
+served its purpose well, yet it did not always enable people to reach
+their own homes in safety, for the locality was infested with robbers on
+the look out for travelling gentry.  Not far from the Pillar stood an old
+coaching inn, the “Green Man,” and one night, after assisting their
+driver to his box, two gentlemen who had been carousing there thought it
+prudent to remind their man thus: “John, be sure you keep the Pillar
+light upon your right, and then we shall reach Lincoln safely.”  However,
+when the two awoke at daybreak and found themselves still near the
+Pillar, one of them called out, “Why, John, where are we?”  Upon which,
+John replied drowsily from the box, “Oh, it’s a’ roight, sir, the
+Pillar’s on our roight.”  And so it was, for he had been driving round it
+all night.
+
+As we jogged along, Jonathan would occasionally jerk his whip towards a
+rich pasture, and with a sly wink would say, “We’s _puv_’d _our graiaw_
+in that field more than once.”  Let me explain.  In order to give their
+horses a good feed, the Gypsies when camping on the High Dyke would turn
+their animals overnight into a nice fat pasture, taking care, of course,
+to remove them early in the morning.
+
+At this point we drew rein, and took a meal under the lee of a plantation
+in whose boughs thrushes fluted and willow-wrens made fairy music.  Not
+far away, couch-grass fires sent their smoke across the level surface of
+a loamy field, making the air of the lane pungent with the scent of
+burning stalks.  Seated there under the spreading trees, my Gypsy
+companion related a poaching incident with some gusto, for it is next to
+impossible to dispossess the Gypsy of the notion that the wild rabbits
+frisking about the moors and commons are as free to him as to the owner
+of the lands on which they happen to be playing.
+
+            [Picture: Netting Rabbits.  Photo. F. R. Hinkins]
+
+    “One time when our folks was camping on the Dyke a keeper comes up to
+    the fire.  It was evening, and we was having some stew, and the
+    keeper joined us.  He were a pleasant, good-company fellow, wery
+    different from keepers nowadays, and after the meal was over, my old
+    mammy says to him, ‘There’s two things that’s wery good—a drop of
+    brandy to warm the cockles o’ your heart, and a bit o’ black ’bacca
+    to warm your snitch-end.’  And the keeper agreed.  Then my daddy
+    brings out a black bottle and mixes him a drink in a teacup, and us
+    boys come peeping into the tent to listen to the tales what daddy and
+    the keeper got a-telling.  I can see ’em all a-sitting there now, my
+    old mam a-puffing her _swêgler_ (pipe) and the keeper and daddy
+    blowing a big cloud till you couldn’t hardlins see across the tent
+    for smook.  But mam never gave us boys nothink from the bottle, and
+    when the keeper began to get jolly, my dad tipped us a wink, and off
+    goes three of us wi’ the dogs, and we had a good time in the big
+    woods.  Nobody came near us, and we didn’t carry the game home that
+    night lest we might meet a _gawjo_.  We know’d a thing better than
+    that.  We hid the game in a leafy hollow, and sent some of the big
+    gells in the morning with sacks, and they brought all home safe.”
+
+              [Picture: ’Neath the Hedgerow.  Photo. Fred Shaw]
+
+Two miles onward we stopped a few minutes at Byard’s Leap to look at the
+large iron horseshoes embedded in the turf.  It is these shoes that help
+to perpetuate the local legend which gives the hamlet its name.  Here is
+the Gypsy version of the tradition.
+
+    “Hundreds and hundreds of years ago, there was a wicked witch what
+    lived in a stone-pit wi’ big dark trees hanging over it.  This woman
+    did a lot of mischief on the farms all round, witching the stock in
+    the fields, and she cast sickness on people young and old.  They say
+    the witch was once a beautiful girl who sold her blood to the _Beng_
+    (Devil), and that’s how she got her powers.  At last she grew wery
+    ugly, and still went on working great harm.  One day the folks of
+    that neighbourhood met together and tossed up to see who was to kill
+    the witch.  It was a shepherd who had to do it, though it went
+    against his mind, as he had often played with the witch when she was
+    a beautiful girl.  However, he promised to put an end to her, and set
+    off to choose a horse to ride on.  All the horses on the farm were
+    driven down to a pond.  One of them was a blind one, an old favourite
+    of the farmer’s, which he wouldn’t allow to be killed.  Now, while
+    the horses were drinking, the shepherd was to _wuser_ a _bâ_ (throw a
+    stone) over the horses’ backs into the water, and the one that looked
+    up first was the one he was to ride.  Well, if the poor old blind
+    horse didn’t lift up its head, so he saddled it and bridled it and
+    rode off to the stone-pit.  When he got there he shouted, ‘Come out,
+    my lass, I want to speak to you.’
+
+    “‘I’m suckling my cubs;’—she had two bairns, and the shepherd was
+    said to be their father—‘wait till I’ve tied my shoe-strings, and
+    then I’ll come.’  Soon she came out, and, springing on to the horse’s
+    back behind the shepherd, she dug her claws into the animal’s flesh,
+    while the shepherd rode poor blind Bayard—that was the horse’s
+    name—towards the cross-roads, and on the way there the _grai_ (horse)
+    gave a tremendous jump—sixty feet—and both the riders were thrown
+    off; the witch was killed on the spot, the shepherd was lamed for
+    life, and the blind horse fell down dead.”
+
+Starting from the first set of four horseshoes in the turf, I measured
+the distance in strides to the next set of four, and, roughly speaking,
+found it to be sixty feet.
+
+Here our roads diverged, Jonathan going westward towards the “Cliff,”
+while I took the turn for Sleaford.
+
+Within three weeks from this meeting with Jonathan on the High Dyke, I
+had business calling me to the town of Newark-on-Trent, where, as luck
+had it, the May horse-fair was in full swing, and under the shadow of the
+Castle by the waterside I met my Gypsy friend once more.  In a corner of
+the fairground, which was crowded with horses, I found Jonathan in
+company with one of the Smiths, and the two men were drinking ale out of
+big horn tumblers rimmed with silver.  Petulengro had a nice _vâdo_, and,
+going up to it, I read the name “Bailey, Warrington.”  He explained that
+he was breaking new ground, and therefore had taken a change of name.
+Like most Gypsies, he had some pets—two dogs, a bantam cock and hen, a
+jackdaw, and a canary.  As Jonathan had absorbing business on hand, I did
+not see him again until evening, when I joined him in his tilt-cart, and
+we set off towards Ollerton.  Underneath the vehicle were slung several
+tent rods, notched, or numbered, in order to facilitate the erection of
+the tent.  Said he, “I’m expecting my nephew to join us to-morrow—that’s
+Charley—he’s promised to come after us, so I must lay the _patrin_s
+(signs) for him.”
+
+Let us see how this is done.
+
+At a crossing of two highways, a few miles out of the town, Jonathan went
+to the hedge-bottom and plucked a bunch of long grass, then upon a
+clearing among the tussocks on the wayside he divided the bunch into
+three portions, carefully placing these with their tips pointing in the
+direction which we were about to take.
+
+       [Picture: The Gypsy’s Parson on the Road.  Photo. Fred Shaw]
+
+“There now,” said the old man, “I’ve got to do this at every cross-road,
+for there’s no telling exactly where we shall stop to-night.  But Charley
+is bound to find us, for he’ll _dik avrî_ for _mandi_’s _patrin_” (look
+out for my sign).
+
+There are many varieties in the form of the _patrin_, for no two families
+use exactly the same sign.  I have heard Gypsies who were about to
+separate into parties, discussing the particular form of _patrin_ to be
+used by the advance guard, so that those who were following would know
+exactly what to look for, and whereabouts on the roadside they might
+expect to find it.
+
+A Suffolk friend, whilst sitting unobserved on a fence in the twilight,
+watched some Gypsies laying a _patrin_ formed of small elm twigs, their
+tips indicating the direction taken.  A peculiar form of _patrin_ I once
+saw was a wisp of grass tied round a sapling in the hedgerow.
+
+For myself, I never see a _patrin_ on the roadside without recalling
+Ursula’s pathetic story in _The Romany Rye_.  Readers who know their
+Borrow will remember how the woman followed her husband for a great many
+miles by means of his signs left on the wayside.
+
+Between Kneesall and Wellow a halt was made, and, having lit a fire of
+sticks under the shadow of a wood, we warmed some stew in a black pot.
+As we sprawled on the grass, a fox dashed across the road with a rabbit
+dangling from its jaws, and Jonathan shouted in the hope of making
+Reynard drop the bunny, but in vain.  Then I told him how once I saw a
+fox capture and kill a rabbit on the slope of a warren.  He was about to
+trot off with his prey when I gave a lusty shout which made him halt and
+look round at me for a moment.  Seeing that I was quite a hundred yards
+away, Reynard dropped the rabbit, scratched a hole, and buried his
+capture, carefully spreading the loose earth and stones over the place
+with his sharp nose.  Then he made for the woods.  Now, though I searched
+diligently for that buried rabbit, I could not for the life of me
+discover it, the entire surface of the warren-slope being so dotted over
+with recent rabbit-scratchings strewn with small stones.
+
+While Jonathan was making some small repair of the harness, I drew from
+my pocket a few newspaper cuttings and letters, in one of which was a
+dialogue between two Gypsies, a tiny boy and an aged man, who had met
+upon the road—
+
+    “BOY.  _Sâ shan_, _baw_, has _tuti dik_’d _mi dadus ke-divus_?
+
+    MAN.  _Keka_, _mi tshavo_, _mandi keka jin_s _tuti_’s _dadus_.  _Sî
+    yov_ a _bawro mush_ wiv _kawlo bal_?
+
+    BOY.  _Âwali_, _dova sî mi dadus_, _tatsho_.
+
+    MAN.  Has _yov_ a pair o’ check _rokamiaw_?
+
+    BOY.  _Âwa_, _dova_’s _mi dadus_.
+
+    MAN.  Has _yov_ a _loli baiengri_ wiv _bawrê krafnê_?
+
+    BOY.  _Âwa_, dat’s _mi dadus_, feth.
+
+    MAN.  _Dawdi_, _mandi dik_’d _lesti tălê o drom odoi_ a-_mong_in a
+    _puri_ pair o’ _tshokaw_ to _tshiv oprê lesti_’s _nongê pîrê_.
+
+    BOY.  _Dova sî keka mi dadus_, at all.”
+
+_Translation_.
+
+    “BOY.  How do, mate.  Have you seen my father to-day?
+
+    MAN.  No, my boy, I don’t know your father.  Is he a big man with
+    black hair?
+
+    BOY.  Yes, that’s my father, sure.
+
+    MAN.  Has he a pair of check trousers?
+
+    BOY.  Yes, that’s my father.
+
+    MAN.  Has he a red waistcoat with big buttons?
+
+    BOY.  Yes, that’s my father, faith.
+
+    MAN.  Lor, I saw him down the road there a-begging an old pair of
+    boots to put on his bare feet.
+
+    BOY.  That’s not my father at all.”
+
+“A bit o’ the old style, I call that,” was my companion’s comment.
+
+After we had yoked in and were about to start off, my old Gypsy pulled
+out his handkerchief to catch a sneeze on the wing.  He was successful,
+and, unnoticed by him, a little wooden animal fell to the grass.  On
+picking it up, I handed back to him a dog with a tail broken off and one
+foot missing, and he grabbed at it excitedly, saying—
+
+“I wouldn’t _nasher_ (lose) that for a deal.”
+
+This little fetish I remembered to have seen on a former occasion.
+Jonathan had put it on the top of a gatepost and was talking to it, as he
+puffed a cloud of tobacco smoke.  For some reason, he was never willing
+to discuss the subject.
+
+                           [Picture: Comrades]
+
+Pursuing our journey, we came to the little town of Ollerton, and after a
+halt at one of the inns we travelled onward through Edwinstowe until we
+reached a tract of ferny, heathery country, where we drew up, unyoked and
+unharnessed the horse, and in wonderfully quick time had our little tent
+erected.  You have sometimes heard people say, “Poor Gypsies,” yet if you
+had travelled with them, as I have, you would hear it said, “Poor _gawjê_
+(gentiles), we feels sorry for ’em, cooped up in their stuffy houses.”
+
+              [Picture: Gypsies at Home.  Photo. Fred Shaw]
+
+There is nothing so healthy as a tent under the open sky, with the wind
+blowing freely around you and the birds singing their canticles in the
+woods hard by.  I speak from experience in regard to tent life, for under
+Jonathan’s tuition I learned long ago how to construct a Gypsy’s tent of
+ash or hazel rods thrust into the ground and their tapering ends bent and
+fixed into a ridge-pole, the whole being covered with coarse brown
+blankets pinned on with stout 3-inch pins.  (The Gypsies use the long
+thorns of the wild sloe, or thin elder skewers.)  In such a tent I have
+slept nightly for many months in succession.  It is grand to sit at your
+tent door, building castles in the air, which at any rate cost very
+little in upkeep.
+
+Bosky Sherwood with its oaks and birches and uncurling bracken stretched
+away towards the west, and, strolling along the unfenced road, lo, an old
+woman with her apron full of sticks was seen coming down a glade.  She
+turned out to be Rachel Shaw, whom we accompanied to where, round a
+corner, the camp of the Gypsy Shaws lay within a secluded alcove.  This
+was a pleasant surprise.  Here, by the fire, sat Tiger Shaw and his three
+grown-up daughters, fine strapping girls.  I had often heard of
+“Fiddling” Tiger, whose children were said to be excellent dancers.  It
+was said of their father that he could play tunes by thumping with his
+fists upon his bare chest.  We sat chatting with them till the moon rose,
+a full golden disk, over the woods.  The night air was sweet with forest
+smells exhaling from bursting oak-buds and sheets of wood hyacinths.  A
+rare place for owls is Sherwood, and more than once as we sat there, a
+broad-winged bird came out of the black shadows and flew away hooting
+down the road.
+
+Old Tiger, who hails from the Low Country between Lynn and St. Ives,
+remembers when the “Jack o’ Lantern” used to flicker by night in those
+parts in the days of his childhood, and of ghost tales he has a rich
+store.  One of his best tales is the ghost of the haystack, which I give
+in my own words.
+
+    “One night a Gypsy and his wife went to take some hay from a stack at
+    the back of a mansion.  As they were getting it, they looked up and
+    saw on the top of the stack a wizened old man wearing a
+    three-cornered hat, a cut-away coat with silver buttons,
+    knee-breeches, silk stockings, buckled shoes, and by his side hung a
+    curious sword.  At this sight they stood amazed, then, gathering
+    courage, the Gypsy woman looked up and said—
+
+    “‘If this is your hay, sir, may we take a handful for our pony?’
+
+    “The figure on the stack never spoke, but nodded his head, so they
+    took a lot, and, departing, left a trail of hay reaching from the
+    stack to the camp.  Next morning the squire of the mansion came
+    along.
+
+    “‘You rascally vagabonds, you thieving rogues, how dare you steal my
+    hay?  If you had asked me, I’d have given you some.’
+
+    “‘But we _did_ get leave.’
+
+    “‘How so?’
+
+    “Then they described the gentleman on the stack, giving the details
+    as already told.  At this the squire turned deathly pale, and laid
+    hold of a fence to steady himself.
+
+    “‘Why, you’ve seen my old grandfather who has been dead years and
+    years, and if he gave you leave, you can get as much of that hay as
+    you please.’
+
+    “And you may be sure they did.”
+
+The first grey light of dawn was creeping down the road and waking the
+life of the woods, when we were called from our slumbers by a cheery
+“Hello,” and Jonathan sprang up to receive his nephew, who had already
+drawn his _vâdo_ upon the grass; indeed, before we had dressed, Charley
+had gathered sticks for the breakfast fire, and by the time that our meal
+was finished, the sun was gilding the tree-tops.  Now we were ready for
+the departure, and, moving along the road, we found the Shaws also taking
+the _drom_ (road).  By the side of the _vâdo_ walked Tiger’s girls, their
+loosened hair blowing in the wind, and going along they gathered the
+yellow cowslips.
+
+Onward through the gorsy lanes we travelled together as far as Mansfield,
+where our merry party became divided, the Boswells taking the highway
+leading through North Derbyshire to Sheffield, the Shaws going westward
+towards Matlock, and myself setting off in a southerly direction.
+
+Just where Robin Hood’s Hills begin to rise beyond the red-stemmed pines
+of the Thieves’ Wood, I came upon a resplendent caravan of the Pulman
+type drawn up on the wayside turf a long way from any village.  Near by
+sat two persons, a man past middle age, wearing a kilt and
+tam-o’-shanter, who had for companion a pretty lass in her teens, with
+long brown hair.  On the ground between them stood a big crystal jar, and
+with long forks the two were spearing cubes of preserved ginger.  Their
+backs being turned towards me, they gave a little start of surprise as I
+went up, and, raising my hat, inquired, “Dr. Gordon Stables?”
+
+“That’s my name,” said he, and, inviting me to join them on the grass, he
+dispatched the girl for another fork, with which very soon I, too, was
+spearing for ginger.
+
+Here before me was the “Gentleman Gypsy,” whose writings had been
+familiar to me since boyhood.
+
+“You’ll think it strange,” said he, “when I tell you that I have no
+memory for faces, but I rarely fail to remember the look of any tree I
+have once seen by the roadside.”
+
+When Gypsies were mentioned, the good doctor had grateful reminiscences
+of them.  During many years of road-travel he had often come upon the
+wandering folk, and he liked them.  They were cheerful people who never
+forgot a kindness.  They were most obliging withal, and readily lent
+their horses to pull his somewhat heavy “house on wheels” up the stiff
+inclines.  Altogether, he had a very good word for the Gypsies.
+
+By mid-afternoon I was standing in the churchyard at Selston, where lay
+the fragments of the headstone of a Romany chief, Dan Boswell.  An
+irreverent bull was declared to have been responsible for the shattered
+condition of the stone upon which a quaint epitaph was now faintly
+visible.  It ran as follows:—
+
+    “I’ve lodged in many a town,
+       I’ve travelled many a year,
+    But death at length hath brought me down
+       To my last lodging here.”
+
+My late father-in-law, formerly a curate of Selston, remembered how
+Gypsies paid visits to this grave and poured libations of ale upon it.
+The adjacent common, long since enclosed, was once much frequented by the
+nomad tribes.
+
+My resting-place that evening was the pleasant Midland town of
+Nottingham, and right soundly I slept after my long day on the road.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII
+THE GYPSY OF THE TOWN
+
+
+IN the sunny forenoon I was walking in one of the airy suburbs of
+Nottingham, and, passing by the entrance to some livery stables, I
+noticed on a sign-board in prominent yellow letters on a black ground the
+surname of Boss.  This it was that brought me to a standstill in front of
+the large doors in a high wall.  “A Romany name,” I said to myself.  “I
+ought to find a Gypsy here;” and, pushing open one of the doors, I saw
+before me an office with masses of brown wallflower abloom beneath a
+wide-open window.
+
+“Come in,” said a mellow voice, in response to my knock at the little
+door in the porch, and, entering, I was confronted by a handsome man of
+fifty, evidently the master of the establishment, neatly dressed, well
+groomed, and unmistakably Romany.
+
+“Mr. Boss?”
+
+“That’s so.”
+
+“_Romanitshel tu shan_?” (You are a Gypsy?)
+
+“_Âvali_, _baw_.  _Av ta besh tălê_” (Yes, mate.  Come and sit down.)
+The words were accompanied by a low, musical laugh that was pleasant to
+hear.  He then conducted me to a garden seat where we sat and talked in
+the May sunshine.  Generally my companion would use the inflected dialect
+of the old-time Gypsies, but at intervals he dropped into the _pogado
+tshib_, the “broken language,” as spoken by the average English Gypsy of
+to-day.  For which lapses he apologized: “I wonder what my old dad would
+say to hear me _roker_in like a _posh-rat_?” (talking like a half-breed).
+“One of the old roots was my daddy, who could talk for hours in nothing
+but ‘double-words’” (_i.e._ inflected Romany).  “There were the
+‘double-words’ and the other way—the broken language.  Some of us young
+upstarts never picked up all the ‘double-words’ our parents used, and now
+the poor old language is fast going to pieces.  What with these Gypsy
+novels and their bits of Romany talk—my girl reads them to me—why,
+everybody is getting to know it.  I once heard a gentleman say that our
+language was a made-up gibberish.  But he was wrong.  It’s a real
+language, and an old one at that.  But, as I was saying, it’s getting
+blown very much nowadays.  Why, down in Kent, Surrey, and Sussex there
+are whole villages where you can hear Romany talked on all sides of you.
+The little shopkeepers know it.  The publicans can _roker_ (talk Gypsy) a
+bit.  The stable-boys throw it at one another.  And you can’t stir in the
+lanes without meeting a kiddie with the eyes and hair of a Gypsy—blest if
+you can.”
+
+Noticing my flow of the _kawlo tshib_ (black language, _i.e._ Romany),
+Boss tapped me familiarly on the knee: “I can’t reckon you up at all,
+_rashai_ (parson).  How have you picked it all up?  Have you been sweet
+on a Gypsy girl, or have you _romer_’d _yek_?” (married one).
+
+Then with all a Gypsy’s restlessness, he sprang up and led me to his
+villa residence over the way, where, apologizing for the absence of his
+wife, he introduced me to his daughter, a tall girl of twenty or more,
+gentle, refined-looking, with fathomless Gypsy eyes and an olive tint in
+her cheeks.
+
+“I’m going to take the _rashai_ for a drive,” said he.  “We’ll be back
+for tea.”
+
+In the tastefully ordered drawing-room I chatted with Miss Boss, whose
+Romany rippled melodiously.  A piece of classical music stood open on the
+piano, and several recent novels lay scattered about.  On her father’s
+return within a few moments, I caught the sound of a horse pawing
+impatiently outside, and presently I was seated with Jack Boss in a smart
+yellow gig behind a slim “blood” animal.  As we drove through the town my
+companion pointed to a carriage-horse in passing: “_Wafodu grai sî dova_”
+(a trashy horse is that), and when I translated his words he chuckled
+merrily.  “To think that you know _that_, and you don’t look a bit like a
+Gypsy.  Not a drop of the blood in you, I should think.  You puzzle me,
+you really do.  Perhaps you’ve got it from books.  I’ve heard of such
+works, but have never seen them.  I suppose you priests can find it all
+in Latin somewhere?  Now, to look at me you’d never think—would you?—that
+I’d been born in a little tent” (he bent his fingers in semblance of
+curved rods) “and had travelled on the roads.  But that’s years ago, yet
+I like to think of those days.  If they were rough times, we had plenty
+of fun.  Don’t I remember going with my old dad to visit the Grays and
+Herons, Lovells and Stanleys, in their tents—real Gypsies if you like.
+You don’t often _dik_ a _tatsheno Romanitshel konaw_” (see a true Gypsy
+nowadays).  “It gave me a deal of pleasure the other day to meet Ike
+Heron in his low-crowned topper and Newmarket coat.  One of the old
+standards is Ike.  Perhaps you know him?”
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+By this time we were speeding between green hedgerows in the open
+country, and when at last we pulled up at a wayside hostelry, nothing
+would do but I must drink my Gypsy’s health.  Then the horse’s head was
+turned for home.  Romany topics being still to the fore, and having
+recently heard of the passing of George Smith of Coalville, I asked my
+companion if he had ever met the parent of the first “Moveable Dwellings’
+Bill.”
+
+“I can’t say that I ever crossed his path, and I don’t know that I
+particularly wanted to.  His letters in the papers used to _rile my
+people terribly_.  We weren’t quite so bad as he painted us.  It was
+plain enough that he knew nothing of the real Romanies, nothing whatever.
+Why, his “gipsies” were nothing but the very poorest hedge-crawlers, with
+never a drop of our blood in their bodies.  The man meant all right, very
+likely, but as for his methods—well, the less said about them the
+better.”
+
+As we parted after tea at his garden gate, I wished my Gypsy _kushto bok_
+(good luck).
+
+“A good thing _that_, Mr. Hall, and may we both have more of it.”
+
+I retain very pleasant memories of that afternoon spent in the genial
+company of Mr. Jack Boss, whom I have since met several times at
+horse-fairs in different parts of the country.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+It has fallen to my lot to know a number of Gypsies who have made their
+homes in our cities, and who, though moving in respectable circles, still
+retain the old secret tongue of the roads, as well as a marked spirit of
+detachment from most of the ideas of the people among whom they live.
+Pride of race remains.  No matter how high he may climb, the pure Gypsy
+is proud of his birth and secretly despises all who are not of his blood.
+When talking of breezy commons, green woodsides, rabbits, pheasants, and
+the like, I have seen the eyes of a house-dwelling Gypsy grow wistful as
+he sighed at the visions and memories arising within him.
+
+The sedentary Gypsies are now largely in the preponderance.  Not that the
+tendency to settle is entirely a thing of our times.  Fifty years ago,
+the Gypsy colony hard by my childhood’s home told of a movement not then
+by any means new.  Twenty years earlier, did not Ambrose (Jasper) Smith
+say to Lavengro?—“There is no living for the poor people, the
+_chokengris_ (police) pursue us from place to place, and the gorgios are
+becoming either so poor or miserly that they grudge our cattle a bite of
+grass by the wayside, and ourselves a yard of ground to light a fire
+upon.”
+
+Many years prior to this complaint, the wholesale enclosing of the
+commons, the harassing attentions of the press-gang, the flooding of our
+roads by Irish vagrants, the barbaric administration of “justice,” and
+the pressure of the times generally, had caused many a Gypsy to adopt a
+sedentary life.  Numbers of old-fashioned Romany families, finding life
+no longer tolerable in England, were allured to the colonies by glowing
+accounts received from migrated friends of the freedom and manifold
+opportunities for making a living across the sea.  All along since those
+times it may be said that no year has passed without witnessing the
+settlement of many Gypsies.
+
+Some of my happiest “finds” in the way of house-dwelling Gypsies were
+several aged members of the great Boswell clan, living in the town of
+Derby, and to them I owe many reminiscences of Gypsy life in bygone days.
+It was from Lincolnshire _Romanitshel_s of the same clan-name that I had
+first learned of the Derby colony whose Gypsy denizens were so
+entertaining that if ever I found myself within a few miles of their
+Midland town I could in no way resist going to see them.  It must have
+been many years since first they settled there, and yet they would talk
+of Lincolnshire as though they had quitted its highways and byways but
+yesterday.  Moreover, these Boswells were related to some of Borrow’s
+originals, a fact which in my eyes lent no small glamour to these folk.
+
+One cool spring evening I stood in a cramped yard in Derby, and, tapping
+at a cottage door, I heard a tremulous voice inviting me to enter.
+Within that little room my aged friend, Coralina Boswell, was warming her
+thin hands at a few glowing coals in the grate.  A flickering candle on
+the chimney-piece cast a fitful yellow gleam on the old lady seated on
+the hearthrug not far from a truckle bed.  Wrapped about her shawl-wise
+was a portion of a scarlet blanket throwing up her features, swarthy and
+deeply seamed, into strong relief.  She begged me to take the only chair,
+which I drew up to the fire.
+
+“I am glad to see you, my son.  I’m a lonely old woman.  My _tshăvê_
+(children) are all far away.”  Here she picked up a black pipe which she
+had laid down on my entering, and went on chatting about her family,
+mentioning a daughter named Froniga.
+
+“That sounds like Veronica.”
+
+“Yes, we name’t her after the one that wiped the dear Lord’s face wiv a
+_diklo_” (handkerchief).
+
+This set her thoughts a-wandering, and she went on to tell how last night
+she saw strange things.
+
+“I was in a _wesh_ (wood), thick and green, and I went on and on, and I
+felt wild beasts rubbing agen me, but they never hurted me, ’cos my
+blessed Saviour was a-sitting wiv His angels among the clouds just above
+the roundy tops o’ the big trees.  It was beautiful to see Him there.
+And sometimes, as I sits here, I sees Him come into this room, as real as
+when you came in yourself.
+
+“What made you come so far to see the likes o’ me?  It’s wery kind o’
+you.  I’s travelled all through your country, and a nice part it is.  I
+remembers the green fields all lying in the sun by the riverside.”
+(Clearly she was thinking of the Trentside haunts of her clan.)
+
+“Now, my son, will you _tshiv_ some _kosht_ on the _yog_ (put some wood
+on the fire) and light that _vâva mumeli_ (other candle) on the
+chimbly-shelf?”
+
+On the walls of the room were several black-framed funeral cards, in the
+midst of which was a blurred enlargement of a Romany _vâdo_ (cart), and,
+seeing my eyes wandering towards this picture, Coralina broke out again—
+
+“Ah, that’s my _rom_’s (husband) wagon there, as we’s travelled in many a
+year, and there he is on the steps a-looking at me so loving-like.  I
+_roker_s (talk) to him sometimes, forgetting he’s been gone this many a
+year.
+
+“Mine’s a lonely life, and what would become of me I don’t know, if I
+hadn’t some kind delations living in this _gav_” (town).
+
+As I stepped out into the narrow yard, a bright moon silvered the
+battered door and the little crisscross window of Old Coralina’s abode,
+and, walking along a crooked street, I thought of the strange life of the
+woman I had just left, an existence in which dreams and visions passed
+for realities.
+
+             [Picture: A Mother in Egypt.  Photo. Fred Shaw]
+
+In the same town lived another aged Gypsy, Eldi Boswell, whose days were
+chiefly spent on a couch-bed smoking and dreaming.  Too decrepit to leave
+her cottage, she loved to bask in the glow of the fire, and I recall no
+more picturesque Gypsy figure than Old Eldi, with her furrowed face and
+her long, dark ringlets straggling out from beneath a once gorgeous
+_diklo_.  It was easy to see that she had been a beauty in her time, and
+in confidential moments she would say that in her young days she had
+often been taken for her cousin, Sanspirela Heron (the lovely wife of
+Ambrose Smith), whose forename was (in _Lavengro_) changed by Borrow to
+Pakomovna.  Certainly one could not help being struck by Old Eldi’s large
+eyes.  Much has been written about the peculiarity of the Gypsy eye,
+Borrow and Leland in particular having enlarged upon this topic.  Not of
+a soft, steady hue like that of a pool in the moorland peat, it is a
+changeful eye of glittering black endowed with a strange penetrative
+quality.
+
+Born about the year 1820 at Susworth, a hamlet on the Lincolnshire bank
+of the Trent, Eldi remembered not only the names, but a host of tales in
+which bygone Gypsies played a part.
+
+My father, a schoolmate of Thomas Miller at Gainsborough on the Trent,
+used to speak of the riverside Gypsies whom Miller presents in his
+writings: _e.g._ in _Gideon Giles the Roper_ he gives pictures of the
+Boswells, who were probably some of Old Eldi’s folk.
+
+For instance, if I had been reading in Borrow’s _Gypsy Word-Book_ about
+that famous old rascal, Ryley Boswell, I would say to Eldi—
+
+“Did you ever know Old Ryley?”
+
+“Sartinly, I minds him well enough.  ‘Gentleman’ Ryley, they used to call
+him.  He was a tinker, like the rest of our _mushaw_ (men), but he
+wouldn’t carry his creel (grinding-outfit) on his back like other people.
+He must have it on a little cart, and a pony to draw it.”
+
+“Is it true that he had more than one wife living with him at the same
+time?”
+
+“Well, yes, he had three wives.  There was Yoki Shuri.  You’s heard tell
+of her, sure-ly—a wery clever woman she was at getting money.  Then there
+was Lucy Boswell, Old Tyso’s gell, a nicer woman never breathed, but
+Ryley was rough with her and made her sleep in a little tent with his
+dogs Musho and Ponto.  Nobody blamed her when she left him and went to
+’Merikay with her six children.  Then there was Charlotte Hammond as went
+away and took on with Zacky Lee.  A lot of those Lees round London sprang
+from them.  In his best days Ryley had heaps of money and travelled all
+over the country.  He had a fine black mare, Bess Beldam, and he rode on
+her a-hunting with the gentry up in Yorkshire.  He was partic’lar fond o’
+that country, was Ryley.  I minds how fine he looked on his splendid mare
+as had silver shoes, and him in a coat with golden guineas for buttons.
+I’s heard of him riding slap-dash through a camp, springing over the
+tents and scutching the _nongê tshavê_ (naked children) with his
+_tshupni_ (whip): ‘I’ll let ’em know who I am—Ryley Boswell, King of the
+Gypsies.’  But at last his luck left him, and he took hisself off to
+London with his Yoki Shuri.  Even to her as stuck to him through all, he
+was unkind.  One day he tied her to a cart-wheel and leathered her, ’cos
+she told him of his ill-doings.  At London, they lived in the Potteries,
+but he never did no good in the big city.  One day, as he was skinning a
+rabbit, he scratched his hand and got blood-poisoning, and died in a
+little house underneath the railway arches.  They buried him in Brompton
+Churchyard.”
+
+Thus she would spin on at great length about Ryley Boswell.
+
+Another time she would talk about the Herons.  She was old enough to
+remember Niabai and Crowy (the parents of my aged friend, Ike Heron), as
+well as “handsome” William, “lame” Robert, Miller, Lusha, and other
+members of the same family.  According to her account, these fellows were
+a tall, dark, big-boned, rough set.
+
+Asked if she had ever known any Gypsy called Reynolds, Eldi replied—
+
+“To be sure, there was Reynolds Heron as married my Aunt Peggy.”
+
+Then I understood how Ambrose Smith (_alias_ Reynolds) came in his last
+years to adopt for his own travelling surname the Christian name of his
+wife Sanspirela’s father, Reynolds Heron, concerning whom it is recorded
+that he used to fast on the five Fridays next after the season of Lent,
+in memory of the five wounds of the Saviour.
+
+I used to like to hear Eldi talk of the days when artists, squires, and
+their ladies would pay visits to the camp.  “There was my husband’s Aunt
+‘Norna’—her proper name was Lucretia Boswell—she was a beautiful woman,
+and Mr. Oakley painted a picture of her wearing an orange shawl about her
+shoulders.  She never married, and always travelled with her sister
+Deloraifi, who never married neither.  Ay, when I was a barefooted gell
+with the wind a-blowing my hair about, the painting-gentlemen would get
+me to sit for my picture; and squires would stop us in the lanes and try
+to pick up our words.”
+
+Rascalities of which modern Gypsydom knows nothing would creep into
+Eldi’s memory-pictures.  I mean the wayside robberies, the bloody fights,
+the sheep and horse stealing of the rough old days of her girlhood.  She
+would get so rapt away in the past that she would speak of people dead
+and gone as though they were living still, and, awaking to the present,
+would remark with a deep-drawn sigh—“But, there, I’s seen none of ’em for
+a wery long time.”
+
+Under the heading of “A Modern Enchantress,” the following note,
+describing my Gypsy friend, was communicated by an Irish clergyman to
+_The Journal of the Gypsy Lore Society_ of the year 1890:—
+
+    “A short time since, a clergyman stopping at my house told me that
+    some time ago, when he was assisting in the work of All Saints’
+    Parish, Derby, he had residing in the parish a Gypsy family named
+    Boswell.  One of the family was sick, and he found the greatest
+    difficulty in getting into the house; and when he did get in, the
+    sick man told him that the sooner he cleared out of the house the
+    better—if he came to talk about religion.  In fact, it was only by
+    most judicious management, and by promises not to speak about
+    religion till the sick man spoke of it first, that he was able to
+    establish a footing in the house.  But after a little time he got on
+    quite friendly terms with the family.  He then discovered that when
+    any of the family were sick an old aunt came into the room and seemed
+    to perform a kind of incantation over them.  His description of her
+    performance was very like what we read about Eastern Dervishes.  She
+    gradually worked herself up into a species of frenzy, flinging her
+    arms about and muttering a kind of incantation or prayer, until her
+    voice ascended into a wild scream and descended again into a whisper
+    as the frenzy passed away, and she was left lying exhausted and
+    apparently in fainting condition on the floor.  When she arrived at
+    this state she was immediately carried out of the sick-room by her
+    relatives.”
+
+A grey morning with a lowering sky and splashes of rain had given place
+in the early forenoon to a brilliant day, and sunbeams lit up the
+Humber’s wharves and shipping as I stepped from the steam ferry upon the
+Corporation Pier at Hull.  Often before had I visited this busy seaport
+on Gypsy errands, and the cause of my present visit was to seek out the
+whereabouts of the descendants of Ryley Boswell, renowned in Gypsy
+history.  From Borrow’s _Romany Word-Book_ I had gathered that Ryley
+hailed from Yorkshire, and Eldi Boswell of Derby, and the London
+relatives of Yoki Shuri had informed me that Hull was a likely place to
+locate some of Ryley’s offspring.  A few inquiries brought me the
+information that a Gypsy and his wife kept a little grocery store in a
+back street, which I had no difficulty in finding, though, reconnoitring
+outside the shop, I saw in its exterior nothing suggestive of the Romany.
+Going inside, I rapped with my foot on the floor, and a middle-aged
+woman, only distantly resembling a Gypsy, responded to my summons.
+Pointing to a barrel of ruddy Canadians, I made request in Romany for two
+apples, and immediately a change came over her face.  The sound of the
+Gypsy language produced a beaming smile where solemnity had sat.  After
+making a further purchase, I was invited into the living-room, where I
+had no sooner sat down than the woman’s husband, looking still less like
+a Gypsy, entered, but on my giving him a _sâ shan_ (how do?) he laughed
+outright, and we had some fun.  It tickled me not a little to hear the
+pair discussing my physiognomy.
+
+“Why, he’s got Newty’s _nok_ (nose), that he has now.”  And the wife
+asked me if I had brought news of a fortune left to them by their Uncle
+Newty in Australia.
+
+“Newty—well, I _have_ heard of him.  Wasn’t he _bitshado pawdel_
+(transported) to Hobart Town for horse-stealing?  But for whom do you
+take me?”
+
+“One of Newty’s sons, for sure.  And here’s your father’s photograph”
+(handing me a daguerreotype in velvet-lined case).  “Now look at yourself
+in the glass.  Why, you’re the wery spit of Uncle Newton.”
+
+So I found myself taken for a grandson of Old Ryley and Yoki Shuri, and
+my shopkeeping friends were themselves actual grandchildren of those
+Gypsies of renown.  Here was a lucky find, and since I was out upon a
+genealogical errand, I availed myself of the present opportunity to scoop
+in a goodly store of facts for my increasing collection of Romany
+pedigrees.
+
+A few years after this visit to Hull, a correspondent in Australia
+imparted to me a number of facts relating to transported Gypsies.  Here
+are a few of his personal recollections of Newton Boswell (or Boss), whom
+he had known as a travelling knife-grinder at Launceston in Tasmania.
+
+    “Newton, familiarly known as ‘Newty,’ seemed a nice quiet fellow,
+    tall and spare, with the remains of good looks.  Polite and
+    well-spoken, he was not particularly Gypsy-looking, except for his
+    walk and build—not particularly dark.  At the same time he _did_ look
+    like a Gypsy.  His eyes were of a mild brown.  He wore a big felt hat
+    and a coloured handkerchief.  He told me that he had been popular
+    with ladies, that one lady who had a large house (in New South Wales,
+    I think), and with whom he worked as a servant or driver, took a
+    particular fancy to him, but he left that situation because he wanted
+    to be on the move.  He said he did not like remaining long in one
+    place.  Newton confirmed Borrow’s description of Ryley, in regard to
+    his wearing gold coins as buttons on his clothes, and other details.
+    When I read him parts of Borrow’s books, he was astonished to find in
+    print many facts familiar to himself.  He once brought round his
+    fiddle for me to hear him play, which he did in the energetic,
+    spirited style peculiar to the race.  He told me that he had
+    travelled all over Australia.
+
+    “Once, many years ago, there came up to Newton’s grinding-barrow in
+    Sydney a handsome, dark, beautifully dressed, young lady who, looking
+    him fixedly in the eyes, said—
+
+    “‘There’s a Romany look about you.’
+
+    “‘I beg your pardon, madam?’
+
+    “‘There’s a Romany look about you.’
+
+    “‘Why, madam, do I look any different from anybody else?’
+
+    “‘Well, you are wearing a yellow handkerchief round your neck.’
+
+    “‘Can’t anybody wear a coloured handkerchief, madam?’
+
+    “‘Yes, they can, but they don’t.’
+
+    “‘Well, madam, I _am_ a Gypsy—a pure-bred one too—my name is
+    Boswell.’
+
+    “‘And so am I a Gypsy—my name is Lovell.’
+
+    “She gave Newton a sovereign and invited him to call at her house.
+    He subsequently learned that she had married some well-to-do man (a
+    non-Gypsy) in England, who had brought her out to Australia, and that
+    on his returning suddenly from a trip to the Old Country, he shot her
+    in a passion of jealousy, and then shot himself.”
+
+Some weeks later I was again exploring Hull for Gypsies.  To me few
+things are more agreeable than to hear Romany spoken unexpectedly.
+Walking along a city street, if suddenly amid the din of the traffic I
+hear a Gypsy greeting, I experience a very pleasant emotion.
+
+In passing along the Anlaby Road, I heard from behind me, “_Sâ shan_,
+_rashaia_?” (How do, parson?) and, looking round, I saw Mireli Heron’s
+son, a jovial, harum-scarum fellow who has found a permanent home in
+Hull.  I remember him as a travelling Gypsy, and his garb was then
+characteristic and becoming, but he had now adopted a coat, collar, and
+tie of the prevailing fashion.  The Gypsy of the town, I find, has no
+desire to attract attention to himself; hence he becomes subdued in
+appearance, more’s the pity.  Having settled, he becomes “respectable,”
+drab-coloured, unpicturesque.
+
+At my request young Heron walked across with me to the Spring Bank, and
+on the way thither he pulled up at a photographers shop window, and,
+pointing to a picture, asked—
+
+“What would you call that in _Romanes_?” (Gypsy).
+
+“Why, a _kuskti-dik_in _rakli_ (a good-looking girl), to be sure.”
+
+“_Keka_, _keka_ (no, no), I don’t mean that.  What’s our word for
+‘picture’?”
+
+“_Dikamengri_.”
+
+“_Keka_, that’s the word for a looking-glass.”
+
+“Well, what would _you_ say?”
+
+“_Stor-dui_-graph” (_Four_(4)-_two_(2)-graph, hence photograph).
+
+The Romany tongue is plastic, and a Gypsy will playfully coin new words
+in this fashion.  As a Gypsy once said, “There’s always a way of saying a
+thing in _Romanes_, if you can find it out.”  Certain it is, if a Gypsy
+has no old word for a thing, he will not be long in coining a new one.
+
+Entering the Spring Bank Cemetery together, my companion pointed out the
+grave of Yoki Shuri, the faithful consort of Ryley Boswell (or Boss), and
+upon the neat stone I read this inscription, “In memory of Shorensey
+Boss, who died Jan. 18, 1868, aged 65 years.”  From a bush planted on the
+grave I plucked a sweet white rose.
+
+Further, I learned from my companion that Old Ryley’s son Isaac, commonly
+called “Haggi,” had died in Hull only a few years previously.  Like his
+brother Newton, he too had visited Australia, and, returning to this
+country, had settled in Hull, and was daily seen in the streets with a
+grinding-barrow.  A girl whom Haggi brought with him from Australia told
+me (this was a few years later) that when as a child she was naughty,
+Haggi would frighten her by saying, “If you’re not good, Old Ryley will
+get you, and he’ll _maw tut_” (kill you).
+
+One summer, when holidaying with my family at the breezy Yorkshire
+coast-town of Bridlington, I heard that there were Romanies living in a
+house at a little inland town, and, cycling over the hills, I spent a
+pleasant hour in the home of a Gypsy, who in a sweet voice sang the
+following ballad:—
+
+    “There were seven Gypsies all in a row,
+    And they sang blithe and bonny, O!
+    They sang until at last they came
+    Unto the yellow castle’s hall, O!
+
+    The yellow castle’s lady, she came out,
+    And gave to them some siller, O!
+    She gave to them a far better thing,
+    ’Twas the gold ring from her finger, O!
+
+    At ten o’clock o’ night her lord came home,
+    Enquiring for his lady, O!
+    The waiting-maid gave this reply,
+    She’s gone with the roving Gypsies, O!
+
+    Come saddle me my milk-white steed,
+    Come saddle for me my pony, O!
+    That I may go by the green-wood side,
+    Until I find my lady, O!
+
+    So all through the dark o’ night he rode,
+    Until the next day’s dawning, O!
+    He rode along the green-wood side,
+    And there he found his lady, O!
+
+    Last night you laid on a good feather bed,
+    Beside your own married lord, O!
+    To-night in the cold open fields you lie,
+    Along with the roving Gypsies, O!
+
+    What made you leave your home and your lands?
+    What made you leave your money, O!
+    What made you leave your own married lord,
+    To go with the roving Gypsies, O!
+
+    What cares I for my home and my lands,
+    What cares I for my money, O!
+    What cares I for my own married lord,
+    I’ll go with the roving Gypsies, O!”
+
+On leaving, I placed a silver coin in the singer’s tawny palm, whereupon
+she sprang from her stool by the fire and gave me a resounding kiss on
+the cheek.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII
+WITH THE YORKSHIRE GYPSIES
+
+
+AS I have said, Gypsies settled in houses now greatly outnumber their
+roving brethren.  Hence it has come to pass that nearly every town in the
+land possesses a Bohemian quarter where you are met by dark faces and
+sidelong glances speaking of Gypsy blood.  Nor can the student of Gypsy
+life and manners afford to neglect these haunts despite their dinginess,
+for as often as not they contain aged Gypsies whose memories are well
+worth ransacking for lore and legend, and in “working” these queer
+alleys, one has often picked up choice reminiscences of bygone Gypsy
+life.
+
+           [Picture: House-Dwelling Gypsies.  Photo. Fred Shaw]
+
+One morning I was walking under the grey walls of Scarborough Castle,
+and, coming out upon the sparkling North Bay, I ran into the arms of a
+_mush-fakir_ (umbrella-mender), who looked as if there rolled in his
+veins a blend of Scottish and Irish blood, but I was mistaken, for he
+told me he was Welsh and bore the name of Evans.  Far-travelled, his
+peregrinations had ranged from Aberdeen to Penzance, and seldom have I
+met a man of his class so overflowing with varied knowledge.  He asked me
+if I knew William Street in Scarborough, but as a newcomer I admitted
+that I had not so much as heard of the locality, and made request for
+further information.
+
+“I reckon William Street ’ll just suit you,” he declared.  “It’s full o’
+tinkers and grinders, Gypsies and sweeps, and the like.”
+
+“A regular Whitechapel,” I suggested.
+
+“Now you’ve hit it,” said he laughingly.
+
+I asked him where he was residing in that street.
+
+“At the Model, to be sure, and if you ax for Long Ambrose, you’ll find
+they all know me.”
+
+I further inquired of him as to the Gypsy inhabitants of that quarter,
+and he gave me a list of the “travellers” who had settled there.  These I
+called upon leisurely during a holiday extending over three weeks.  One
+day I would look up one or two of them, and a few days later I renewed my
+visitation by dropping in upon several others, and so on until this
+little gold-mine was exhausted.
+
+From the sea-front it was a change scarcely Aladdin-like to find oneself
+in smoky William Street, a byway shut in by dingy walls, which in the
+deepening dusk took on an air of mystery.  A little way down the street,
+I knocked at the door of Inji Morrison, but as there was no response I
+lifted the latch, and, putting my head inside the room, I spake aloud,
+“_Putsh man te av adrê_” (Ask me to come inside).  A sound of shuffling
+feet was heard, with tripping steps in the rear, and an old crone
+tottered forward, along with her granddaughter, dark-eyed and
+twenty-five.  Following them into the kitchen, I saw the floor scattered
+with willow pegs in various stages of manufacture.  The pair accorded me
+a genial welcome, though they scanned me curiously as if wondering what
+sort of Gypsy I might be.  When I mentioned some black foreign
+_Romanitshel_s whom I had seen, the old mother remarked—
+
+“I shouldn’t like to _dik lendi_ (see them); they would make me think of
+the _Beng_.”
+
+Then, as the old lady was dull of hearing, her granddaughter (in an
+aside) said—
+
+“You mustn’t mind, _rai_, what granny says; she’s getting old.  As for
+the _Beng_, there ain’t no sich pusson, I don’t think.  There’s nothing
+bad comes from below.  There’s the springs we drink from, and the dearie
+little flowers we love to gather.  And there’s nothing but good comes
+from above; the blessed sunshine and the light o’ moon and the rain that
+falls—why, all of ’em’s good things, ain’t they?  The badness is on’y
+what people makes.”
+
+Now through the open door leading to a cramped backyard came a hairy
+terrier, followed by a small boy with saucy eyes and long, black curls
+falling upon the shoulders of his ill-fitting coat.  A great-grandson
+from a few doors lower down was this quicksilver pixy, who sat himself at
+our feet and cuddled the terrier near a few red embers in the grate.
+
+“Mend the fire, my gal,” said Old Inji.  And when the wood blazed and lit
+up the room, granny filled her pipe from shavings cut from a cake of
+black tobacco.
+
+“I’ll never go to Seamer Fair no more now my man’s dead.  ’Tain’t likely
+as I could.  ’Twouldn’t be the same, would it?”
+
+“Seamer Fair, when is that?”
+
+“Why, next week.  There’ll be _dosta Romanitshel_s _odoi_ (many Gypsies
+there) and music and dancing.  Ay, and fighting too.”
+
+Then she fell to rambling about her former life on the road.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+Another day I sat with Vashti Boswell in her cottage down one of the
+numerous yards branching out of William Street.  Handing me a rude stool,
+the work of some Gypsy carpenter, she sat herself on the fender.  On her
+forehead was a deep indentation which she said was made by a blow from a
+poker at the hand of a mad relative.  In vivid words she described the
+occasion of that blow, and one pictured the desperate struggle between
+the two women, till Vashti, fainting from loss of blood, fell in a heap
+on to the floor, but not before Izaria, a stalwart fellow, attracted by
+his mother’s screams, had rushed into the house and snatched the weapon
+from the mad woman’s hand.
+
+A little higher up the street lived this same son and Vashti’s nephew,
+Joel Boswell, who were sent for, a neighbour’s child acting as messenger.
+I have often noticed that Gypsies will call in their kinsfolk who live
+near to share in the pleasure and excitement, likewise in the “grist,”
+implied by a _rai_’s visit.  Much to my surprise Vashti knew all about
+Gypsy Court at Lincoln, and little wonder when she presently told me that
+her husband was a half-brother of my old friend, Jumping Jack.
+
+Talking of the past, Vashti declared that very few Gypsies in her day
+went to church for marriage.
+
+“My man and me jumped the besom, we did.  That’s how we was married.
+Like many more, we didn’t get _parson’d_, but we thought our old way just
+as binding as if we’d been to church.  My man were a good ’un as long as
+he lived, and weren’t that enough for the likes o’ me?”
+
+“Then you remember Jumping Jack?” I asked.
+
+“_Âwa_ (yes), and he could jump too.  He once cleared the backs of three
+horses standing side by side, and I’s seen him jump the common gate times
+and agen.  When my husband was living, we used to travel Lincolnshire,
+and now lots of us are living in houses scattered all over the _tem_”
+(country).
+
+At this juncture, Joel disappeared for a few moments, and on his return
+bore a large jug of foaming brown ale, which was his way of welcoming the
+_rai_, and pipes were soon in full blast.
+
+It was from Joel’s lips that I heard about Mordecai Boswell, who died at
+Retford many years ago.  Mordecai was a fine-looking man, his hair
+falling in long curls.  He wore a dark green coat with big pearl buttons
+and a broad collar, while his low-crowned hat might well have been a
+family heirloom.  He had a dancing booth at fairs, and would fiddle,
+while his sister Matilda danced and played the tambourine.  Frampton
+Boswell used to join him at the St. Leger and other big races, and they
+didn’t do badly with the dancing booth.
+
+One day a _gawjo_ was chatting with Mordecai, and the talk turned upon
+_hotshiwitshi_ (hedgehog).
+
+“I couldn’t fancy eating that creature,” said the _gawjo_.  “It makes me
+feel queer to think of it.”
+
+“Look here,” said Mordecai, “I’ll bet you a half-crown that before many
+days are past you’ll have had some.”
+
+The _gawjo_ grinned and shrugged his shoulders.  Time went on, and the
+_gawjo_ one day came upon Mordecai and his family having dinner on the
+roadside.
+
+“Won’t you have a bite with us?” said Mordecai.
+
+“What’s that on the dish?” asked the _gawjo_.
+
+“Duck,” replied the Gypsy, with a grave face.  The _gawjo_ sat down and
+was soon enjoying what looked remarkably like a duck’s leg.  When the
+meal was over and pipes were brought out, Mordecai got a-talking.
+
+“Well, my pal, where have you been since I saw you last, and how have you
+been faring?  Has any Gypsy got you to swallow a bit o’ _hotshiwitshi_?”
+
+“No, not likely.  Didn’t I tell you that that nasty creature should never
+touch my lips?”
+
+“Then you’ve done it to-day.  You’ve had _hotshi_ for dinner, and you
+seemed to enjoy one of the legs finely.  You smacked your lips over it
+anyway.  Hand up that half-crown.”
+
+He did so, and, turning pale, walked away.
+
+“I say, _rai_,” remarked Izaria, “did you know there’s some of the black
+Herrens (Herons) stopping at Robin Hood’s Bay, not far from here?  I seen
+’em at Scarborough a little while back, and I shouldn’t wonder if some of
+’em’s at Seamer Fair next week.”
+
+Making a mental note of these two places, I resolved to visit them.
+Then, happening to mention the _mush-fakir_ whom I had encountered near
+the Castle, Joel said, “I once had an uncle as was very fond of this here
+town, I mean Elisha Blewitt, as married Mordecai’s sister Sybarina; my
+uncle was a _mush-fakir_, but he’s been dead for years.  As for that
+there man you spoke of, I believe there’s a long-legged _gèro_ (man) in
+the same line o’ business living at the Model.”
+
+Next day in the same quarter I waylaid Fennix Smith in company with a
+Gypsy named Swales, who were about to set forth in a two-wheeled cart
+drawn by a thin-legged pony, their destination being Malton.  On their
+way home they would call at “No Man’s Land,” where they expected to find
+some of their travelling friends drawing up for Seamer Fair.  Between
+their legs I noticed a lurcher curled up, and, pointing to it, I said, “I
+see you mean to have some sport on the way.”
+
+“Yes, and we shan’t forget to bring you some-think, pass’n, if we has
+good luck.”
+
+After the pony-cart had rattled out of the street, I turned into the yard
+of the Model, where several grinding-barrows stood under a lean-to, but I
+failed to recognize Long Ambrose’s property among them, and, entering the
+house, I learned that my _mush-fakir_ might be expected home at any time.
+Walking up the street, I came upon a stalwart Gypsy woman standing at her
+open door.  Her husband, I gathered, was a tinker, and not a prosperous
+one at that, judging by his wife’s tattered gown and woebegone air.
+During our talk about her relations who travelled Lincolnshire, two
+pretty little children continually tugged at her gown.
+
+“If you go to Seamer Fair, _rai_, you’ll be sure to find some of my
+folks, the Smiths, along with the Herrens and Youngs.”
+
+Just then I heard a man whistling, and round the corner appeared Long
+Ambrose pushing his barrow.  In the yard of the Model we conversed, and
+on his referring to Gloucester, I asked if he knew any of the Carews,
+horse-dealers of that city.
+
+“Oh yes, there was one of them sold a dyed horse to match a black
+carriage-_grai_, and a wery ‘fly’ cove he was, but he got found out, and
+had to do ‘time’ for that affair.”  My _mush-fakir seemed_ to have
+travelled everywhere.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+Mindful of the intimation let fall by Izaria Boswell that there were
+black Herons to be found at Robin Hood’s Bay, I made my way thither afoot
+one brilliant July morning.  A cool air from the sea tempered the sun’s
+powerful rays, and it was good to inhale the sweetness of the summer
+meadows where the haymakers were busy.  Overhead the bent-winged silvery
+gulls passed to and fro, and among the wayside bushes yellow-hammers
+trilled their song which in childhood we translated by the words, “a
+little bit of bread and no cheese.”
+
+Perched on the top of a lofty cliff overlooking the North Sea, the
+village of Robin Hood’s Bay seems almost to overhang a precipice, and on
+stormy nights the wind roaring up the cliff flings the salt spray far
+inland.  The whole of the coast hereabouts is a delicious panorama of
+rock-bound bays and coves.
+
+On arriving at the village I had no difficulty in locating my Gypsies.  A
+fisherman, sun-tanned and jovial, pointed a stubby finger towards a
+grassy plot whereon stood three caravans, and it was with a thrill of
+pleasure that I drew near.  Yes, there on the short turf sat one-armed
+Josh and Nettie, his wife.  Our greetings were hearty, and as we talked,
+up came one of the Youngs.
+
+“You are just the man I want to see, _rashai_,” and, taking out a
+crumpled newspaper, he said, “There’s something in here about stopping
+the Gypsies from camping at Scarborough.”
+
+After a hunt through the paper, I came upon a report of a meeting of the
+wiseacres of the town, and read their speeches about the “nuisances” said
+to be created by the Gypsies.
+
+“But there ain’t any Gypsies there now _we’s_ come away,” said Young.
+“The people stopping there are only poor _didakai_s (half-breeds) and
+_mumpari_.  We don’t call _them_ Gypsies.”
+
+The speaker was one of the purest-bred English Gypsies I have ever met.
+
+Pure Gypsies draw a marked line between dirty, low-class van-dwellers and
+themselves; but unfortunately the world at large makes no such
+distinction, immensely to the detriment of the true _Romanitshel_.
+
+East Yorkshire is a favourite country with the Herons and Youngs.  Both
+Josh and Nettie love it well, as did also some of their forelders.  It
+was at Robin Hood’s Bay that Nettie’s Aunt Whipney died long years ago.
+I well remember a little tale about this old Gypsy.  Tinker Ned, her
+husband, had “found” a _kani_ (hen) for the pot.  It was a small one, and
+Whipney cooked it.  When the tinker came home at a later hour than he had
+promised, he asked—
+
+“Where’s that _kani_?  Have you cooked it?”
+
+His wife answered by putting two fingers into her mouth, meaning, that
+she had consumed the little fowl.  Thereupon Tinker Ned picked up a loose
+tent rod and gave her a good thrashing.
+
+Close by sat Nettie’s daughter-in-law, Isabel, and her children, bonny
+bairns, tumbled happily on the grass.  As I looked at these Gypsies, all
+of them pictures of blooming health—clear-eyed, clean-limbed, bare-headed
+in sun and breeze—I reflected not without sadness on the fact that the
+tendency of modern legislation is to curtail and render more difficult
+the free, roving life of these children of Nature.
+
+It was now late in the afternoon, and over tea we talked of other times
+and old Gypsy ways.  Nettie told of her own mischievous tricks when she
+was a child, how she used to hide her mammy’s pipe in a tuft of grass
+near the tent, and then watch her hunt up and down for it; her sister
+Linda and she would have a good laugh to themselves over the trick, and
+then what tales their old mother would tell them by the fire o’ nights.
+One of these stories related to a horse belonging to some Irish Gypsies,
+the O’Neils.
+
+He was an aged animal and a favourite of the family.  One day he fell
+down and broke his back.  Quite still he lay, and, taking him for dead,
+they removed his skin, but in the morning he came and kicked at the
+_vâdo_.  He was a sight awful to behold.  Now it happened that near at
+hand lay a pile of sheepskins, so they hurriedly clapped some of these on
+the poor horse and bound them round and round with willow withies.  In a
+little while the animal recovered, and the O’Neils used to clip a crop of
+wool off him every year.  And since the willow sticks took root and grew,
+the Gypsies were able to cut materials sufficient to make many baskets.
+
+Folk-stories of this character are classified by lorists as “lying
+tales,” and in a subsequent chapter I shall give a sheaf of such stories
+familiar to all our Boswells and Herons, wherever you may light upon
+them.
+
+It was Nettie’s daughter-in-law who, after listening to a ghost tale from
+me, protested—
+
+“_Mulos_ (ghosts)—I’ll tell you what I thinks about ’em.  Folks who die
+and go to the good place won’t never want to leave it, and as for people
+what go to the bad place, I reckons they’ll have to stop there.  ’Tain’t
+likely they’ll ever have a chance to come back.”
+
+Looking up the footpath leading to the camp, I saw Isabel’s little boy
+dragging a dead bough behind him.  Said Josh, waving his stump of an arm
+towards the approaching child—
+
+“The worst thing we Gypsies does nowadays is to pick up a dead stick or
+two for the fire, and if we goes into a _wesh_ (wood) for a little
+_shushi_ (rabbit) for the pot, well, I reckon there’s plenty left for
+them as has a deal too many.  If we sets a snare, it ain’t so cruel as
+the keeper’s teethy traps, and the lord and lady as employs the keeper
+talks in the Town Hall agen cruelty to animals—so I hear.  Oh dear, it
+makes me larf!”
+
+As I turned to take a farewell look at the group, I saw the Gypsies
+stretched at full length, puffing their pipes, while away beyond them lay
+the deep blue sea, and the rugged coast trending north and south in
+exquisite bays.  It was a sight to cherish in the memory.
+
+A cool rain in the early hours had given place to a hot July morning, as
+I entered the village of Seamer already astir with its horse-fair.
+Making my way between knots of colts and droves of ponies at whose heels
+Gypsy boys were waving pink glazed calico flags, I went to where one of
+the North-Country Smiths stood gesticulating before a group of
+prospective buyers of colts, and discovered in him Elias Petulengro’s
+son, Vanlo, whom I had known at Lincoln.  Presently he walked across to
+me and held out a hand of friendship.  All around us were Yorkshire
+travelling folk, and while chatting with Vanlo I witnessed a curious
+thing.  Three policemen stood talking together, and one of them had his
+hands behind his back.  A Gypsy, sidling up, slipped a half-crown into
+this policeman’s hand.  I saw his fingers close over the coin, yet he
+never by the slightest sign betrayed this act of the Gypsy, which passed
+unobserved by the other constables.  Petulengro, who witnessed it,
+explained that this sort of thing is not uncommon.  It obtains little
+privileges.  “The _muskro_” (policeman), said he, “will turn a blind eye
+to that Gypsy’s fire on some wayside to-night.”
+
+                [Picture: A Gypsy Lad.  Photo. Fred Shaw]
+
+Strolling through the fair, I spied old Clara Smith smoking a black clay
+under a stone wall, and by her side sat her daughter Tiena and one of her
+male relations, whom I had once met on a bleak fell in North-West
+Yorkshire.  It was he who told me the following tale as he sat making
+pegs among the ling:—
+
+“When I was a boy, I was taking _puvengri_s (potatoes) from a field, and
+I looked up, and there stood a tall man staring at me over the hedge.
+
+“‘You come along with me,’ he shouted, and, taking him for a policeman in
+plain clothes, I obeyed, and went with him to a big building which I
+thought was the Sessions House.  There were many people inside, and a
+gentleman was talking to them.  At last he looked hard at me, and said,
+‘Thou art the man.’
+
+“So I jumped up and said, ‘Yes, I know I am, but I didn’t mean to do it.
+It was my uncle as made me go.  I’ll never steal potatoes no more.’  And
+because I would keep on talking like a Philadelphia lawyer, they turned
+me out without passing sentence on me.  Next day I was walking with my
+uncle, and the tall man as took me off to the place, passed by.  ‘That’s
+the policeman as arrested me,’ says I.
+
+“‘Why, you silly boy,’ said my uncle, ‘that there man is the evangelist,
+and he took you to his chapel, he did.’”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIV
+A NIGHT WITH THE GYPSIES—THE SWEEP OF LYNN—LONDON GYPSIES—ON EPSOM DOWNS
+
+
+“IT ain’t fit to turn a dog out o’ doors, that it ain’t, so you’d better
+make up your mind to stop all night.”
+
+Saying this, Gypsy Ladin closed the porch door, but not without
+difficulty, for a gale was battering upon the wayside bungalow.  Half an
+hour ago, as I hurried along the willow-fringed “ramper” on my way to see
+this old Romany pal, black rain-clouds, bulging low over the fenland
+wapentake, had foretold an approaching storm; and now with the descent of
+the May night the tempest had burst in full fury upon the land.
+Torrential rain, swift swelling rushes of wind, and brilliant flashes of
+lightning made me glad to be housed with my friend in his fire-lit room.
+
+Hidden by a dense hedge from the highway, this Gypsy abode stood back
+amid a cluster of apple trees, and a daylight view of the place would
+have revealed to you an entirely nondescript habitation, with here a
+home-made porch, and there a creeper-grown extension sheltering a green
+caravan in which Ladin and his wife Juli have travelled many a mile over
+the smooth causeways of the far-reaching flats.
+
+Let me picture for you the tiny apartment where we now sat happily
+blowing clouds of tobacco smoke.  Over the wide fireplace, which occupied
+one side of the room, rose a high mantelpiece surrounded by coloured
+prints of Derby winners, divided one from another by glistening
+horse-bits and brass-bound whips.  Opposite the fireplace a small
+casement looked out upon a bulb-garden aglow by day with hyacinths,
+tulips, and narcissi—a common sight in the Fens.  The side walls were
+adorned with portraits of Gypsy relatives deceased and living, and the
+brazen ornaments on parts of a van-horse’s harness gleamed in the rays of
+the pendant lamp.  Before the fire sat my friend and his wife, a tall,
+striking woman of the old-fashioned Draper clan, and along with us were
+two youthful sons of the house, Rinki and Zegul, smart, quick-eyed
+fellows, who occupied a home-made bench opposite my seat of honour in the
+chimney corner.  At our feet lay a dark lurcher, a type of dog whose
+peculiar qualities are well appreciated by Gypsies.
+
+I have already spoken of my friend as “Gypsy” Ladin, but his ruddy
+complexion and grey eyes are scarcely suggestive of the pure Romany.
+About the good “black blood” of his wife, however, there can be no manner
+of doubt.  Probably my friend would agree with the roving _gawjo_, who,
+having married a pure Gypsy, declared that the mingling of gentile and
+Romany crafts was a desirable blending of qualities.  Did not Lazzy
+Smith, renowned in Gypsydom, once say—
+
+    “Ain’t it in the Bible that God’s people should multiply and be as
+    one?  It ain’t no sort o’ use at all a-goin’ agen the dear blessed
+    Lord’s words.  Why, a cross is good, even if it be only in wheat,
+    ain’t it, now?”
+
+Belonging to East Anglia, Ladin’s forelders have mingled a good deal with
+the Herons who formerly travelled the counties bordering upon the North
+Sea.  Himself akin to the Chilcots and Smiths, Ladin has inherited not a
+few traditions of these families.
+
+“Do you remember Yoki Shuri Smith?” I asked.
+
+“You mean Old Ryley’s wife?  Ay, I mind her well, but Ryley I don’t
+remember.  Shuri”—Ladin shivered as he uttered the name—“was looked upon
+as a _tshovihawni_ (witch) by our folks.  We allus thought it unlucky to
+meet her on the road of a morning.  I’ve known my folks turn back,
+saying, ‘It ain’t no use going out to-day.’”
+
+After a discussion of Shuri’s “powers,” I ventured upon a tale of my own
+experience of a witch who lived in a parish of which I was formerly
+curate-in-charge.
+
+About a fortnight after my arrival at the Rectory, our aged gardener took
+me into his confidence.
+
+“Excuse me askin’ if you’ve seen Old Betty what lives agin the well at
+the bottom of the lane?  You must mind you don’t never get across wi’
+that woman, or she’ll sartinly mek things awk’ard for you.”
+
+The man’s meaning was that Betty had “peculiar powers.”  A widow of sixty
+or more, she attended no place of worship, and rarely covered her grey
+head with anything more than a shawl.  Besides her allowance from the
+parish, she managed to make a little money by selling ointments for
+wounds and sores, and many a cure has been wrought by means of her
+home-made compounds.  My first meeting with her was on the Feast of St.
+Thomas, called in those parts “Mumping Day.”  At my door stood Old Betty
+asking for a bit of silver, and a few yards behind her came several other
+widows.  Hesitatingly I stood just over the threshold, when suddenly,
+before I could step aside, a lot of soft snow slid from the house-roof
+with a splash upon my bare head, while Old Betty and her companions
+laughed loud and long.  The village gossips duly spread it abroad that
+Betty had, by her “peculiar powers,” brought down the snow upon the
+parson’s head.  Anyway, I resolved for the future to be more prompt in
+the exercise of that unfailing charm against Betty’s witchcraft—a silver
+shilling.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+“Did you ever see my Aunt Sarah at Blackpool?” said Juli.
+
+“Yes, I once had tea in her tent on the South Shore.  Did she and her
+_rom_ (husband), Edward, ever travel on this side of England?”
+
+“Sartinly, they did.  Ned’s daddy, Tyso, lies buried in your country.
+Poor old man, many’s the time I’ve heard the tale about him and the
+shepherd boy.”
+
+“What was that?”
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+“Well, Tyso was once _hatsh_in (camping) on a Norfolk common and got
+a-talking with a boy tending sheep.  Says the boy to Tyso—
+
+“‘I can tell you where there’s a buried box full o’ money.’
+
+“‘Show me the place,’ says Tyso.
+
+“The boy took him to a little low, green hill, and then they fetches a
+spade and digs into it.  Sure enough they bared the lid of an old iron
+chest with a ring on top, and both of ’em tugged hard at the ring, but
+the box wouldn’t budge an inch.  Just then Tyso swore, and the ring
+slipped outen their hands, and down went the box and they never see’d it
+no more.”
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+“One time the Herrens (Herons) used to come about here a good deal.
+There was handsome William, a wery notified man he were.  Then there was
+Old Niabai and Crowy.  Their son Isaac had a boy born at Lynn close by
+here—that was Îza.  You’ll know him sure-ly.  I’ve often met Ike’s
+half-brother Manful in Lynn.  I can see him now, a little doubled-up old
+man.  I ’spects you’s heard tell of Manful’s diamond?  One day in a
+public, he catch’d sight of something shining among the sand—they sanded
+the slab floors in them days—and, whatever the thing was, it shone like a
+bit of cut-glass, and at first he thought it wasn’t worth stooping for,
+but when the taproom was empty he picked it up, and _dawdi_! if it wasn’t
+a diamond as big as a cobnut.  So away he takes it to a pawnbroker’s
+shop, and the head man told him it were worth hundreds of pounds.  My
+dear old dad once saw it with his own eyes.”
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+While the black trees shuddered outside in the tempest, Ladin next told a
+story I shall never forget.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+“When my uncle, Alfred Herren, and his wife Becky was a-travelling in
+Shropshire, they draw’d their wagon one night into a by-lane—so they
+thought—just outside the village, but daylight show’d ’em it were a
+gentleman’s drive leading up to a red mansion among the trees.  Did my
+uncle pull out when he found he’d made a mistake?  No, for a wery good
+reason he stopped where he was.  His missis had been took ill in the
+night, and a little gell were born.  The doctor gave no hopes at all for
+the wife, and just when things looked blackest, a groom on horseback came
+up from the mansion, and, slamming on the wagon-side with his whipstock,
+shouted—
+
+“‘Clear out of here, you rascally Gypsies, afore my master sees you.’
+
+“Uncle Alfred put his head outen the door, and said—
+
+“‘Stop it, my man.  There’s a woman a-dying in here.  I’d take it kind of
+you to go to the big house yonder and ask the good lady to come and pray
+by a dying Gypsy.’
+
+“Off goes the groom with the message, and soon the squire’s lady come
+along carrying a basket of good things, and did all she could for Becky,
+but the poor thing died.  After that the parson came to christen the
+baby.
+
+“‘What name?’ he asks.
+
+“‘Flower o’ May,’ says my uncle.  The wagon stood under a may-tree, and
+the flowers were dropping on the grass like snow.  Now, the squire and
+his lady come along.  Says he—
+
+“‘The Almighty has never given us the blessing of a child, so we would
+like to adopt this little girl of yours and bring her up as our own.
+Here’ (holding up a bag) ‘are one hundred sovereigns.  Take them, my good
+man, and let us have the baby.’
+
+“‘Nay,’ says my uncle, ‘you may keep your bag of gold.  I can’t never
+part wi’ my little gell.’
+
+“Years went by, and at last my uncle fell ill and died.  Then my own
+parents took care of the little gell, and they changed her name to Rodi,
+for they couldn’t abide to hear the name Flower o’ May no more; it
+reminded ’em too sadly of them as had gone.”
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+On arising from my couch next morning, it was a pleasure to find that the
+air was moderately quiet, and patches of blue were showing between the
+rolling clouds.  Breakfast over, my friends showed me round their garden
+gay with flowering bulbs.  Gypsy-like, they had numerous pets—a pair of
+long-eared owls, a jackdaw, a goldfinch, some dainty bantams, and two or
+three pheasants in a wired poultry-run.  Now the Gypsies came as far as
+the highway to see me off.  Tender leaves and twigs strewed the road, as
+I mounted my bicycle, and after pedalling through several villages, the
+roofs of King’s Lynn began to appear ahead.  A turn in the road at last
+brought me to a bridge spanning the broad river Ouse discoloured by
+flood-water.  In a yard of the tavern just across the river, the chimneys
+of several Gypsy vans were to be seen.  I therefore dismounted to make
+inquiries.  Sunning himself on a bench outside the inn, sat a tall Gypsy
+man emptying a mug of Norfolk ale.
+
+“_Sâ shan_, _baw_?” (How do, mate?) said I, sitting down beside him.  He
+turned out to be one of the Kilthorpes, and his pals in the yard were
+Coopers from London.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+An hour or two later, as I was loitering at a street corner in Lynn, I
+observed not far away a two-wheeled hooded cart drawn by a tired horse.
+From under a dark archway they emerged, and, coming into the light, I
+noticed an old woman under the hood smoking a pipe, and just then, from
+behind the cart stepped a sweep, who disappeared into a coal-yard,
+carrying a sack in his hand.  Following him, I heard him say—
+
+“Half a hundred-weight, missis.”  A burly woman, having weighed out the
+coal, poured it into the sack—a bottomless receptacle—and the black lumps
+were scattered about the floor.
+
+“_Muk man peser_” (Let me pay), said I, from behind the sweep.  Whereupon
+the grimy old fellow looked round with an amazed stare.
+
+“_Pariko tuti_, _rai_” (Thank you, sir), he stammered out, and, producing
+a piece of string, he tied the sack bottom securely, and the two of us
+picked up the littered coal.
+
+“Where are you living?” I asked.
+
+“_Pawdel_ the _pâni_” (Across the water) “in West Lynn.  We’ve been away
+for three months, and we’re going round to our house now.  Come across
+to-night.  Anybody will tell you where Old Stivven lives.”
+
+When the yellow street-lamps were twinkling in the dusk, I groped my way
+down a long dark passage, and at the foot of a flight of slippery wet
+steps, found a black coble moored.  For ten minutes or so I waited till a
+man in a jersey appeared and rowed me across the broad, rolling Ouse.  At
+the “White Swan” inn I made inquiry for my sweep, and was given an
+address, and discovered a sweep, but, alas, he wasn’t my man at all, and
+I began to think Old Stephen had tricked me.  But now I was given another
+address, where I found my man and his wife in their living-room, amid a
+spread of blankets and bedding airing in front of a bright fire.  For a
+while we talked, and then at the sweep’s suggestion we moved across to
+the “White Swan.”
+
+Stephen had formerly travelled with Barney Mace, an uncle of Jem, the
+world-famed pugilist, who had a boxing booth which he took to country
+fairs up and down the land, and in order to _tâder_ the _gawjê_ (draw the
+gentiles), Stephen and Poley (Barney’s son) would engage in a few rounds
+just outside the booth.
+
+The sweep had known Old Ōseri Gray, commonly called “Sore-eyed Horsery,”
+who died some years ago at King’s Lynn.  He was a renowned Gypsy fiddler.
+If he heard a band play a tune, he would go home and reproduce the air on
+his violin, putting in such variations, grace-notes, shakes, and runs,
+that none of his fellows could compare with him.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+Among the sweep’s reminiscences was a curious story about an eccentric
+Gypsy who had a fancy for carrying his coffin in his travelling van.  The
+man had a daughter, a grown woman, who went about with him, his wife
+having died some years before.  One afternoon while she was away with her
+basket in the village, her father took out the coffin and was busy
+repainting it when a thunderstorm descended.  The Gypsy took shelter in
+his _vâdo_, which was drawn up near an elm tree on a bit of a common.
+Picture the grief and dismay of his daughter on returning to find her
+father a corpse, for a flash of lightning had struck the tree and the van
+and killed the old Romany.  On the day of the Gypsy’s funeral, the vicar
+of the parish had the flag flying half-mast high on the church tower,
+which everybody said was a kindly feeling to show for one who was only a
+wandering Gypsy.
+
+On asking my sweep about the house-dwelling Gypsies of Lynn, he directed
+me to the abode of the aged widow of Louis Boss (son of the famous Ryley
+Boswell or Boss), and a charming reception she gave me in her spotless
+cottage in a retired court.  The sweep had told me of this old lady’s
+liking for snuff, and a visit to a _tuvalo budika_ (tobacco shop) enabled
+me to give her a little pleasure.  By the fireside she refilled her shiny
+metal box, and, having offered me a trial of the pungent dust, herself
+took deep, loving pinches, with the air of a connoisseur.  Indeed, the
+snuff cemented our friendship forthwith.  Here I am reminded of a story
+telling how Dr. Manning (of the Religious Tract Society) once employed
+snuff in a very different fashion.  When visiting Granada in Spain, he
+was beset by a begging crew of swarthy men, women, and children, and as
+he stood in the middle of the clamouring horde, he took out his
+snuff-box.  Immediately all the Gypsies wanted a pinch.  He obliged them,
+so long as the snuff lasted, taking care to keep a tight hold of his
+silver box.  Soon the Gypsies were all sneezing and laughing
+immoderately, and amid the commotion the good doctor managed to make his
+escape.
+
+The road from King’s Lynn to East Dereham led me through villages astir
+with Whitsuntide festivities.  At one point I turned down a by-lane, and,
+resting at the foot of a tree within view of Borrow’s birthplace at
+Dumpling Green, I observed a party of donkey-folk trudging along with
+their animals towards Dereham.  Local mumpers were these people, a
+draggle-tailed lot, and I could not help reflecting upon the difference
+between the poor wanderers who now pass for Gypsies and the Petulengros
+and Herons of Borrow’s time.
+
+In the church of East Dereham, one’s fancy pictured the boy Borrow in the
+corner of a pew fixing his eyes upon the dignified rector and parish
+clerk “from whose lips would roll many a portentous word descriptive of
+the wondrous works of the Most High.”
+
+It was like living in _Lavengro_ to wander about the alleys and lanes of
+old Norwich and through the ling and fern on breezy Mousehold above the
+town.  Up there amid the camping sites and the fighting-pits, it was not
+without sadness that I read on a notice-board—“No Gypsy, squatter, or
+vagrant shall frequent, or resort to, or remain upon the Heath.”  O
+shades of Jasper Petulengro and Tawno Chikno, changed indeed are the
+times since the days when ye loved and fought and trafficked within the
+precincts of beautiful old Norwich!
+
+Concerning my trip by boat from Yarmouth to London, which was entirely
+lacking in Gypsy interest, nothing need be said here.
+
+London is in parts strongly tinctured with Gypsy blood.  Let anyone walk
+along the streets which have been built upon the sites of the old
+metropolitan Gypsyries, and he will surely see dark faces and black eyes
+telling how the Gypsies still cling to these localities.  All around
+Latimer Road Station, which stands upon the Potteries, Gypsies are to be
+found living in narrow courts and dingy lanes.
+
+On my way to Epsom on the eve of the Derby, I passed a few happy moments
+with my aged pal, Robert Petulengro, in whose back room at Notting Hill I
+have often been regaled with racy stories and touching reminiscences of
+old-time Romany life.  There is something suggestive of the cleric in
+Bob’s demeanour, and a stranger would never suspect that my
+placid-looking friend had led a wild, roving life.  It is when he loses
+himself in a tale that his mild ministerial air gives place to a vivacity
+characteristically Gypsy.
+
+To the Gypsyry on the Potteries came nomads named Heron and Leatherlund
+in the year 1854.  (Some of their descendants still reside at the backs
+of the mews in Notting Hill.)  They were the survivors of a sad disaster
+which in the previous year had befallen a party of hop-pickers at Hadlow
+in Kent.  Through the kindness of a Gypsy woman who was “saved from the
+flood,” I am able to reprint a portion of an old tract giving the Rev. R.
+Shindler’s version of “The Medway Disaster.”
+
+    “In Kent you may still be told of a sad catastrophe which befel a
+    party of hop-pickers, in the year 1853, as they were returning to
+    their temporary habitations after a day’s work.  The scene of the
+    alarming event was in the parish of Hadlow, near Tunbridge, Kent.  It
+    is well known that thousands of poor people flock down into Kent for
+    the hopping.  Some of these are Gypsies; some may be described as
+    house-cart people, who travel from place to place for the greater
+    part of the year, selling their wares—brushes and brooms, tin-ware,
+    earthen-ware, and such-like; but by far the larger part emerge from
+    the lanes and alleys and courts of London.  To the last especially,
+    but to the others also, the hopping proves, when the weather is fine
+    and the hops good, a pleasant recreation as well as a profitable
+    employment.  A number of people of Gypsy character and habits were
+    employed by a farmer who resided in the parish of Tudely, and who had
+    hop gardens also in Hadlow parish.  It is a good rule among the
+    hop-farmers, that when their gardens are any considerable distance
+    from the homes of the natives or the encampments of the strangers,
+    the pickers should be conveyed in wagons to and from the gardens.  In
+    this case, the river Medway had to be crossed in going to and from
+    the gardens, and the only means of crossing was a wooden bridge of
+    considerable span, and high above the current.  The bridge was
+    considered dangerous, especially for spirited horses, who were
+    alarmed at the noise made by their own feet.  The bridge was rendered
+    even more dangerous by reason of the rather frail open wooden rails
+    which flanked it right and left.
+
+    “On the morning of the day on which the catastrophe occurred, several
+    parties passed over the bridge in safety, and in the evening parties
+    of natives, or ‘home-dwellers,’ had returned without any mishap; but
+    as a party of Gypsies and suchlike were being conveyed back, the
+    horses suddenly took fright, ran the wagon against the side of the
+    bridge, which gave way, and wagon, horses, and people were
+    precipitated into the strong current below, and no less than thirty
+    were drowned.  I was then pastor in a neighbouring parish, and had
+    taken a deep interest in the religious condition of the hoppers,
+    preaching in fields and stackyards and elsewhere near their
+    encampments, and distributing tracts and New Testaments.  The sad
+    event mentioned above stirred my heart a great deal, and I felt
+    impelled to write a short tract.  The thirty hop-pickers were buried
+    in Hadlow churchyard in a common grave, the spot being marked by a
+    monument recording the names of those who perished in the waters of
+    the Medway.”
+
+There are in Battersea numerous “yards” under railway arches, where
+living-vans of “travellers” used to be seen all the year round.  Very
+much diluted is the Gypsy blood to be found nowadays in these “yards.”
+It is these degenerates, mostly Londoners bred and born, who at times
+give so much trouble to the local authorities in Surrey.
+
+Upon Hampstead Heath, and at Wormwood Scrubbs, a sprinkling of Gypsy
+faces may be seen among the show-folk on a Bank Holiday, and at Edmonton,
+Mitcham, and near Southend-on-Sea, I have met Gypsies all the year round.
+
+If the Yorkshireman goes to see the St. Leger because he has an
+instinctive love of horse-flesh, the Cockney resorts to Epsom Downs on
+the Derby Day to smell the scent of green turf and to take part in the
+most stupendous picnic in the world.
+
+Not merely to see a crowd of nearly a million human beings, but to sample
+Epsom’s Gypsies, was the object of my visit to the Downs one
+unforgettable June day.  London’s unyielding pavements mean for me, after
+a day or two of them, an unpleasant foot-soreness, hence it was a relief
+to step forth upon the springy sward outside the Downs Station.  Like
+children let loose from school, my fellow-travellers from town laughed
+and joked, whistled and sang, as briskly they moved towards the course.
+
+It was among the gorse bushes on the sunlit hilltop that I caught my
+first glimpse of the Gypsies, and to one acquainted with the swart
+_Romanitshel_s of East Anglia and the Northern Counties, the folk of the
+ramshackle carts and tiny tents were distinctly disappointing.  Ruddy,
+fair-haired, and poorly-clad, were many of them; what a falling off from
+the horde of dark Gypsies assembled at some of our North-Country fairs!
+
+While I was chatting with a metropolitan policeman, up came a tall Gypsy
+girl vending what purported to be tiny squares of cedar wood, though the
+specimen I purchased for threepence smelled a good deal more like the
+innermost layer of the red bark abounding in the strips of pine forest
+around Tunbridge Wells.  When I inquired of the damsel as to what Gypsies
+were present on the Downs, she replied, with a low laugh, “You’s never
+got to go far in these parts for to catch an Ayre.  My dad’s an Ayre, but
+my _dai_ (mother) was a Stevens.  Over there” (pointing to a town of
+Gypsy caravans and a country fair combined opposite the Grand Stand)
+“you’ll find some of the Matthews, Penfolds, and maybe a few of the
+Bucklands.”
+
+             [Picture: On the Racecourse.  Photo. Valentine]
+
+Crossing the course, I made my way to the part of the Downs indicated by
+Cinderella Ayre, and though I rubbed shoulders with a good many sunburnt
+travellers in corduroys, and show-women in gowns of red and green, the
+first real Gypsy it was my good fortune to meet was Davy Lee, the ancient
+vagabond who “planted” the _duker_in-_mokto_ (fortune-telling box) upon
+George Smith of Coalville.  Although nearly blind, Davy managed to dodge
+in and out of the crowd, and, taking me up to his wagon, found time to
+chat about his father, the renowned Zacky Lee.
+
+“My daddy was stopping one night in a field, and before going to bed, he
+looked out and there was his white donkey—leastways so he fancied.  It
+was roaming about, and he set off to catch and tether it, so as he
+shouldn’t lose it.  But do whatever he would, he could never get up to
+the animal.  The nearer he tried to come at it, the furder off it allus
+was, till at last he know’d that what he’d been chasing all night was not
+his donkey at all, but the Devil.”
+
+Lounging on the grass, I noticed that the great event of the afternoon
+had arrived.  Sleek, lean horses cantered along the course and passed out
+of sight.  Amid a confused hubbub of voices, several moments went by.
+Now the glasses were levelled, and a profound silence settled on the
+crowd.  All eyes were turned upon a little knot of horses appearing round
+Tattenham Corner.  Then the sound of many voices swelled into a roar and
+died down again when the numbers went up.
+
+Prominent at these races in days gone by was Matthias Cooper, a Gypsy to
+whom the late King Edward, when Prince of Wales, would toss a golden
+sovereign.  A well-known figure was Matty, attired in white hat, yellow
+waistcoat, black cut-away coat, and white trousers.  Hovering about this
+old Gypsy was an air of the Courts and the Wilderness, for had he not
+mingled with royalty nearly all his life, this old “Windsor Froggie”?  It
+was from him that Charles G. Leland obtained most of the materials that
+went to make his work entitled _The English Gipsies and their Language_.
+Matty is now no more, but his sons, Anselo and Wacker, still attend the
+Epsom races year by year.
+
+The great carnival was at last subsiding when I found myself in the tent
+of Anselo Cooper and his wife, with whom I took tea.  I am not likely to
+forget my ride from the course to Epsom Town.  As the Coopers were not
+leaving till the end of the week, they begged a lift for me from some
+friends of theirs who were going to the town.  Our “carriage,” a
+two-wheeled affair, was drawn by a gaunt, long-legged horse, and along
+with some strange dark Gypsies I sat upon a pile of smoky tent-covers.
+We sped along the Down-land in a fashion which rocked us terribly.  The
+very policemen laughed as we went by, but we reached the town in safety.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XV
+TINKERS AND GRINDERS
+
+
+A PLAGUE of an incline to joints stiffened by age, the Steep Hill at
+Lincoln is for me aureoled by all the fair colours of youth.  Have I not
+more than once rent my nether garments in gliding down the adjacent
+hand-rail?  Likewise in the time of snow have I not, defiant of
+police-notices, made slides where the gradient is sharpest?
+
+Now it happened one day that under the shadow of the ancient, timbered
+houses just below the crown of the hill there stood at his workshop on
+wheels a Gypsy tinker whose wizened figure and general air of queerness
+would have charmed a Teniers, and I, a town boy with no small capacity
+for prying, hovered at his elbow, studying his operations.  Suz-z-z-z-z
+went the tinker’s wheel, as the sparks scattered in a rosy shower from
+the edge of a deftly handled blade.  Then of a sudden something happened,
+causing me to jump as one who had been shot.  There was a dull thud of a
+falling body, followed immediately by a shrill cry issuing from the
+throat of a sprawling pedlar—
+
+“Stop my leg, stop my leg!”
+
+A glance at the poor fellow revealed the whole story.  His wooden leg,
+having become detached from its moorings, was rolling down the paved
+incline.  Several persons were passing at the time, and more than one
+made a dash to recover the defaulting limb, but, youth’s suppleness
+favouring me, I managed to capture the elusive treasure, and up the hill
+I bore it in triumph.  With admirable agility the tinker reattached the
+limb, and the pedlar went on his way rejoicing.
+
+“Gimme yer knife, boy,” said the tinker.
+
+I had one resembling a saw, which he whisked from my hand and duly
+restored with a nice edge.  He then resumed his work as though nothing
+worthy of remark had happened to stay the song of his wheel.
+
+A craft of hoary antiquity is that of the nomad metal-worker.  An
+Austrian ecclesiastic, in the year 1200, describes the “calderari,” or
+tinkers, of that time: “They have no home or country.  Everywhere they
+are found alike.  They travel through the world abusing mankind with
+their knavery.”
+
+Four hundred years later, an Italian writer gives an account of the
+tinker who enchants the knives of the peasants by magnetizing them so as
+to pick up needles, and for this he accepts payment in the shape of a
+fowl or a pie.  To this day in Eastern Europe, the smith, usually a
+Gypsy, is regarded as a semi-conjurer who has dealings with the Devil.
+
+In Scotland you will find numberless “Creenies, crinks, and tinklers” who
+roam in primitive Gypsy fashion, with donkeys, ramshackle carts, tents,
+and a tinker’s equipment.  If you have dropped into the shepherd’s
+cottage in the heathery glen, or the lone farmhouse on the Lowland fell,
+you will have noticed the horn spoons and ladles, or the rude
+smoothing-irons.  These are the handiwork of the tinklers of a bygone
+generation.
+
+Two or three generations ago most of our English Gypsies were wandering
+tinkers carrying their outfits on their backs.
+
+For my own part, I have everywhere found the caste of tinkers a cheerful,
+happy-go-lucky fellowship, and in talks with them I have observed that
+they generally know a few Gypsy words, even when it is clear that they do
+not belong to the dark race.
+
+Shakespeare’s Prince Hal, in _Henry IV_. (First Part, Act 2, Scene 4), is
+made to say, “I can drink with any tinker in his own language.”  This
+language, or jargon, known as _Shelta_, {207} has been the subject of
+much learned writing.
+
+My first lesson in Shelta was taken near the Shire Bridge, where the
+Great North Road, approaching Newark-on-Trent from the south, quits
+Lincolnshire for the county of Nottingham.  A favourite halting-place is
+this for wayfaring folk of all sorts.  Seated on Mother Earth’s green
+carpet, a tinker and his wife were taking tea, and at their invitation I
+sat beside them for a chat.  Presently I showed two bright new pennies to
+the tinker, saying—
+
+“If you’ll tell me what these are in _Shelta_, they’re yours.”
+
+  [Picture: A Tinker of the Olden Times.  By permission of Mrs. Johnson]
+
+In a moment he replied, “_Od nyok_” (two heads), and I handed over the
+coins.  With a comic gesture he queried—
+
+“Yer wouldn’t like to larn a bit more o’ thet langwidge, would yer?”
+
+            [Picture: A Welsh Gypsy Tinker.  Photo. Fred Shaw]
+
+“Rat-tat-tat” went the old brass knocker one morning at the side-door of
+my house, and on being informed that a tinker was inquiring for me, I
+hastened to see what manner of man he was.  Before me stood a battered
+specimen of the Romany of the roads, and with a view to testing his
+depth, I asked—
+
+“Do you ever _dik_ any _Romanitshel_s on the _drom_?” (see any Gypsies on
+the road).
+
+“You ’ave me there, mister,” said he.  “Upon my soul, I dunno what you’re
+talkin’ about.”
+
+The man’s face was a study in innocence.
+
+“You know right enough what I’m saying,” I continued in Romany.
+
+My man could endure it no longer, and, exploding with mirth, he turned
+and shouted to his brother, who stood near a grinding-barrow on the road.
+
+“_Av akai_, Bill, ’ere’s a _rashai roker_in _Romanes_ as fast as we can”
+(Come here, Bill, here’s a parson talking Gypsy).  “Bring that _shushi_
+(rabbit) out o’ the _guno_” (sack).
+
+With unaffected goodwill, the two Gypsies insisted on my accepting the
+rabbit as a token of friendship.  This I did gladly, asking no questions
+as to how they had come by a newly-killed rabbit.  After grinding my
+garden axe, they both set off whistling down the road.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+One day a Gypsy tinker, whom I had met a few times, took me aside,
+saying—
+
+“My sister lives in the next street” (he told me the number).  “She has a
+pony, a poor, scraggy thing, which she wants to get rid of badly.  Go you
+and say to her—
+
+“‘I hear you have a nice little cob to sell.’  And when she brings it
+round for you to look at, say—
+
+“‘Bless my soul, do you think I’d buy a hoppy _grai_ like _dova_?’” (a
+lame horse like that).
+
+Presently, at that sister’s threshold, I waited for the pony to be
+brought round, which on arriving proved to be a miserable-looking animal
+indeed.  The woman looked first at me, then at the pony, which limped
+badly, while its bones showed through its skin.
+
+Said I, “Well, really, I didn’t expect to see quite such a _wafodu kova_”
+(wretched thing).
+
+Readily entering into the joke, she laughed heartily.  She had taken me
+for a _dinelo gawjo_ (gentile simpleton), and to her astonishment I had
+turned out to be a Gypsy of a higher sort.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+At one time I used to have frequent visits from a travelling tinker, and
+when his grinding-barrow was standing in my yard, I would chat with him
+while he was doing some little job.  He was an interesting fellow who had
+seen something of the world.  He had a remarkable knowledge of the
+medicinal properties of wild herbs, and would spend hours by the chalk
+stream in our valley, grubbing up liverwort of which he would make
+decoctions.  One morning he was in the tale-telling mood.
+
+“It was this very barrer what you’re looking at now.  You notice there’s
+lots of bits of brass nailed on it for to catch the sunshine.  I likes my
+barrer to look cheerful.  Well, there was a fellow came to me with summut
+wrapped up in brown paper, a flat thing it was, and he says, ‘I want you
+to buy this here off me.’  Says I, ‘Let’s have a look at it,’ and when he
+opened it out, it was a fine bit of copper-plate with summut engraved on
+it.  I asked him what the engraving was about, for you know I can’t read.
+He says, ‘It’s an architex business plate, that’s all, and you can have
+it for a shilling.’  So I bought it and nailed it on to my barrer among
+the other bits of brass and things.  Well, happens that a parson was
+a-talking to me one day, and I noticed his eye lighted on this here
+copper-plate.  Says he, looking wery serious, ‘I’m afraid this will get
+you into trouble, if a policeman sees it.’  ‘How’s that?’ I asked.
+‘What’s wrong with the copper-plate?’  ‘Well,’ says he, ‘it’s a plate for
+printing £5 notes.  Where did you get it from?’  And I told him.  You may
+be sure I soon had that plate off my barrer, and, turning to the parson,
+I says, ‘Perhaps you’ll buy it off me, for a sort of nicknack?’  And he
+gave me half-a-crown for it.”
+
+Looking slyly at me, the tinker remarked—
+
+“When that parson got home, being a man of eddication, he would know
+where to get the right sort of paper, and then he would make £5 notes
+cheap, you bet.”
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+For several Christmas Eves past, this tinker’s boy and a little pal have
+walked some miles from a neighbouring town to sing carols at my Rectory
+door.  They possess good voices and sing very tunefully some of the old
+carols, “God rest you, merry gentlemen,” and the like.
+
+One summer afternoon, in the market-place at Hull, I met two grinders
+coming out of a tavern, near which stood a tinker’s barrow belonging to
+one of them, Golias Gray, a Gypsy, whom I had seen before at fair-times
+in the seaport town.  “Black as the ace of spades” is Golias, and he was,
+as usual, sporting a yellow shirt.  His pale-faced companion, a stranger
+to me, after a little talk, waxed communicative, and, whilst his Gypsy
+pal resumed his grinding of knives, he gave me a short list of words in
+_Shelta_ (Tinker’s Talk).
+
+SHELTA.     ENGLISH.
+Binni       Little.
+Bog         To get.
+Buer        Woman, wife.
+Cam         Son.
+Gap         To kiss.
+Gosh        To sit.
+Granni      To know.
+Hin         One.
+Ken         House.
+Minkler     Tinker.
+Mizzle      To go.
+Monkeri     Country.
+Mush        Umbrella.
+Nyok        Head.
+Od          Two.
+Sonni       To see.
+Stammer     To spit.
+Stimmer     Pipe.
+Sweebli     Boy.
+Thari       To speak.
+Tober       Road.
+
+CHAPTER XVI
+THE INN ON THE RIDGEWAY—TALES BY THE FIRESIDE
+
+
+AT one time I had a great liking for long jaunts in search of
+fossils—cross-country rambles extending over two or three days.  Thus I
+came to know many a deserted quarry and unfrequented byway of our county,
+as well as the bedchambers of sundry remote wayside inns—“hedge-taverns,”
+perhaps some would have described these lonely little houses of call.
+Occasionally, however, I lighted upon an inn which had seen better days,
+a sleepy old house with mullioned casements, a worn mounting-block of
+stone, and a rude iron ring still fixed in the wall near the deep porch
+before which an unfenced stretch of sward dipped towards the roadway.
+
+Let me recall one of my geologizing expeditions on an early March day.  I
+had been successful in my quest, and my knapsack, laden with stony
+spoils, was not very light.  But what matter?  It was fine to be striding
+along a ridgeway with a roaring gale behind, and every wayside tree
+whistling like a ships rigging in a storm.  Going along that road, I
+stretched out my limbs, and in so doing the very thews and sinews of the
+mind became more elastic.  Straight from the reddening west blew the wild
+whirling wind, which, like some old giant, frolicsome yet kind, spread
+out its open palms upon my back, fairly shoving me along.  This was
+living—this fine exaltation, this surging up of joyous emotions; and from
+a gnarled ash tree a storm-thrush with throbbing speckled throat told the
+same tale of a heart set free from every care.  Such was my mood when at
+a turn of the road a red-shawled figure, surely a Gypsy, appeared for a
+moment and as suddenly was lost to sight down a gloomy yew-fringed drive
+leading to the rear of a low grey mansion.  She’ll be out again
+presently, thought I; so I resolved to await the woman’s reappearance.
+
+Meanwhile, like a spreading forest fire, the sunset flung its flaming
+crimson far over the land.  Tree boughs and boles caught the glow, and
+underfoot the very grasses burnt by winter frosts seemed dyed with blood.
+Across a riot of sundown colours, black rooks were heading for their
+resting-place in the upland woods rugged against a castle-phantasy of
+lurid cloud piled up in the east.
+
+Loitering there, methought of the wandering Gypsies who in other days had
+passed along this desolate road.  I seemed again to behold a gang of
+slouching Herons, swarthy, black-eyed, secretive, accompanied by their
+pack-ponies and donkeys carrying tent-rods, pots, and pans.  Who shall
+say what processions of old Romany souls, long departed, here visit the
+glimpses of the moon?
+
+The moments flew by, but no Gypsy came.  A little longer I waited, pacing
+sharply up and down the roadway, then as the red shawl had not put in an
+appearance, visions of a cosy meal by the fire of a certain inn began to
+beckon alluringly, so I started on my way again.  Soon I forgot all about
+the Gypsy, who by this time had probably done a good stroke in the
+_duker_in line among the servants of the mansion.  However, a rutted,
+grassy lane turning off to the left drew one’s eye towards a gorsy corner
+where the chimney of a Gypsy van flung a drooping trail of smoke over the
+tangles, and, going forward, I shouted in the doorway, “Anybody at home?”
+
+A man’s scared face looked out.  Perhaps he had expected a command to
+quit his corner and draw out into the windy night.  A moment later in a
+tone of relief, he said—
+
+“Now I know who you are.  You’ll be the _rashai_ I met wi’ Jonathan
+Boswell by the watermill.  Don’t you remember I moved away when you began
+to _roker_ (talk)?  My pal Boswell wanted to have you to himself.  That’s
+why I took my hook.  But come inside a bit.  This wind’s enough to blow
+your wery _bal avrî_” (hair off).
+
+How strange it is that if a Gypsy has seen you anywhere for a few
+moments, he is able to identify your very shadow for ever after.
+
+Gladly I joined Old Frank in his cheery _vâdo_, which certainly suggested
+comfort and gaiety to this traveller on the wild March evening.
+
+“You gave me a bit of a shock,” said Frank.  “At first I took you for a
+_muskro_ (constable), but as soon as the light of my lamp fell on your
+face I reckernized you in a minute.”
+
+We talked awhile of Old Jonathan, whose faithful consort Fazzy had passed
+away up in Yorkshire.  This brought to mind the red-shawled woman whom I
+had seen down the road.
+
+“That’ll be my _monushni_ (wife).  I expect her home di-rectly.  When she
+comes, you pretend to be a _muskro_”—this with a broad grin.  “Say
+roughish-like, ‘Wasn’t your name Liddy West afore you was married?’  Then
+draw out a bit of paper, a letter folded long or anythink like that’ll
+do, and say, ‘I’ve come to take you for fortune-telling.’”
+
+No one understands the whole art and mystery of practical joking better
+than the Gypsy, and he dearly loves to play pranks even upon his fellows.
+It is part and parcel of the Gypsy’s innate spirit of mischief, examples
+of which I have seen not a few in my time.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+Having acquiesced in the joke, our talk presently ran on _muskro_s.
+
+“_Muskro_s _sî jukel_s” (policemen are dogs), said the Gypsy.
+
+“There was a pal of mine who was up to card games [sharping?], and at
+Doncaster Races he happened to drop a word or two in _Romanes_ (Gypsy
+tongue) to a mate.  A _muskro_ was standing near, and bless me if he
+didn’t _jin_ the _tshib_ (know the language), and of course my pal and
+his mate was _lel_’d _oprê_ (taken up).  ’Pend upon it, _muskro_s is
+_jukel_s.”
+
+A good step farther along the road stood the tavern, the “Black Boy,”
+whose swinging sign of an Ethiopian countenance I was eager to see, since
+I was to spend the night there in order to resume my fossil-hunting on
+the morrow.
+
+“Come and see me a little later at the _kitshima_ (inn) down the road,
+and mind you bring the missis and your fiddle.”  As I rose to go, I
+noticed Frank gave a sidelong glance at my bulging knapsack, and in order
+to satisfy his curiosity, I took out a fossil, a fine _gryphea incurva_,
+on seeing which he drew back, holding up his hands in real or mock
+horror, I could scarcely say which.
+
+“_Dâbla_, that be one of the Devil’s toe-nails, wery onlucky stuff to
+carry about you!  Wherever did you get it from?”
+
+“Off the _Beng_’s _pîro_ (Devil’s foot), to be sure,” I said, with a
+laugh, and renewed my invitation pressingly.  He promised to come.
+
+What a relief to stretch your limbs before a glowing fire inside an
+old-fashioned inn, when boisterous winds are shaking the window-panes and
+driving the loose straw from the cobbled yard into the hedge bottoms.  No
+stranger at this house on the ridgeway, I know every nook of the room.
+There is the old gun still reared up in yonder corner.  From nails in the
+cross-beams hang flitches of bacon and bulky hams.  Plates and dishes
+arranged on racks glitter in the firelight.  The pewter mugs on the
+dresser and the bright copper warming-pan hanging on the wall reflect the
+glow of the ruddy flames darting up the wide chimney.  Here and there
+hang modern oleographs whose crude tints have been softened by smoke.
+
+Tea is set on a table over which a lamp hanging from a hook in the
+ceiling casts a pleasant radiance.  During my meal the landlord, ruddy of
+countenance, looks in and greets me in a friendly way.  From his talk
+with his wife, a slight, frail-looking woman of seventy who sits darning
+by the fire, I gather that a horse is very ill in the stable, and any
+moment the veterinary surgeon is expected.  Presently, the barking of a
+dog in the front of the inn announces his arrival in a gig, and the
+landlord hurries out with a storm-lantern in his hand.  In a few minutes,
+the two men enter, and before the fire the burly vet rubs his hands,
+talks in clear, sharp tones, then, tossing off a “scotch” smoking hot, he
+wishes us good-night.  Whereupon the innkeeper goes off to the stable.
+
+Tea over, a small maid with chestnut hair and spotless pinafore clears
+the table, and I move to the high-backed settle opposite the landlady.
+In the fire-grate a huge chunk of wood burns brightly, and every now and
+then a puff of wood-smoke comes out into the room.
+
+Addressing the old lady, I inform her that I am expecting some visitors
+to see me to-night, and they are stopping in a little lane down the road.
+
+“Why, we had those Gypsies up here this morning.  Their faces are well
+known round here, though we don’t have them so much as we used to do.
+You take an interest in Gypsies, don’t you, sir?  At least I’ve heard it
+said that you do.  They don’t often set foot inside your church, I should
+think?”
+
+“Sometimes they do, and their reverent behaviour would certainly put to
+shame some of the more regular attenders.  If their unfamiliarity with
+print leads them to hold a borrowed book upside down, they do at anyrate
+kneel upon their knees instead of squatting upon the benches, and I have
+never once known them to go to sleep during sermon-time.”
+
+Speaking about Gypsies and churches, I am reminded of a funny experience
+I once had all through a Gypsy cabman’s mistake.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+I had promised to take an afternoon service at a village church miles
+away in the country, and the road to it was unfamiliar to me.  On my
+naming the place, the driver said that he knew every inch of the road,
+and, trusting myself in his hands, we bowled along for several miles, and
+at last struck off into a tangle of green lanes.  A few minutes before
+the hour of service—three o’clock—my driver put me down at an old grey
+stone church, saying, “Here we are, sir.”  Entering the church, I found a
+congregation assembled, and, going into the belfry, I asked for the
+vestry wherein to robe.
+
+“We ain’t got one here.  Our pass’n dresses hisself in his house and
+comes in at that little door.”  The sexton then conducted me to a
+chantry-chapel full of dusty figures of knights and their ladies lying
+side by side with their feet resting upon their hounds.  There I robed
+and awaited the ceasing of the bells.  When they stopped, I stepped
+towards the prayer desk, when, to my astonishment, there appeared through
+the small door in the chancel a fully-robed parson, white-headed and
+bowed with age.  We met and exchanged astonished glances.
+
+Said I, “I’m afraid there is some mistake.”
+
+He shook his head.  “I’m deaf, and can’t hear a word you say.”  He then
+went to his desk, and knelt before commencing evensong.
+
+It was an uncomfortable five minutes for me.  I could hear the
+congregation tittering and the mixed choir giggling.  In despair I went
+to the lady organist, and asked for the name of the church.  Her reply
+made it clear that I had come to the wrong village, and, rushing out by
+the chancel door, I sought my cabby, whom I rated soundly for his
+blunder.  Fortunately my destination was no more than a mile and a half
+farther on.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+In a little while, the tavern door opened noisily, admitting a rush of
+wind.  There was a sound of naily boots on the threshold, and Gypsy Frank
+and his wife entered.  In a few moments they were happy enough on the
+black settle with mugs of good Newark brew in front of them.
+
+Just before the Gypsies had arrived, I had been studying a pocket-map of
+the locality, and once again I had an old impression confirmed that many
+out-of-the-way country districts are dotted over with place-names bearing
+witness to the prevalence of Gypsy encampments in the past.  I mean such
+names as “Gypsy Lane,” “Gypsy Nook,” “Gypsy Dale,” and the like.  On the
+map I had noted a “Gypsy Corner,” “Gypsy Bridge,” and “Gypsy Ford.”
+
+It was about “Gypsy Ford” that I put a question to Old Frank sitting by
+my side, and he described the shallow crossing at a bend in the river
+over which before now I had passed by a narrow plank-bridge.  According
+to my Gypsy, one night many years ago a quarrel arose in the Romany tents
+encamped near the ford, and in the course of a fight between two kinsmen,
+one of them was slain.  Speedily a grave was dug, and, the corpse having
+been covered up, the Gypsies fled the spot.  This affair became widely
+known, and little wonder that a legend arose about a “something” having
+been seen in the neighbourhood of the ford.
+
+“You’s mebbe heard,” said Frank, “about Gypsy Jack’s wife, ‘Flash’
+Rosabel, who was drownded at the ford on just such a wild night as this.”
+
+“‘Let’s camp in the lane on this side of the water,’ says Jack’s wife.
+
+“‘_Keka_’ (No), says he, ‘not in this _drom_ (road) where the _mulo_
+(ghost) walks.  With a bright moon like this, our _grai_ (horse) will see
+to pull us through the river all right, never fear.’
+
+“Anyway, he whipped up the horse and steered straight into the ford.  And
+then a sad thing happened.  There had been a deal o’ rain and the stream
+was bigger and stronger than Jack had any idea of.  Somewheres about the
+middle of the river, the hoss was swept off its feet, the wagon tumbled
+over on to its side, and poor old ‘Flash’ Rosabel was carried away and
+drownded.  Jack allus said that the _grai_ must have _dik_’d the _mulo_”
+(the horse must have seen the ghost).  “That’s a tale what’s been told by
+many a traveller’s fire.”
+
+              [Picture: A Romany Fiddler.  Photo. Fred Shaw]
+
+Just then the publican came in, panting after a tussle with the wind,
+and, being on good terms with my Gypsy friends, he said, “I’m glad to see
+you’ve brought your music.  Gi’ us a tune, Frank.”  Then the Gypsy,
+taking his fiddle from its baize bag, screwed up the strings, and, having
+tuned them to his liking, gave us a merry air from memory’s repertoire.
+At the back of the clear cantabile of the air, you heard the deep roar of
+the storm.  Once I went to the window and looked out into the night.
+Athwart the white moonlit road lay the sharp black shadows of the ash
+trees rising from the far hedgerow, and, as I watched the swaying,
+writhing boughs, a lonely horseman sped past, a phantom he seemed more
+than a living being, and, returning to my nook in the ingle, I heard in
+fancy all through the Gypsy’s music the haunting clatter of the
+night-rider’s horse, and wondered what mysterious mission had called him
+forth on this riotous March evening.  Now the fiddler ceased, and his
+pewter was forthwith replenished.  “Good ale, this,” says Frank, wiping
+his mouth with the back of his hand.  “Why, yes,” put in the landlady,
+looking over her spectacles, and glad, if the truth be known, to give her
+darning a rest; “it’s Newark ale, and no better drink could any man wish
+for; we’ve sold nothing else for years.”
+
+Said the landlord, who by this time had recovered his breath—
+
+“That was a strange case as I see’d in the paper t’other day about the
+wise woman getting ‘trapped’ by the constable’s wife as went to have her
+fortune told.  The paper said as how a crystal ball were used, but I’m
+blest if I knows how anybody can expect to see their future in a thing o’
+that sort.”
+
+“Dunno so much about that,” remarked Old Liddy, who had been dreaming
+over the fire.  “A woman as had a crystal once told my dad he would go to
+prison in a fortnight, and sure enough he did, along wi’ a conjurer who’d
+been up to his tricks, and dad says to him when they was in jail, ‘A
+mighty poor conjurer you be, my fine fellow, if you can’t conjure us out
+of this place.’  I believes there _is_ summut in crystals.”
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+And then I was tempted to tell how a clairvoyant’s crystal once did me a
+good turn.  Let me explain that many years ago, when I was a curate on
+the Wolds, our Rector’s aged wife used to bring me rare wild-flowers to
+be named, and thus I won a place in the lady’s good books.
+
+Time passed, and the Rector’s wife died.  Not long after, I moved away to
+another sphere of work.  Then came the news of the decease of the old
+Rector himself.  One morning, twenty years after quitting that Wold
+parish, a letter reached me, asking if I had been a curate with Canon A—
+in such and such years, and further inquiring whether my wife Elizabeth
+was still alive.  Of course I had no difficulty in satisfying the writer
+of the letter, and his speedy reply brought an agreeable enclosure in the
+form of a cheque, a little legacy bequeathed to us by a codicil to the
+will of the old Rector’s wife who loved wild-flowers.  But the strangest
+part of the story is yet to come.  During a visit to London, the wife of
+the present parson of our old parish visited a clairvoyant who by the aid
+of a crystal declared that in the drawing-room of her home stood a small
+brass handled writing-table containing several drawers, in one of which
+would be found on examination a bundle of papers long neglected.  On
+returning home, the writing-table was duly searched, with the result that
+the forgotten codicil was disclosed, and in it were mentioned some
+legacies bequeathed to friends, several of whom had since passed away,
+but my wife and I happened to be among the survivors.  Thus there came to
+us, as I have said, an agreeable arrival by the morning post, so that if
+“seeing is believing,” my wife and I ought nevermore to scoff at
+clairvoyants and their crystals.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+“_Dawdi_!” (expression of surprise) exclaimed Liddy, with something of a
+gasp in her voice, while Old Frank looked wonder struck.
+
+“Well, that licks all I’ve ever heard,” said the publican, slapping his
+knee in punctuation of his surprise.  “Now let’s have another tune,
+Frank.”
+
+Whereupon the fiddler broke into a Scottish air with variations, his body
+swaying to and fro the while.  During several staves, the player laid his
+cheek on the violin in a fashion so comical that at the end of the tune I
+could not refrain from remarking—
+
+“You reminded me just now, my pal, of Wry-necked Charley the
+_boshomengro_” (fiddler).  With a good-natured grin he replied—
+
+“So you know that tale about the fiddler?”
+
+And here it is, in my own words.
+
+Charley Lovell, a fiddler of renown, was returning one evening after a
+tiring day’s fiddling at a village feast.  On the way to his tent, which
+was pitched in a disused quarry, the Gypsy took from his pocket a few
+coins he had received by way of payment.  “Poor luck, I call it, to be
+paid like this for such hard work.”  Thus commiserating himself, he
+trudged along the sunken lane leading to his tent.  Imagine his surprise
+to find at the tent door a tall gentleman dressed in black broad-cloth.
+Dark of complexion, black-eyed, and polished in demeanour, the stranger
+turned to meet the Gypsy.
+
+“Good evening, sir,” said Charley, bowing low, for he had the sense to
+perceive that a gentleman stood before him.  “Pray what can I do for
+you?”
+
+“A great kindness,” responded the stranger, “for I have heard of your
+skilful playing upon this wonderful instrument” (tapping Charley’s fiddle
+with his finger), “and I wish to know if you will come to play at a dance
+of mine to-morrow night.”  The place and hour were named, and the Gypsy
+promised to be there.
+
+“Open your hands, my man;” and into them the stranger emptied a pocketful
+of silver coins, and departed, smiling over his shoulder at the perplexed
+Gypsy.  All that night Charley tossed restlessly on his bed of straw.  “A
+fore-handed payment, and generous too.  Who can that dark gentleman be?”
+In the morning the Gypsy betook himself to a neighbouring priest, who, on
+hearing his story, looked grave.
+
+“You have made a bargain with the Devil.”
+
+“Then tell me how I can get out of it.”
+
+“You must keep your engagement, for, if you don’t, the Devil will fetch
+you.”
+
+“But what am I to do when I get there?”
+
+“If you do as I say, all will be well.  When you are asked to strike up,
+you must be sure to play nothing but slow, solemn psalm tunes.  Mind you
+do as I say.”
+
+At the appointed hour the trembling fiddler stood on the moonlit sward
+within the walls of a ruined castle.  Awaiting his arrival was the tall
+dark gentleman surrounded by his guests, an array of lords and ladies in
+silks and satins.  When the signal was given for the fiddler to commence
+his music, Charley drew his bow over the strings, evoking none but psalm
+tunes, solemn and slow, as the priest had advised.  After a few moments
+of this sort of music, the Devil marched up to the Gypsy, and, fixing his
+large black eyes upon him, said—
+
+“Give us something more lively at once.”
+
+“I cannot,” said the Gypsy.
+
+“Then, take _that_!”—and the Devil struck Charley a smart blow on the
+cheek, twisting the poor fellow’s head on one side, and so it ever
+remained.  After that, he was always known as “Wry-necked” Charley.
+
+As the clock was striking the hour of ten, the rural tavern’s
+closing-time, my Gypsy friends stepped out into the night.
+
+All through the long hours the wind howled in the chimney and rattled the
+casements, and one traveller at least slept but fitfully in his
+four-poster draped with curtains of red damask.
+
+In the morning the landlord informed me at breakfast that a tree had been
+blown down across the road, and, while “rembling” under his overturned
+straw-stack, a fine fox was found smothered, and, “See here,” he said, “I
+shall always think of last night whenever I look at this,” holding up a
+beautiful tawny brush.
+
+The storm-rack was still scudding overhead as I bade adieu to the quaint
+pair on the footworn doorstep of the “Black Boy” on the ridge way.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVII
+HORNCASTLE FAIR
+
+
+LIKE Lincoln, York, and Chester, the town of Horncastle originated within
+the boundaries of a Roman _castrum_, and to this day an old-world
+atmosphere clings to its narrow, cobbled streets.
+
+Readers who know their Borrow will recall the visit of “The Romany Rye”
+to Horncastle in the August of 1825, in order to sell a horse which he
+had purchased by means of a loan from his Gypsy friend Jasper.
+
+Nowhere perhaps are the changes wrought by the passing years more plainly
+seen than at a horse-fair of ancient standing.  Horncastle has
+inhabitants who remember when the great August Horse-Fair occupied fully
+a fortnight or three weeks, and was widely recognized as an event of the
+first rank.  Within my own observation, this fair, like others of its
+kind, has declined with swift strides.  In my time, buyers would be
+present from all parts of the country, as well as from the Continent, and
+members of our best Gypsy families invariably made a point of attending.
+In all these respects, however, the once famous fair has dwindled in a
+very marked manner.
+
+Let me describe a twentieth-century visit to the August horse-mart.
+
+Having approached the town along a bold ridgeway commanding a countryside
+yellowing to harvest, I arrive to find the place astir with dealers and
+horses.  Though now but a one-day affair, the mart is not without its
+pleasing aspects to a lover of such scenes.  The chief centre of business
+is known as the Bull Ring, where well-clad dealers from our English
+towns, horsey-looking men slapping their thighs with malacca canes, rub
+shoulders with rubicund farmers from Wold and Marsh, grooms and Gypsies.
+Not for the purpose of buying or selling horses have I come hither, but
+for no other reason than to meet the Gypsy families who usually turn up
+at the fair.
+
+            [Picture: Horncastle Horse Fair.  Photo. Carlton]
+
+Behind the Parish Church of St. Mary, in a pasture pleasantly open to the
+sun, numerous caravans are drawn up under the hedges.  It is here that
+the better sort of Gypsies congregate.  Down Hemingby Lane lies an
+encampment of poorer travellers, and some of the same sort of people have
+drawn into the yard of the “New Inn.”  In the course of the day I shall
+visit these three companies of Gypsies.
+
+Meanwhile, passing over the Bain Bridge, I step inside the old Parish
+Church and, taking out from my pocket a well-thumbed copy of _The Romany
+Rye_, I turn to the passage where Borrow talks with the sexton about the
+rusty scythes hanging on the wall.  Just then a lady, evidently an
+American tourist, who has been looking up Tennyson’s footprints, which
+abound hereabouts, asks:—
+
+“Can you tell me anything about those strange-looking things on the
+wall?”
+
+Various theories have been advanced to account for the presence of these
+old scythe-blades within the sacred building, the popular opinion being
+that they were used as instruments of war at Winceby Fight on 11th
+October 1643.  So much, indeed, Borrow seems to have gathered from the
+sexton, but the better-informed authorities of to-day think that they are
+relics of the rising known as the Pilgrimage of Grace in the year 1536.
+
+Quitting the fine old church, I passed out into the fair, and straightway
+met a Gypsy fingering a telegram.  “Will you read it for me, please?”
+The message was from a popular Baroness who was desirous of borrowing a
+caravan for a bazaar; and as I pencilled a reply on the back of the
+telegram, the Gypsy declared that he would sleep in a tent till his
+“house on wheels” returned to him.
+
+I have always known that Gypsies readily help one another when in
+trouble.  This man, before going off with his telegram, told me a
+pleasing thing.  It appears that an aged Gypsy, whose horse had died
+suddenly, had no money to buy another with, but a pal of his, going round
+with a cap among the Gypsy dealers at the fair, had quickly taken ten
+pounds, which were handed up to the old man who was now able to buy
+himself an animal.
+
+In _The Romany Rye_, Borrow speaks of the inn where he put up as having a
+yard which opened into the principal street of the town.  On entering
+that yard he was greeted by the ostlers with—“It is no use coming
+here—all full—no room whatever;” whilst one added in an undertone, “That
+’ere a’n’t a bad-looking horse.”  In a large upstairs room overlooking a
+court, the newcomer dined with several people connected with the fair.
+
+     [Picture: The “George” Inn Yard at Horncastle.  Photo. Carlton]
+
+During former visits to Horncastle I had tried to identify Borrow’s inn,
+but without result.  Happily, on the present occasion, I came upon a
+local antiquary from whom I gathered that Borrow’s inn was undoubtedly
+the “George,” now converted into a post office.  Strolling down the
+quondam inn-yard, my friend pointed out the bow-window through which the
+jockey so neatly pitched his bottle of pink champagne.  Also, he told a
+good tale of the fair in its palmy days—
+
+             [Picture: Ready for the Fair.  Photo. Fred Shaw]
+
+Public-houses, though very numerous in the town, were yet unable to
+supply the fair folk with all the drink they required, and any
+householder could take out what was called a Bough Licence on payment of
+seven shillings and sixpence.  Having decided to take out such a licence,
+a man and his wife obtained a barrel of beer and displayed the customary
+green bough over their door.  On the eve of the fair the husband said to
+his wife—
+
+“I’ll see if this beer is good.”
+
+“You won’t without paying for it.”
+
+“Very well, my dear, I’ll have three-pen’orth,” handing over the coins to
+his wife.
+
+He appeared to enjoy it so much that she said—
+
+“Let me have three-pen’orth,” handing the pence to her husband.  Then he
+had another drink, passing the threepence back again.  And the same
+coppers passed to and fro until the barrel was empty.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+It was to Horncastle Fair, years ago, that Jem Mace came with his master,
+Nat Langham, to whom he had been introduced at Lincoln Fair, where Nat
+had a sparring troupe which he had brought down from the metropolis.  At
+Horncastle, Jem had a tremendous glove-fight with the local champion, who
+was the terror of the district.  This fellow was bigger and older than
+Mace, who was then only in his eighteenth year, and for a long time the
+issue was doubtful, but at last the Horncastle champion was licked to a
+standstill, and had to give in.
+
+Walking down a crooked by-lane, past a shop where a chatty little tailor
+sat repairing a scarlet hunting-coat (the South Wolds Kennels lie a few
+miles outside the town), I found a camp of Gypsies in a field, and near
+one of the fires on the grass sat Liddy Brown, a crone of seventy years,
+puffing a black pipe, her curls peeping from beneath a gay _diklo_
+(kerchief).  In the course of our talk, she spoke of our hilly country,
+and recalled the days when her folk had pack-donkeys and camped in the
+green lanes on the Wolds.  A grand-daughter of Fowk Heron, she had some
+diverting reminiscences of her mother Mizereti, and her aunts Cinderella
+and Tiena.  The last-named was bitten by a mad dog, and thereby came to
+an untimely end.
+
+Returning to the town, I looked into the “New Inn” yard and found a
+number of Gypsies stopping there.  The women and girls had donned their
+smartest fair-going raiment.  As I viewed these wanderers, it was not
+easy to realize that they were the lingering remnants of the once
+powerful tribes of Browns and Winters hailing from the Border country in
+the days of Sheriff Walter Scott.
+
+Passing through the archway of the inn, I mingle again with the crowd,
+but no thimblengro, no Irish Murtagh, no Jack Dale meet the eye, though,
+curiously enough, from the racing stables at Baumber, where the Derby
+winner of 1875—Prince Batthyany’s Galopin—was born, there are two or
+three jockeys looking more than usually diminutive among the burly
+dealers in the street.
+
+Towards the end of the afternoon the fair began to slacken.  The few
+remaining groups of horses seemed to have gone to sleep in the sultry
+Bull Ring.  Already farmers were moving off in their light traps, and
+dealers were making for the railway station.  Going along the riverside
+path I saw a Gypsy man asleep at the foot of a tree, and, climbing a
+fence, I found myself in the encampment behind the church.  The scene was
+enlivening.  Seated around their fires most of the Gypsies were making
+ready for the evening meal.  Near a little tent the aged Mrs. Petulengro,
+a veritable “Mother in Egypt,” was lighting her pipe.  Her grand-daughter
+coming out of the tent offers her a stool to sit upon, but the old lady
+scorns the idea.  “I should tumble off a thing like that.  I’m better
+down here,” pointing to a sack spread by the fire beside which two
+kettles are hissing.
+
+In various parts of the field the Petulengros are gathered together.
+Here are tall Alfy and Hook-nosed Suki, “Rabbitskin” Bob, and
+“Ratcatcher” Charley.  During supper, I had to listen to a disquisition
+on lying from Suki.  Put into a nutshell, her ideas amount to this: Lying
+is of two kinds.  There is lying for a living, else how could any sort of
+business be carried on.  But business deceptions are not to be mentioned
+in the same breath with nasty lies which are meant to “hurt a body.”
+
+“Do you remember, _rashai_, that time we met you by Newark, when Elijah
+was with us?  A jolly old fellow he were.  He often got into _staruben_
+(prison) for fighting but never for stealing.  He would go through an
+orchard, like that one there” (pointing to some apple-trees close by),
+“but do you think he’d ever pick up an apple?  Not he, he’d never steal
+nothink, wouldn’t Elijah.  He could stand hard knocks, and would only
+fight a better man than hisself.  He was that tough, nothing ever hurt
+him.  He would lay asleep under a wagon with never a shirt on him and
+take no harm.”
+
+Elijah was one of three brothers—tall, powerful fellows.  Sometimes the
+trio, Elijah, Master, and Swallow, would enter a lonely tavern, and
+having ordered ale would depart without paying for it.  When the publican
+protested, the Gypsies displayed their brawny arms and huge fists before
+his face.  One day they had performed this favourite trick several times,
+and were paying an evening call at a village inn, where they sat a long
+time.  Waxing quarrelsome, the brothers first brawled among themselves,
+and afterwards got at cross-purposes with a farmer in the tap-room.  In
+the course of a tussle with this person, Swallow fell upon him as he lay
+on the floor, and, as they struggled there, a steel rush-threading needle
+of large size, used in mending chair bottoms, dropped from the Gypsy’s
+pocket.  Seizing this, Elijah pricked the farmer in the ribs, and then
+flung the needle at the feet of Swallow, who picked it up.  The farmer’s
+cries attracted the attention of a village constable who was going by.
+
+“Eh, what’s the matter here?” said the constable, stepping into the
+tap-room.
+
+“These Gypsies are trying to murder me,” said the farmer.  “One of ’em’s
+stuck me with a long knife as he’s got about him.”
+
+The pockets of the Gypsies were searched, and the steel needle was found
+upon Swallow.  As the constable held it up between his fingers, the
+farmer cried—“That’s it.  That’s what he tried to kill me with.”
+
+The three brothers were arrested and underwent their trial, with the
+result that Elijah and Master were sent to prison for a year, but poor
+Swallow, although innocent of the charge made against him, was
+transported for fourteen years.
+
+By that Gypsy fire the evening meal passed pleasantly enough, and when at
+a later hour I returned to the town, the darkened houses were framing the
+cobbled street, and through the open window of a tavern I caught a soft
+Romany phrase along with the clinking of glasses.  And then from under
+the archway of the inn yard a dwarfish Gypsy, mounted on a lean horse,
+rode off with a great clatter into the dusk.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVIII
+A GYPSY SEPULCHRE—BURIAL LORE—THE PASSING OF JONATHAN
+
+
+IN Tetford churchyard, not far from my Rectory on the Lincolnshire Wolds,
+lies the grave of two celebrated Gypsies, Tyso Boswell and Edward, or “No
+Name,” Hearn (Heron), who were killed by lightning on 5th August 1831.
+The incident seems to have made a profound impression upon our Gypsies,
+and to this day it is everywhere remembered among the Anglo-Romany clans.
+A large company of the Boswells and Hearns (Herons) appear to have halted
+at Tetford on their way to Horncastle August Fair, at that time a
+horse-mart of great importance.  Overtaken by a thunderstorm, Tyso and No
+Name were sheltering in a barn, whither they had gone for some straw,
+when a stroke of lightning descended fatally upon them.
+
+An aged Gypsy, Lucy Brown (born in the year 1807), once informed me that
+she remembered the incident quite clearly.  Said she, “We were camping
+atop of Tetford Hill, just above Ruckland Valley, when the lightning
+struck the poor fellows.  We were on our way to Horncastle Fair.  I mind
+it all, _rashai_, as if it had happened only yesterday.”
+
+In Westarus Boswell’s autobiography, recorded (in his own words) by Smart
+and Crofton in their work _The Dialect of the English Gypsies_, are some
+references to this event—
+
+    “I was born at Dover.  My father (Tyso) was a soldier, and I was born
+    in the army.  My father, when I was born, was in charge of the great
+    gun (Queen Anne’s pocket-piece).  After a while he came home, and
+    left the army.  He came down into Yorkshire, and there he stayed for
+    many years, and all our family were brought up in that county, and
+    there we all stayed after he was killed in Lincolnshire.  He died
+    when I was a lad.  The lightning struck him and another, both
+    together.  They were cousins.  Our people put them both in one grave.
+    There I left them, poor fellows.  I was much grieved at it.  He
+    (Tyso) always dressed well.  When he was buried, I took a wife, and
+    went all over the country. . . .  His cousin’s name was called No
+    Name, because he was not christened till he was an old man, and then
+    they called him Edward.”
+
+A curious story attaches to “No Name” Hearn.  His parents took him to
+church to be christened, and when the parson said, “Name this child,” the
+Gypsy mother answered, “It’s Jehovah, sir.”  “I cannot give your child
+that name,” protested the clergyman.  Whereupon the Gypsies stalked out
+of the church muttering, “He shall be called ‘No Name,’” and by this
+fore-name he was known all through his life, although in his old age, as
+Westarus Boswell has told us, he was baptized in the name of Edward.
+
+As might be expected, the funeral of Tyso and Edward was attended by many
+Gypsies from far and near, and for some years afterwards the grave was
+visited annually by relatives, who are said to have poured libations of
+ale upon it.  A grandson of Tyso relates that he once found a hole “as
+big as a fire bucket” in the side of the grave.  This he stuffed with
+hay, and to my own knowledge the hole is still there, the brickwork of
+the vault having fallen inward.  Aged folk at Tetford tell how a witch
+formerly lived in a cottage near the churchyard.  One of her cats
+kittened down the hole in the vault, and passers-by would shudder to see
+the kittens bolt like rabbits into the Gypsies’ grave.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+If the Gypsies possess any religion at all, it may be summed up in one
+sentence—reverence for the dead.  In bygone ages the Gypsies buried their
+dead in wild lonely spots, and though for many years the wanderers have
+been granted Christian burial, yet now and then an aged _Romanitshel_ on
+his deathbed will express a desire to be laid to rest in the open and not
+in the churchyard.  Moses Boswell, a Derbyshire Gypsy, requested that he
+might be buried “under the fireplace,” _i.e._ on the site of an
+encampment of his people.  When dying, Isaac Heron said, “Bury me under a
+hedge,” a reminiscence of the earlier mode of sepulture.  In his
+_Lavengro_, Borrow describes the burial of old Mrs. Herne: “The body was
+placed not in a coffin but on a bier, and carried not to the churchyard
+but to a deep dingle close by; and there it was buried beneath a rock,
+dressed just as I have told (in a red cloak and big bonnet of black
+beaver); and this was done at the bidding of Leonora, who had heard her
+_bebee_ (aunt) say that she wished to be buried, not in gorgeous fashion,
+but like a Roman woman of the old blood.”
+
+On the information of some East-Anglian Gypsies, my friend, Mr. T. W.
+Thompson, a good tsiganologue, writes: “It must have been somewhere about
+1830 when Borrow’s friend, Ambrose Smith (Jasper Petulengro), found one
+of the Hernes burying his wife in a ditch near Gorleston, took the body
+away and gave it a Christian burial to prevent further trouble befalling
+the old man.”
+
+In an entertaining volume entitled, _Caravanning and Camping Out_, Mr. J.
+Harris Stone describes a wayside Gypsy burial—
+
+“Some twenty years ago a Gypsy died in an encampment near Lulworth Cove
+in Dorset, and a friend of mine, who had become great friends with the
+tribe because he used to go and sing comic songs to them and perform
+simple conjuring tricks, was asked to the funeral.  He told me that the
+coffin was black, and the burial took place at the cross-roads—not
+exactly in the centre of the roadway where the highways crossed, but on
+the patch of roadside waste at the angle of one of the roads.  Water was
+sprinkled on the coffin and earth thrown on, in the course of the ritual
+in Romany, but no parson was present.”
+
+Near the grass-grown sand-dunes of an East Lincolnshire parish is a
+camping-place frequented by Gypsies for many years past.  In turning up
+the soil thereabouts not long ago, some labourers came upon a human
+skeleton, probably that of a Gypsy who had been buried there.
+
+I give these instances because it has been strongly asserted that
+Christian burial only has been the Gypsies’ usage for the last two
+hundred years.
+
+Sometimes a careful watch is kept over the body between death and burial.
+A Welsh correspondent who had an opportunity of observing this practice,
+writes: “I found my Romany friends seated around a fire, and close by in
+a van lay the dead wife of one of the company, awaiting burial on the
+morrow.  Gypsies about here do not go to bed from the time of a death
+till after the funeral.  They sit in company around the fire, and now and
+again fall back and doze, but at least three must keep awake.  If only
+two were awake, one might drop off to sleep and that would leave only
+one.  Fear of the ghost is given as the reason why they sit in company by
+the fire.”
+
+As a rule, the corpse is attired in the best clothes worn during life.
+Sometimes the garments are turned inside out, a practice in Bulgarian
+mourning.  When Zachariah Smith was buried in Yorkshire four years ago
+the following articles were enclosed in his coffin: a suit of clothes,
+besides the one he was wearing, watch and chain, a muffler, four pocket
+handkerchiefs, a hammer, a candle, and twopence.
+
+On the day after the funeral, old-fashioned Gypsies destroy the
+possessions of the dead, money excepted.  All consumable belongings are
+burnt, while the crockery, iron utensils, and other articles are broken
+and dropped into a river, or buried, if no water is near.  Jewellery is
+often disposed of in a similar manner.  The horse of the deceased is
+either shot, or sold to the knackers to be destroyed.  Fear of the ghost
+is the explanation of these ceremonies.  So long as the possessions of
+the dead person remain intact, the ghost is believed to hover about them.
+In order, therefore, to dispel the ghost of the dead, his belongings are
+destroyed.
+
+Another observance, expressing in a striking manner the grief of the
+bereaved, is seen in their abstention for many years, or for ever, from
+the favourite food, beverage, or pastime of the loved one whom they have
+lost.  One day Richard Petulengro called at my door and was offered
+refreshment in the kitchen—“Not any ale, thank you.  My brother died a
+bit ago, and he was wery fond of it.  I don’t touch it now.”
+
+It is recorded of Old Isaac Joule that he would often spend whole nights
+watching by his Gypsy wife’s tomb in Yatton churchyard.  Her headstone,
+which may still be seen, bears the lines—
+
+    “Here lies Merily Joule
+       A beauty bright:
+    That left Isaac Joule
+       Her heart’s delight
+             1827.”
+
+Sometimes unusual articles are laid on graves.  Upon his boy’s grave,
+Bohemia Boswell deposited a little teapot from which the boy used to
+drink.  Rodney Smith placed a breast-pin upon his mother’s grave in
+Norton churchyard.
+
+Gypsies shrink from uttering the names of the dead.  Fear of invoking the
+ghost underlies this ancient tabu.  One of the Herons had a child named
+Chasey, who died, and now he never utters that name.  He even invented a
+nickname for a friend bearing the name of Chasey, in order to avoid
+pronouncing the name of his own dead child.
+
+One day, during conversation with Frampton Boswell, Groome asked—
+
+“How did you get your name, Frampton; was it your father’s?”
+
+“I can’t tell you that, but wait a minute.”  And going to his mother’s
+caravan, he returned with a framed photograph of a gravestone.
+
+“That was my poor father’s name, but I’ve never spoken it since the day
+he died.”
+
+“He don’t want her to walk,” said my old friend, Frank Elliot, in
+explanation of a Gypsy’s reluctance to mention his dead sister’s name.  A
+Gypsy boy was baptized Vyner Smith, but when his Uncle Vyner died, the
+boy was renamed Robert, because the name Vyner was too painful a reminder
+of the departed relation.
+
+A death-omen among Gypsies is the cry of the “death-hawk” heard over a
+camp by night.  A Gypsy once told me how two crows and two yellow pigeons
+flew to and fro over him in a town street in the early morning.  By these
+signs he knew that his wife had died in the hospital, and so it proved.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+Let me close this chapter with the passing of my old friend Jonathan
+Boswell.  Not long ago tidings reached me that he had died in his
+travelling cart, in which I have spent some happy hours with him on the
+road.  The last time I saw Jonathan alive he was seated by his fire on a
+little lonely common, and near him stood the old cart looking so very
+ramshackle that a gust of wind might almost have wrecked it.  Among the
+tufted bog-rushes, the lambs were gambolling a few yards away.  As I sat
+with him, my old friend talked of bygone jaunts we had taken together,
+and his grandson, who was present, recalled the day he once spent at our
+Rectory.  With slow and feeble steps Jonathan walked with me to the edge
+of the common and waved his cap in farewell.  I never saw him again.  I
+like to think of the old man as, looking back, I saw him holding out his
+hand to fondle a lamb whose confidence he had won while camping on the
+common.
+
+               [Picture: A London Gypsy.  Photo. Fred Shaw]
+
+About a month after receiving the news of the death of my old pal, I came
+upon his grandson, who told me that the _vâdo_ (cart) had been
+_hotsherdo_ (burnt).  The fragments which remained after the fire were
+duly buried, and the faithful nag had been sent away to the hunt-kennels.
+Thus, with the ancient ceremonies of his race, my old friend had been
+laid to rest.
+
+                        TO THE ENGLISH GIPSIES. {246}
+
+       “You soon will pass away;
+    Laid one by one below the village steeple
+       You face the East from which your fathers sprang,
+       Or sleep in moorland turf, beyond the clang
+    Of towns and fairs; your tribes have joined the people
+       Whom no true Romany will call by name,
+       The folk departed like the camp-fire flame
+          Of withered yesterday.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIX
+_BITSHADO PAWDEL_ (TRANSPORTED)
+
+
+THICKLY sprinkled with Gypsy names are the “Transportation Lists”
+(1787–1867) reposing on the shelves of the Public Record Office in
+London; yet as your eye scans those lists of names, how dull and ordinary
+they look.  It is not until you embark upon the arduous task of tracking
+individuals in old newspaper files that you realize the charm of
+unearthing buried romances in which the Gypsies played a part.
+
+If, on the one hand, the wildness and roughness of the times are fully
+impressed upon your mind, there arises also the unedifying spectacle of
+British justices vieing with one another in their ardour for dispatching
+Gypsies across the sea on the most trivial pretexts.  In the
+Transportation Lists both sexes are well represented, and occasionally
+one obtains the _aliases_ borne by Gypsies at the time of their arrest.
+From a study of these _aliases_, it becomes possible to trace the origin
+of some of our modern Gypsy families, for it is quite in keeping with
+Romany usage for the children of an expatriated father to adopt his
+_alias_.
+
+I have never yet known an elderly Gypsy whose memory lacked a store of
+what may be called transportation tales, and, listening to their recital,
+I have sometimes been saddened, if not angered.  What can we of the
+twentieth century think of the “justice” (!) which sent a Romany mother
+across the sea for stealing a lady’s comb valued at sixpence, or banished
+for seven years a middle-aged Gypsy man for the crime of appropriating
+three penny picture-books from a cottage doorway?
+
+Over a few crimson embers on the ground I listened one summer evening to
+tales from the lips of one of the old Herons, as we sat together under a
+thorn hedge.  For a theft of harness Solli Heron (my informant’s uncle)
+was sentenced to a lengthy residence in an over-sea colony.  The time
+came when he and a few Gypsy comrades were led out of prison and placed
+in chains on board the coach which was to convey them to the convict
+ship.  By some means Solli had become possessed of a small file,
+wherewith, during the journey by coach, he managed to cut through his
+irons and make his escape into a wood.  After an exciting chase through
+brake and brier, the Gypsy was recaptured and duly shipped across the
+sea.
+
+The following story shows that sometimes, when two Gypsies were
+implicated in a crime, one of them would endeavour to screen his
+companion.  From the stables at Claremont House, Esher, during the period
+of the Princess (afterwards Queen) Victoria’s residence, a horse and a
+mare were stolen by two Gypsies, an elderly man and a younger one.  Early
+one foggy morning these fellows broke open the stable door and took the
+animals away.  A hue-and-cry was set up, and, within a few days of the
+theft, the red-breasted “Runners” had made an arrest.  In court, the
+Princess’s coachman declared that he had seen two men near the stable,
+but the elder Gypsy persistently affirmed that he had done the business
+entirely alone, and his endeavour to screen his mate proved effectual.
+The young Gypsy was acquitted, but his companion was transported for life
+to Van Diemen’s Land.
+
+The same spirit of self-sacrifice is seen in another incident—
+
+A Gypsy tinker and a sweep were arrested for stealing a pony at a time
+when the penalty for horse-stealing was death.  Said the sweep to the
+tinker—
+
+“Why need two of us be hanged for this job?  I’ll swear that you know
+nothing about it.”
+
+When the two were brought up for trial, the sweep, while readily
+admitting his own guilt, asserted the tinker’s innocence with such
+vehemence that the judge and jury believed his tale.  The tinker got
+twelve months in jail, but the sweep was hanged.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+In his _Romany Word-Book_, Borrow mentions the transportation of Fighting
+Jack Cooper, “once the terror of all the Light Weights of the English
+Ring, who knocked West Country Dick to pieces, and killed Paddy O’Leary,
+the fighting pot-boy, Jack Randall’s pet.”  Jack Cooper and his brother
+Tom were transported under peculiar circumstances.  Tom was the first to
+be sent away.  It appears that the brothers went to a ball where, in the
+course of the evening, Jack “pinched” a silver snuff-box, and without
+meaning any harm dropped it into his brother’s pocket.  Presently the
+snuff-box was missed by its owner, and suspicion fell upon the Gypsies.
+A policeman was called in, and, while conversing with Tom, offered him a
+pinch of snuff.  As the Gypsy removed a handkerchief from his pocket, out
+flew the snuff-box to his great astonishment, for he was unaware of the
+trick played by his brother.  Speedily the handcuffs were slipped upon
+Tom’s wrists, and in due course he was brought to trial.  Before the
+judge, Jack swore that Tom was innocent, as indeed he was, but he was
+nevertheless sentenced to transportation.
+
+However, Jack’s fate was not long delayed.  “Infatuated with love for his
+paramour,” (says Borrow), “he bore the blame of a crime which she had
+committed, and suffered transportation to save her.”  On the expiration
+of his lengthy term, he preferred to stay in Australia, where he made
+money by teaching young gentlemen the pugilistic art.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+There are more stories of this kind showing that innocent persons were at
+times sent across the water.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+Well-known to the Gypsies of our Midland counties is the story of Absalom
+Boswell’s transportation.  One night the Gypsy father and his two sons
+sat talking in their tent, and, in order to rest his weary feet, the old
+man removed his shoes and soon fell asleep on the straw.  One of the lads
+donned his father’s footgear, and set off with his brother to _latsher_ a
+bit of _bokro-mas_, which, being interpreted, means that they went to
+steal “mutton.”  Their errand was successful, but morning light brought a
+policeman to the camp, for the sheep had been missed and suspicion had
+fallen upon the Gypsies.  An early riser, Absalom had put on his shoes
+and was walking abroad.  He and his two sons were arrested.  There were
+no witnesses to the theft, but a footprint had been discovered on a patch
+of clay in the farmer’s field from which the sheep had been taken, and
+Absalom’s shoe fitted the footprint exactly.  On this shred of
+circumstantial evidence the old man was transported for seven years,
+while his sons were lodged in jail for twelve months.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+On Mitcham Common I once heard the following story from one of the
+Dightons.  Seated on the wayside was a Gypsy making pegs, with his
+children playing around him, and, looking up from his work, he was
+surprised to see a well-dressed _gawji_ (non-Gypsy) woman staring hard at
+him.  She stood there without saying a word, until at last she moved
+slowly away.  Then came a policeman to where the peg-maker sat—
+
+“You must come along with me.”
+
+“What for?”
+
+“You’ll know when we get to the police station.”
+
+A report had been handed in that a young woman had been found
+half-murdered in a green lane.  She said a Gypsy had done it, and
+described the man to a detail, giving the colour of his hair, particulars
+of his dress, and the number of his children.  “I am an innocent man,”
+said the Gypsy, “and the Lord’ll make her tell the truth before she
+dies.”  He was transported for seven years.  Two years afterwards the
+lady fell ill, and confessed that the man was innocent.  He was
+liberated, but on the homeward voyage he died.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+Yet another tale from the “tents of Egypt”—
+
+John Chilcot was _bitshado pawdel_ (transported), and his wife took it so
+much to heart that she would sit on the tent floor cutting up straw into
+pieces about an inch in length.  At last she could endure it no longer.
+She craved for the sight of her husband, so she _tshor_’d _tshumani_
+(stole something), and was sent away too.  The strange part of the story
+is, that the same farmer who employed Chilcot on his farm in Van Diemen’s
+Land, went and hired John’s wife when she was sent out there.  The woman
+came to John’s cottage one day about sundown, and, looking through the
+open door, she saw him lacing his heavy boots, as he muttered to himself,
+“I must _tshiv mi tshokaw oprê_ an’ _jaw te __dik de bokrê_” (I must put
+my boots on and go to see the sheep).
+
+“_Âwa_, _mi mush_, _tshiv len oprê_ and _kèr sig_” (Yes, my man, put them
+on and make haste).  John looked up, and, seeing his own wife standing
+there, opened his arms and she dropped into them.  The two worked
+together for months without the farmer knowing who the woman was, then
+one day John told him that she was his lawful wife, and they lived
+together till their time expired, when they came back to England.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+A story is told of one of the old Herons who had been transported, and,
+his term having expired, he wrote to his wife and family in England
+asking them to send fifty pounds.  This they did, and a reply was
+received announcing the time of his arrival at a certain port.  As a
+means of identification, he promised, on landing, to carry a small bundle
+of sticks on his right shoulder.  His sons met him, and according to his
+promise he had the sticks on his shoulder.  Now these sons were only tiny
+children when their father had been sent away, and did not remember what
+his features were like, but of course they were willing to accept him as
+their father, and rejoiced accordingly.  Then came the meeting between
+the old man and his wife.  But so completely had his features changed
+during the long years of absence that she failed to recognize him as her
+husband, even though he pointed to his old bottle green coat still in her
+possession.  It is said that he turned away sorrowfully, and died soon
+after of a broken heart.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+Moses Heron was on the Thames in a convict ship going to Australia for
+_grai-tshor_in (horse-stealing).  Some of his relatives went out in a
+boat to see the last of him, as his ship was anchored off shore.  Moses
+took out his knife and cut his _diklo_ (kerchief) from his neck and threw
+it overboard for them to take the knot back to his sweetheart.  He cut
+the _diklo_ from under his ear so that the knot was undisturbed but
+remained just as he had tied it.
+
+Stories of this character might be multiplied indefinitely, but the
+instances given will suffice to show how pathetic are the annals of the
+Gypsies.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+In a lecture delivered before the Leeds Philosophical and Literary
+Society, my friend, Mr. R. A. Scott Macfie, has justly estimated the
+character of the Anglo-_Romanitshel_s of to-day.
+
+“In Great Britain the Gypsies are at present exposed to a petty
+persecution, inflicted ostensibly for their good by illogical persons,
+who pretend to believe that they live unnatural lives and should be
+driven into town slums for the benefit of their health and morals.  They
+are harassed by prosecutions on such curious pretexts as sleeping-out,
+overcrowding (in tents every inch of which admits the free passage of
+God’s fresh air), possessing no dustbin, or neglecting to provide a
+proper water supply for their habitations.  Yet, on the whole, in this
+country they have for the last century received less unpleasant attention
+and more sympathy than elsewhere, and it is very noteworthy that they
+have responded to this kindness by adopting the civilized conception of
+their duty towards their neighbour.  I have many hundreds of press
+cuttings from British newspapers published during the last few years.
+They prove that the Gypsies of this country are never guilty of the
+greater crimes.  The majority of the convictions are for almost
+inevitable offences, such as halting in the road or allowing horses to
+stray.  Gypsies have, of course, rather primitive views as to rights of
+property, especially in respect of what grows or moves upon the earth in
+a more or less wild state, yet, while there are an appreciable number of
+instances of poaching, fortune-telling, and of certain traditional Gypsy
+swindles, most of the cases of so-called theft are very insignificant
+petty larcenies—a handful of fruit taken from an orchard, a few swedes
+from a field, or a stick or two from the hedge.  So conspicuous is the
+law-abiding character of the British Gypsies in my records, and in my
+personal experience, that I do not hesitate to assert, that, in spite of
+their reputation, they are as superior in honesty to the lower classes of
+our native population as they are in morality and cleanliness.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XX
+A ROMANY MUNCHAUSEN
+
+
+THE Gypsies are an imaginative folk, delighting, like children, in
+romances and romancing; and if one may judge from the array of folk-tales
+{256} already collected from them, these wanderers appear to possess the
+gift of story-telling in generous measure.  To this day, in Eastern
+Europe, the Gypsies still pursue their ancient rôle of tale-telling,
+mystifying their hearers with stories which perhaps they brought out of
+India many centuries ago.  Here, in the West, no one can mingle
+intimately with members of the Gypsy clan of Wood, amid the mountains of
+Wales, without feeling the charm of the wonderful tales handed down to
+them from their forelders.
+
+Sometimes I have seen the beginning of a folktale in a fragment of
+narrative reeled off by a Gypsy on the spur of the moment.
+
+A London Gypsy had been fiddling for my delectation, and, when he ceased,
+I asked him quite casually why, being a Gypsy, his hair was fair?
+Without a moment’s reflection he replied, “I’ll tell you why my hair is
+fair.  One winter night I slept with my head outside the tent, and of
+course my hair froze to the ground.  When I woke in the morning I shouted
+for help, and my daddy poured boiling water on my hair to get it loose.
+That’s why my _bal_ is _pawni_” (my hair is fair).
+
+An impromptu “lying tale” intended to amuse.
+
+Groome, in his _Gypsy-Folk Tales_ (Introduction, p. lxxxi.), notices the
+same sort of thing in a fanciful outburst on the part of a Gypsy girl.
+“She had been to a pic-nic in a four-in-hand, with ‘a lot o’ real tiptop
+gentry’; and ‘_reia_’ (sir), she said to me afterwards, ‘I’ll tell you
+the comicalist thing that ever was.  We’d pulled up to put the brake on,
+and there was a _puro hotchiwitchi_ (old hedgehog) come and looked at us
+through the hedge, looked at me hard.  I could see he’d his eye on me.
+And home he’d go, that old hedgehog, to his wife, and “Missus,” he’d say,
+“what d’ye think?  I seen a little Gypsy gal just now in a coach and four
+hosses,” and “_Dâbla_” she’d say, “_sawkûmi_ ’as _vâdê kenaw_” (Bless us,
+every one has carriages now).’”
+
+Years ago I used to hear our English Gypsies speak of a certain Happy
+Boz’ll, a Gypsy given to romancing about his own affairs.  He was always
+the hero of his own stories, and to this day, among our Gypsies, a Happy
+Boz’ll tale is a synonym for a “crammer.”
+
+It was once my good fortune at Lincoln Fair to come upon a van-dwelling
+horse-dealer, close upon his eightieth year, whose early days were spent
+in the company of Happy Boz’ll, and from him I obtained the tales given
+below:—
+
+Old Happy had a donkey, and one day it was lost.  Up and down the green
+lanes the Gypsy searched for the missing animal and found it not.  At
+last, as he was wandering under some trees, he heard a familiar noise
+overhead.  The sound came from the top of a big ash tree, and sure
+enough, when Happy looked up, there was the old donkey among the topmost
+boughs.
+
+“What are you doing there?” shouted Happy.
+
+“I’m gathering a bundle of sticks for your fire.”
+
+And saying this, the donkey climbed down with a bunch of nice ash sticks.
+
+             [Picture: Black as a Boz’ll.  Photo. Fred Shaw]
+
+At one time Happy, who was a tinker and grinder by trade, possessed a
+grinding-barrow made out of a whole block of silver, and whenever he was
+thirsty he had only to chop off a lump of silver and go to the nearest
+inn to get as much ale as he could carry.  In course of time his barrow
+grew smaller, and there came a day when Happy had no barrow at all.  He
+had swallowed it.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+One day Happy’s wife, Becky, said to him—
+
+“Go and get a bucket of drinking water.”  Away he went to the spring,
+and, having filled the bucket, he paused to take a drink from it, and
+going on again he stumbled and spilt the water.  When he got home he
+appeared before his wife with an empty bucket in his hand.
+
+“Why haven’t you brought the water?” asked Becky.
+
+“Well, my blessed, I filled the bucket right enough, but on the way back
+the water started a-laughing at me, and I couldn’t carry it no furder.
+Ay, the water laughed itself out of the bucket, it did—every little drop
+of it.  There, now I’ve told you.”
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+Another time Happy was crossing a field, and seeing a sack filled with
+something he went up and examined it, and there, if it wasn’t full of
+eggs.  He picked up the sack and carried it away on his back, and never
+cracked one of them.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+Happy was once walking beside a hedge, cracking nuts.  He had pockets and
+pockets full of them, and he happened to fling a nutshell over the hedge,
+and it hit a wery fine hare and killed it.  Wasn’t that strange now?
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+Happy never owned a wagon.  He and his wife travelled all their lives
+with a pack-donkey and a tent.  One night their tent took fire, and in a
+little while they had nothing left in the world save the donkey and its
+blinkers.  The next morning, as they crept out from under the hedge,
+Happy said to his wife, “We shall have to beg wery hard to-day.”  By the
+evening they had done so well that they had provided themselves with an
+entirely new outfit.  Under the hedge stood the finest tent you ever saw.
+Inside it were new blankets, new bedding, new everything.
+
+“Well, my Becky, how do you like it?”
+
+“We haven’t done so badly after all, my Happy.  We’ve got a better tent
+and a better supper than we had last night.”
+
+“And I’m thinking, my Becky,” said Happy, laughing softly, “that it’s
+wonderful like getting married again.”
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+Happy was once going along a road over the Peak o’ Derby.  He hadn’t gone
+far before he saw a cart full of the very best china, delicate stuff all
+coloured and gilded, and between the shafts stood a fine horse with
+silver-plated harness.  There they were on the wayside grass and nobody
+with them.  Happy lit his pipe and waited a bit to see if their owner
+came along.  But nobody came.  So he led the horse and cart to an inn
+just round the bend of the road, and asked the landlord if he knew who
+was the owner, but he didn’t know.  On and on went Happy, up hill and
+down dale, inquiring everywhere for the owner of the horse and pot-cart,
+but nowhere could he light on the gentleman, though he nearly broke his
+heart with anxiety in trying his best to find him.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+Happy one day took his dog a-hunting.  Two hares started up, but the dog
+couldn’t run after both of them at once.  Just then, however, the dog ran
+against a scythe-blade and cut itself in two.  One half of the dog ran
+after one hare and caught it.  The other half of the dog ran after the
+second hare and caught it.  The hares were brought to Happy’s feet.  Then
+the two halves of the dog came together again.  And the dog died.  Happy
+took off the skin and patched his knee-breeches with it.  Just a year
+afterwards, to the very day, his breeches burst open and barked at him.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXI
+THE GYPSY OF THE HILLS—IN THE HEART OF WALES—A WESTMORLAND HORSE-FAIR
+
+
+I
+
+
+_May_ 12.—Just as I stepped out of the train at Corwen, thick vapours,
+blotting out the mountains, made up their minds to let down rain.  Five
+years before, on landing at the same station, it was only to find a
+tornado howling over the land and heavy rain falling.  That wild night
+I’m not likely to forget in a hurry. . . .
+
+At last, after an hour’s wait in a snug hostelry, I set off along the
+Holyhead Road, having a certain encampment in my mind’s eye.  At the
+“Goat” Inn, where the by-road turns off for Bettws-Gwerfil-Goch, I made
+inquiry for the said camp, but the landlord only shook his head.  One of
+his daughters, however, hearing my question, said she knew where it was,
+and coming with me to the door indicated the whereabouts of the caravans
+of my quest.  By now the rain had ceased, and, in a few moments, round a
+bend in the highway, the outline of a Gypsy tent, with a caravan and a
+tilt-cart standing near it, caught my eye against a row of twisted oaks
+in a wayside field.  On entering the camp there were hearty greetings
+from Gilderoy Gray and Oli Purum, his travelling pal.  The ruddy glow in
+the fire-bucket made the tent’s interior an inviting spot for tea, and
+there was plenty of fun that evening.  Outside: the dark night with a
+roaring wind in the oak trees.  Within: a wood-fire lit up the red
+blankets stretched over the curved tent-rods, and upon a well-made couch
+of straw (covered with rugs) we reclined.  Oli was in fine form for
+tale-telling, and his pipe often went out.  Gilderoy, too, had heaps of
+things to tell.  Was ever a lover of the road better stocked with
+anecdotes than he?
+
+In the tilt-cart I made my bed, and slept as soundly as a dormouse.
+
+_May_ 13.—At 5 a.m. the sun was shining gloriously upon the mountains.
+Wash and breakfast in the open air.  In the forenoon we three took the
+hilly road leading to Bettws-Gwerfil-Goch.  A light breeze from off the
+mountains carried the smell of spring everywhere.  The birds were all
+a-twitter in the leafing woods.  Blue speedwells, white stars of
+stitchwort, bee-haunted gorse bloom—all turned to salute the sovereign
+sun glowing down upon the land.  Gilderoy, ever a good walker, was soon
+pegging on ahead; then at a stile in a hedge he would wait until Oli and
+I came up.  Just below the village of Bettws-Gwerfil-Goch, we stood on
+the _puri porj_ (old bridge) and watched the trout leap in the
+vandyke-brown pools of the river Alwen.  On to the “Hand” tavern, my
+ideal village inn.  George Borrow saw the interiors of many such houses
+during his tramps through “Wild Wales.”  Nor are we likely to forget the
+kindness we received at the home of a certain great Scholar-Gypsy and
+Gypsy-Scholar, perched upon a high point commanding a magnificent
+landscape.
+
+                 [Picture: Oli Purum.  Photo. Fred Shaw]
+
+About tea-time a jolly face appeared at our tent door, announcing the
+arrival of Gil’roy’s brother Jim, and, just as dusk was enfolding the
+scene, a merry boy came bounding into the camp.  This was Deborah Purum’s
+Willy, who told us that Bala Fair was to take place on the morrow.
+Lively indeed was our camp this evening, for had not our company
+increased by two?  Resolving to set off in good time toward Bala in the
+morning, we slipped into our beds about midnight, and soon forgot to
+listen to the owls hooting mournfully in the woods.
+
+             [Picture: A Gypsy Harpist.  Photo. W. Ferguson]
+
+_May_ 14.—A white mist on the mountains foretold a fine day, and by 6.30
+we were breakfasting on trout and bacon done over a wood fire.  Then
+harnessing the mare to the tilt-cart, we all climbed aboard, and away we
+rattled towards Bala.  The wayside woods were empurpled with hyacinths,
+and on the hedge-banks little bushes of bilberry hung out their crimson
+flowers.  Oli Purum, who is half a Welsh Gypsy, could tell us the very
+names of the families who had camped round the black patches on the
+roadsides.  Springing off the cart, he would examine the heaps of
+willow-peelings with a critical eye.  “_Âwa_, (yes) I thought so.  It’s
+some of the Klisons (Locks) that’s been _hatsh_in _akai_ (stopping
+here).”  A splendid trotter, our mare made light work of pulling the
+tilt-cart over those seventeen miles down the vale to Bala.  Of course we
+were all wondering as to the Gypsies we might see at the fair.  What a
+crowd of farm-folk we found filling the streets on our arrival.  Just in
+front of the “White Lion” hostelry, I saw a potter-woman standing before
+a spread of crockery of all shapes and sizes on the side of the road,
+and, curiously enough, I had once met her son, Orlando Fox, at Bristol.
+
+Little did we dream, however, of the surprise awaiting us here in Bala.
+Elbowing our way through the dense crowd, it was Gilderoy who was the
+first to exclaim, “_Dik odoi_” (Look there), and turning our gaze that
+way, there, sure enough, was a very dark old Gypsy with grizzled locks
+and glittering black eyes.  His garments were weathered by long wear amid
+the mountains, and in him I recognized the patriarchal Matthew (a
+descendant of Abraham Wood) whom I had met some years before.
+
+The Woods preserve many stories of Abraham, their earliest known
+progenitor, who flourished about the beginning of the eighteenth century.
+Entering Wales from Somerset, he brought with him a violin, and is
+supposed to have been the first to play upon one in the Principality.
+According to tradition, “He always rode on a blood-horse, would not sleep
+in the open but in barns, wore a three-cocked hat with gold lace, a red
+silk coat, a waistcoat embroidered with green leaves, had half-crowns for
+buttons on his coat, sported white breeches gaily decked with ribbons,
+pumps with silver buckles and spurs, a gold watch and chain, and two gold
+rings.”  Many of Abraham’s descendants are excellent players on the harp,
+and all, without exception, speak pure, deep, inflected Romany, akin to
+the beautiful musical dialect spoken by the Gypsies of Eastern Europe.
+Angling all summer, fiddling or harping all winter, such is the life of
+the Gypsy Woods of Wales.
+
+It was with joy that we rambled with Matty along the shore of Bala Llyn,
+a glittering mirror in the sunshine broken only by rings made by rising
+fish.  The windless day of summerlike quality induced our little party to
+loiter by the lake, and when at length we turned to come away, there on
+the road stood a Romany lass with her little brother, as merry a pair as
+ever wore Gypsy togs.  To me it was very delightful to hear their fluent
+Welsh Romany.
+
+There was no difficulty in persuading Matty to accompany us to our camp
+at Maerdy.  He seemed only too glad to escape into the sweet open country
+after the close atmosphere of the town streets.  And how the mare did
+travel after her feed and rest!  On and on up the mountain road we went,
+startling the horned sheep on the unfenced roadsides.  Now and then Matty
+would point out the spots where his old folks used to camp.  Well away
+from the town, we took a bite of bread and cheese at a tiny white inn
+backed by a strip of pine forest, from whose shadows darted a grey
+sheep-dog almost wolf-like in its leanness of figure and sharpness of
+nose.  What a penetrating bark it had too!
+
+A few more miles of rough road, with here a lone farm and there a cottage
+with lumps of white spar on its window-ledges, brought us once again to
+the “Cymro,” Maerdy, where we encountered a funny horse-breaker,
+reminding one of Borrow’s gossipy ostlers.  Oli Purum’s tricks here “took
+the cake,” and to the delight of his audience he kept up a constant
+stream of them.
+
+To-night we felt that fate had been extraordinarily kind to us, as by the
+fire we sat listening to Matty’s weird tales and to Oli’s rendering of
+“The Shepherd of Snowdon” and other Welsh airs on his violin.  A rare
+stock of tales has Matty—stories replete with enchanted castles, green
+dragons, witches, ghosts, and the hero is nearly always a clever Gypsy
+named Jack.  Matty is Oli’s cousin, and it is charming to see how happy
+they are together.
+
+To me this is a holiday indeed.  The utter absence of conventionality,
+and the diversions of the Gypsy life, are as balm to one’s nerves.
+
+_May_ 15.—To-day is another blue and golden foretaste of summer.  Along
+the banks of the Alwen, dodging in and out among huge boulders, climbing
+fences, scrambling through the masses of flowering gorse and broom,
+Gilderoy, Matty, and I made our way to Bettws-Gwerfil-Goch.  In the old
+inn, a cool retreat after the broiling sunshine in the wooded valley, we
+sat awhile.  Years ago I saw Matty and his sons dance on the blue-stone
+floor of this room, just after the New Year had come in—a time when all
+Welsh folk are merry with fiddle and song.
+
+               [Picture: A Happy Pair.  Photo. W. Ferguson]
+
+On getting back to our camp in the early evening, all hands set to work,
+some gathering sticks, others fetching water, and soon the supper was
+spread inside the roomy tent.  Tales and talk till the late-rising moon
+glinted through the holes nibbled by field-mice in the tent blankets.
+Then to dreamland.
+
+            [Picture: A Chat by the Gate.  Photo. W. Ferguson]
+
+_May_ 16.—This morning I find thin ice on a pail of water standing in the
+open.  How bracing to complete your toilet in the cool air from the
+mountains.  See with what tenderness the sunlight colours the rocks up
+there by the hillside farmstead.  For the first time since coming into
+Wales I hear the cuckoo calling in the woods.  High up on the slope I see
+a black horse dragging a hurdle with thorn boughs weighted by stones—a
+primitive harrow.  I’ll have a scamper down the road through the keen air
+of morn, before the sun has drunk up all the dew.
+
+After breakfast I go a-fishing.  Home in the afternoon to find some of
+the Gypsy Locks coming down the Holyhead Road with their carts and
+ponies; a delightful party, and much _rokerben_ (conversation) followed.
+
+A little later Gilderoy and I drive in the tilt-cart to Corwen to fetch
+Fred o’ the Bawro Gav.  This means more fun for us round the evening
+fire.  When depressed in days to come, I want to remember that flow of
+Gypsy mirth away there under the shadow of Cader Dinmael, while the
+oak-groves outside our tent whispered in the rising wind of night.
+
+_May_ 17.—Farewell, tent and caravan and tilt-cart.  Farewell, old pals
+beside your smoking fires.  Farewell, sweet Wales and your beautiful
+mountains.  To-day I return to civilization.
+
+Oli Purum drove me to Corwen station, and by night I am at home again on
+the Wolds of Lincolnshire.
+
+
+
+II
+
+
+_September_ 27.—We are at Sedbergh, a little grey town at the foot of the
+Yorkshire Fells.  Stone walls, narrow streets, old inns—all have their
+outlines softened by the mellow shadows, half-golden, half-brown,
+stealing over the place this afternoon.  Looking out from a tavern window
+I experience a thrill.  There in the street stand two vehicles, a _vâdo_
+and a tilt-cart, with sleek horses between their shafts.  That tilt-cart
+I should know anywhere, for under its weathered hood I have dreamt happy
+dreams.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+“I say, pals, we must be stirring.  Come along,” exclaims Gilderoy Gray,
+rising from his corner on the smooth-worn settle.  We follow our leader
+into the street, and, boarding those vehicles, we are not long in getting
+clear of Sedbergh town.  Bound for Brough Hill Horse-Fair, our party of
+six never had a gayer prospect.  Here we are on the road again—Gil’roy,
+Merry Jim, Fred o’ the Bawro Gav, Oli Purum, his son Willy, and the
+Gypsy’s Parson. . . .
+
+But even the brightest of September days must wane, and soon to right and
+left of us dark ridges lift themselves against the fading light.  Our
+first stage is a short one.  Nightfall sees us pull up at Cautley Crag,
+where we seek a stopping-place in the small croft adjoining the lonely
+white inn on the roadside.  However, the gate proves too narrow to admit
+our carts, so we draw upon the wayside turf, under the shelter of a stone
+wall.  Nimble as ever, Oli erects the red blanket tent in the croft, and
+Willy busies himself in building a good fire.  When an abundance of brown
+bracken has been laid down in the tent (no fresh straw is to be had), the
+customary rugs are spread and we sit down to supper.  Pipes and chatter
+make the evening hours fly.  There is so much Gypsy news to talk over.
+At last, having placed a warning lantern, like a pendant star, on one of
+the carts, we tumble into our beds and quickly fall asleep.
+
+_September_ 28.—A keen, clear autumn morn making you feel how good it is
+to be alive.  After pottering about the camp, Gilderoy and I wander along
+the bank of the roaring Rawthey, while Jim and Fred, lured by the shine
+and glamour of the sunlit mountains, set off across the dewy moor for a
+closer look at the “Spout,” as the waterfall up the dingle is described
+on the map.  Down by the plank-bridge I stand and look at the fells all
+a-shimmer in the sun.  Far up beyond the region of stone walls, built
+(says our Oli) in the days when labourers received a wage of a penny a
+day, one’s eye follows the forms of mountain ponies, horned sheep, and a
+couple of shepherds roaming with their dogs.  Nearer, on the river-bank,
+are small companies of geese preening their feathers in the sunshine.  I
+hear from our landlord that prowling hill-foxes sometimes snap up a goose
+on the moor. . . .
+
+Breakfast over, we were busy packing when some of the Whartons (Oli’s
+relations) passed by in their light accommodation carts _en route_ for
+Brough Fair, so Oli and Willy must needs rush out to gather the latest
+news of the road.  This meant a trifling delay in our getting off, for
+Gypsies are loquacious.  However, by 9.30 we were once more “on travel,”
+feeling blithe as larks.  Rumble-rumble went the wheels on the road, and
+all was going as merry as a marriage bell until a single magpie flitted
+across our track.  Observing the bird of ill-omen, I quoted the old-time
+ditty—
+
+    “One for sorrow, two for mirth,
+    Three for a wedding, four for a birth.”
+
+“That’s only an old woman’s tale,” quoth the Gypsy, flicking the horse’s
+glossy back with the ends of the reins.  Yet, a mile or so farther on,
+Oli was the first to discover that the horse had cast a shoe.  Handing
+over the reins, the lithe Gypsy went off at a trot, and not long after he
+came up flaunting the lost shoe, just as the smith at Court Common was
+ready, tools in hand, to put it on.
+
+            [Picture: ’Neath Cautley Crag.  Photo. Fred Shaw]
+
+Under the lee of a wood of bronzed beeches we made a stick fire to warm
+the stew-pot, while the smith replaced the shoe amid an interested group
+of yokels who had popped up from goodness knows where.
+
+The wonderfully transparent atmosphere of this region appears to possess
+magnifying powers, for even the poultry on the distant knolls assume the
+forms of huge birds, and as for the gaunt lady who sat “taking the air”
+on a lonesome bench half a mile away, she would have passed right enough
+for the wife of Goliath, if that celebrity ever possessed a missis.
+
+In a locality like this, romance and poetry meet one at every turn.  A
+commonplace duck-pond in a grassy hollow does not, perhaps, suggest the
+glamorous things of life; yet the small tarn lying before us in the
+sunshine is the subject of a curious local legend.  Here, says tradition,
+you are treading upon fairy ground, for in this dimple in front of the
+beech wood you have a _bottomless pool_!
+
+             [Picture: A Bottomless Pool.  Photo. Fred Shaw]
+
+As for yon grey house amid the trees on the common’s upper edge, well,
+the man for whom it was built lived in it but a day and died, and over
+the doorway somebody has inscribed the text, “Occupy till I come.”
+
+Soon after quitting the common, Wild Boar Fell begins to mark the skyline
+on our right, and now all around us lies a realm of strewn rocks—
+
+    “Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly hurled,
+    The fragments of an earlier world.”
+
+A stiff push up the inclines brought us at last to the high point from
+whence the road dipped into the long straggling town of Kirkby-Stephen.
+Verily the place seemed to have dropped asleep in the September sun.
+With as little delay as possible we held on our way until, by 5 p.m., we
+had made Warcop and had pitched behind the farmhouse where we had stayed
+on previous happy occasions.
+
+With all hands to work, the tent was put up in record time, and as the
+ruddy sundown tinged the tree boles near our camp, we gathered round the
+fire for the evening meal.  Thus closed a superb summerlike day.
+
+_September_ 29.—Somewhere about 7 a.m. a whiff of tobacco smoke comes
+curling pleasantly round the edge of our bunk in the tilt-cart, and I
+become aware that my bedmate, Fred o’ the Bawro Gav, is dressing.
+“There’s a heavy dew this morning,” says he, turning back the coverings
+at the entrance of the cart; and in a little while I am up and washing
+outside, and perceive for myself that the cobwebs on the hedge are
+delicately jewelled with drops of dew.  “Look at the calves,” says Fred,
+“pretty fellows, aren’t they?”  My companion has quite a farmer’s eye for
+things, and as a weather-prophet he rarely makes a mistake.  Overhead low
+clouds are rolling, or rather masses of dove-coloured mist, with patches
+of blue sky showing between, and already the mountains rising to the
+north are richly bathed in sunshine.
+
+During the forenoon Gilderoy, Fred, and I stretch our legs in a stroll
+upon the sunlit “Hill,” where the Gypsies are encamped in considerable
+numbers for the morrow’s great horse-fair.  Many familiar faces greet us
+on every hand.  Now it is Pat Lee who springs out from a group and nearly
+twists off Fred’s hand, so vigorous is the shaking it receives, and now I
+am honoured by an invitation to test the weight of Femi Coleman’s new
+baby.  From the doorway of a gorgeous _vâdo_ Sophia Lovell thrusts out
+her black poll and inquires after our Oli.  In this manner, with many
+variations, we make our way between the camps, and our ramble proves
+enjoyable in every way.
+
+            [Picture: A Wandering Minstrel.  Photo. Fred Shaw]
+
+Going back to the wagons at Warcop, we drop into an inn, and by a bit of
+luck it happens that a “character” is present in the person of “Fiddling”
+Billy Williams, the wandering minstrel, who at our request takes his
+brown violin from a bag on his back and plays some lively airs, and Oli
+and Willy Purum, who have turned up, dance cleverly to a tune or two on
+the smooth-worn, blue-stone floor.  But Old Billy—I cannot take my eyes
+off him.  Look at his weathered coat (a gift from Lord Lonsdale) which in
+the course of years has lost its nap and shows here and there patches of
+a ruddy lower layer; surely the nondescript garment suits the grizzled
+old wanderer to perfection.  Watching him closely, I observe that he has
+a very passable acquaintance with the Gypsy tongue, so, edging towards
+him, I drop a deep sentence into his ear.  How he starts!  “You know
+something,” says he.  Then he goes on to tell me that as a boy he
+travelled with no less renowned a personage than John Roberts, the Welsh
+Gypsy harpist.  Here’s a find.  Who ever expected to meet a pupil of Old
+Janik’s in a remote Westmorland inn?  Billy says that Roberts taught him
+how to “scrape music off these things,” twanging the fiddle-strings with
+a forefinger, and smiling sweetly as he does it.  For myself, I count
+this meeting with Fiddling Billy one of the “events” of our trip.
+
+In the evening we again rambled on the “Hill” to see a memorable
+sight—hundreds of Gypsy fires with rings of dark figures squatting around
+the blazing logs.  A feast for the eyes of a lover of the nomads was this
+array of firelit faces set against a background of caravans, stone walls,
+and mountains.
+
+_September_ 30.—A fine morning with a cool wind blowing from the east.
+As we sat at breakfast, a clatter of hoofs on the road announced belated
+arrivals for the fair.  Early in the forenoon we found ourselves in the
+thick of the crowd, which, to me, seemed as big as ever on Brough Hill.
+Once upon a time this fair used to last a whole week, much more indeed
+for the Gypsy element, but nowadays the last day of September and the
+first day of October are the only recognized dates.  Droves of fell
+ponies took up a large space on the fair-ground.  A few heavy horses and
+a sprinkling of “bloods” met the eye at times.  For one thing we could
+see our Gypsy friends busy upon their “native heath,” for where is a
+Gypsy at home if it is not at a horse-fair?
+
+As evening approached, an ugly bank of inky-black cloud came over the
+mountains, and the wind in rude gusts began to wail, Valkyrie-like, in
+the tree-tops, and to shake our wagons in a way that reminded one of a
+night at sea.  Thus the day which had opened so gaily ended in real
+“Brough weather.”
+
+An authority on that local phenomenon known as the “Helm” wind writes:
+“The field of its operation extends from near Brough for a distance of
+perhaps thirty miles down the Eden Valley towards Carlisle, and is
+sharply restricted to the belt lying between the Pennines and the river;
+never, on the one hand, being encountered on the actual summit of the
+range, and never, on the other, crossing the water.  Bitterly cold, it
+rushes like a tornado down the slope, and works havoc in the valley
+below.  If the “Helm” happens to blow during the fair, the proprietors of
+scores of refreshment tents may usually bid farewell to all the canvas
+they possess.”
+
+           [Picture: Brough Hill Horse Fair.  Photo. Valentine]
+
+The Gypsies, to whom I have ever mentioned the “Helm” wind at Brough,
+invariably shrug their shoulders, as if it were an old friend, and not a
+very welcome one at that.
+
+_October_ 1.—We were all afoot in good time this morning, six o’clock or
+thereabouts, and right glad we were to see the sun breaking through the
+mists over Brough Fox Tower.  Taking a halter apiece, Fred and I went to
+fetch the horses.  Breakfast; then we packed, and away we went.
+“Good-bye, old camping-place,” we said, as the wagons reached the
+Musgrave ramper, for very pleasant had been our sojourn by the spreading
+trees beyond the old farmhouse.  On the way to Kirkby-Stephen, many light
+carts rattled past, going south, and, after the stiff pull out of the
+town, it was good to be once more on the open road with the keen mountain
+air blowing on our faces from over wide leagues of rocks and heather.
+
+By early evening we had reached Cautley, where, as before, we drew on to
+the strip of wayside turf, and in quick time a couple of plump fowls were
+roasting in the black pot over a wood fire.  To watch Oli prepare and
+cook those fowls was an object-lesson to be remembered.  Bravo, Oli, our
+Romany chef!
+
+Realizing that this was our last evening in the wilds, we were in no
+hurry to get between the blankets.  So we stretched out the tales, and
+meandered leisurely through the fields of reminiscence, while the cloud
+of tobacco smoke grew denser around us, and the stars o’ night shone more
+and more brightly over Cautley’s black crag.
+
+_October_ 2.—Up at seven to find the sky almost free from clouds and
+holding out the promise of a brilliant wind-up.  After breakfast we set
+off for Lancaster, near whose castle we parted; and now, over fireside
+pipes, my notebook and its jottings possess the power to make every sight
+and sound of the journey live again.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXII
+FURZEMOOR
+
+
+ARE you seeking a recipe for youth?  Go a-Gypsying.  Forth to the winding
+road under the open sky, the Gypsies are calling you.  Scorning our
+hurrying mode of life, these folk are content to loiter beneath the green
+beeches, or in the shadow of some old inn on the fringe of a windy
+common.  Like Nature herself, these wildlings of hers overflow with the
+play-spirit and therefore remain ever youthful.  To rub shoulders with
+them, I have found, is to acquire a laughing indifference to dull care
+and all its melancholy train.  Whoever then would grow light-hearted and
+become just a happy child of sun and star and stream, let him respond to
+the call of the road: let him go a-Gypsying.
+
+Long ago I observed that during the pleasanter months of the year a few
+families of wanderers were generally to be found encamped upon a secluded
+waste—which I will call Furzemoor—where, by the courtesy of the owner,
+they were allowed to remain as long as they pleased.  They resorted
+thither, so it seemed to me, to recuperate from the effects of their
+winter’s sojourn upon the city ash-patches hemmed in by unsavoury gas-lit
+streets.
+
+One April afternoon, following close upon a lengthy stay in London, I
+remember how blithely I tramped along the grassy cart-track, which, after
+winding between hedgerows full of green sprays, sweet odours and tinkling
+bird-notes, emerged upon rugged Furzemoor—one of those few places which
+in after years become for you backgrounds of dream-like delight by reason
+of the memories associated with them.  Is it not to such spots that the
+fancy turns when the mood of the commonplace hangs heavily upon you, and
+any shred of adventure would be more stirring to the heart than “the
+cackle of our burg,” which is too often mistaken for “the murmur of the
+world”?
+
+No matter how often I came, the moor had ever the power to stir one’s
+imagination anew by its suggestive atmosphere of the remote, the aloof,
+the wild; and having paused at the end of the lane to renew old
+recollections, I went forward and peered over the edge of a declivity
+fringed with bushes of furze in golden flower.  Ah! there below the
+slope, kissed by the warm sun and fanned by the breath of spring from off
+the heath, lay the brown tents, tilt-carts, and smouldering fires of a
+Romany camp, looking strangely deserted save for a girlish figure
+reclining near one of the fires over which a kettle was slung.  Pushing
+between the bushes, my blundering feet loosened some large stones which
+rolled down the bank with a rattle, causing the girl to look sharply over
+her shoulder, and simultaneously from her red lips came a warning
+whistle, a shrill penetrating note first ascending then dropping again.
+I had heard that whistle of old and knew well its significance.  In
+response thereto a Gypsy man appeared from behind the tents, his keen
+eyes gleaming with recognition.  “Hey, _rashai_, we’s been a-talking
+about you lately.  Only last night I was saying, p’raps our pass’n will
+be coming to see us one of these days, and here you are!”
+
+Such was the greeting I got from Gypsy Sam, who now wheeled about and
+walked me off to a sandy hollow where his wife Lottie and her bairns sat
+by the fire.  On catching sight of me, the children—a black-eyed
+troop—raised a shout of welcome, and, like little savages, soon began
+tugging at my coat tails.  After an absence of several months from the
+camping-place this was a joyful meeting, and I guessed that my friends
+had much news to tell.
+
+         [Picture: Gypsy Children.  Photo. Illustrations Bureau]
+
+“It’s no use pretending to offer you a chair,” said Lottie, giving my
+hand a hearty shake, “for we haven’t got one.  If there’s anything I does
+detest, it’s chairs.  The nasty things make sich draughts about ’ur
+legs.”  So, squatting on the ground, I awaited the unfolding of the
+family budget.
+
+There was a touch of the Orient on every side.  Stuck in the wind-rippled
+sand under a bold wall of rock were curved tent-rods with brown blankets
+pinned round them.  Between the golden furze clumps a lean horse and a
+shaggy ass ripped the grasses.  A greyhound lay asleep under a tilt-cart
+upon the shafts of which sundry gay garments were hanging to dry.  Upon
+this picture my eye rested with pleasure.
+
+Now Gypsy Sam ignites his tobacco by scooping up a red ember with the
+bowl of his pipe.  His wife does the same, and I follow suit.
+
+“A prettier place is this,” quoth Lottie, “than when you see’d us under
+that ugly railway bank at Hull.”
+
+Verily the Gypsies are possessed of an æsthetic sense, and their roving
+eyes grow wistful as they take in the beauty of the distant hills and the
+sun-gleams lighting up grassy knolls and spindly fir-trees rising from
+patches of sand.
+
+“You remember that _pawno grai_ (white horse) of ours?” says Sam.  “Well,
+we lost him a little while back.  A bit of _wafro bok_ (bad luck) that
+was for us.  We was stopping at a place with nasty bogs around us, and
+one stormy night the _grai_ got into one of ’em unbeknown to we, and i’
+the morning we found him with no more than his nose sticking out.  Of
+course he were dead as a stone.  Then there was that _kawlo jukel_ (black
+dog) what you saw at Hull—brother to this one under the cart—he got
+poisoned up yonder by Rotherham.  I reckon a keeper done it as had a
+spite agen us.  I wouldn’t ha’ parted with that dog for a good deal; he’s
+got us many a rabbit.”
+
+The steaming splutter of the kettle suggests a meal, which is soon spread
+in winsome style.  Meanwhile, from another fire hard by, a black pot is
+brought, and a savoury stew is followed by tea and slices of buttered
+bread with green cresses fresh from the brook.  As Lottie lifts the
+silver teapot to pour out tea, I cannot help admiring the lovely old
+thing, and the Gypsy sees my appreciation.
+
+“Yes,” (holding it up in the sunlight), “it’s a beauty, ain’t it?  Did
+you ever hear of my Aunt Jōni’s quart silver teapot?  Squire Shandres
+used to fix greedy eyes on it whenever he come down to the camp, but my
+aunt wouldn’t part with it, not likely.  You won’t remember Jōni, of
+course.  A funny old woman she were, to be sure.  There was one thing I
+minds her a-telling of us.  She’d been out with her _kipsi_ (basket) but
+it weren’t one of her good days, and by night her basket was nearly as
+heavy as when she’d set out.  Twopence was all she’d made, as she passed
+through three or four willages, tumble-down sort of places, where the
+house walls were bent and the thatches of the cottages were sinking into
+the rooms underneath ’em.  At one of these cottages as stood in an odd
+corner, Jōni stopped to knock.  Two steps led up to a green door with a
+bird-cage hanging outside.  She waited a minute, but as nobody came she
+gave two more raps and tried the door.  It was bolted.  After that she
+heard sounds inside, a muttering voice came nearer, and slip-slap went
+the shoes, as an old woman opened the door.  Talk about ugly, she was
+that, if you like; and there was hair growing on her lip and chin.
+Fixing her black eyes on Jōni, she scowled and scolded, and, pointing a
+finger at her, she cursed poor Jōni, and for ten days afterwards my aunt
+couldn’t speak proper.  Whenever she tried to talk, she could only groan
+and bark and moo like the beastses, and it wasn’t till after the tenth
+day that she were herself at all.”
+
+From witches it was not a long leap to wise men.
+
+Said Lottie, “Did I ever tell you about the wise man of Northampton?
+Well, it was one time as I’d had wery bad luck indeed with my basket.  I
+couldn’t sell nothing at all in the willages agen that town, but I know’d
+a _gozvero mush_ (wise man) as lived there, so I went to see him, and he
+give me a rabbit’s head and a cake of bread.  ‘Now,’ says he, ‘go you and
+call at the places where you’ve took nothing, and you’ll take money at
+all of ’em.’
+
+“And what he told me came true, every word of it.  I’ll take my sacrium
+oath it did.  That there _gozvero mush_ (wise man) could tell the names
+of folks as had stolen things, and he could _dûker_ (tell fortunes) like
+one of us.  He could tell folk a lot about theirselves by rubbing his
+hand over the bumps on their heads, and he could read the stars like a
+book, and find out things by the cards and by the crystal.  He was sort
+of friendly with our people, and they liked him, but they would never go
+near a witch if they knew it.”
+
+It has been truly said, “No one is fond of Gypsies, but is fonder of
+Gypsy children.”  Grave-eyed pixies, at once bold and reserved, these
+quaint little sprites are simply irresistible.  When the meal is over, I
+stroll off with a party of these romping rascals towards a gorsy hollow
+which the sun warms into a gayer gold.  Asking the children if they would
+like a tale, and what sort?  Answer comes, “A _muleno gudlo_” (fairy
+tale).
+
+“How long?”
+
+“A mile long, in course.”
+
+Into my tale creeps a ghost, and when I had done, little Reuben says—
+
+“I know something about _mulos_ (ghosts).  One time a man was killed by a
+bull at the corner of the lane down yonder, and we allus hurries past
+that place for fear of _dik_in his _mulo_” (seeing his ghost).  “And then
+there was two Gypsies as father once know’d.  They begged some straw from
+a farmer and put it in a little shed for to sleep on.  Then they went
+into the willage to buy a loaf, and when they got back they found the
+straw had gone.  A little ways off they see’d a woman running away with
+the straw, but ’stid of follering her they went straight to the farmhouse
+where they’d got leave to sleep in the shed, and they told the farmer
+about the woman, and he says—
+
+“‘Why, that’s my old woman as died ten year ago.’  My word, those Gypsies
+soon began to look out for a sleeping-place somewhere else.  Yes, we
+knows a lot about _mulo_s.”
+
+“What’s that noise?” asked one of the girls, springing up.
+
+“Come away _tshavê_ (children).  Come away, sir.  Don’t you hear that
+nasty little _sap_” (snake)?
+
+From among the mossy stones near at hand came a hissing sound, and there,
+sure enough, was a small viper wagging his black-forked tongue at us.  We
+got up and moved nearer the camp.
+
+“Norfolk’s the place for sarpints,” said one of the boys; “I once see one
+with a frog in its mouth.  Lor, how the poor thing did squeal.  There’s
+lots of lizards about here, and they say that a _hotshi_ (hedgehog) will
+eat ’em, but if I thought _that_ I’d never touch no more _hotshi_ s’long
+as I live.”
+
+I told the children of a little incident which had happened on my way to
+Furzemoor, how I had cycled into a family of weasels crossing the road
+but didn’t run over any of them, and, dismounting, I banged one of the
+little fellows with my hat.  He lay still, and I thought he was dead, but
+when I turned my head for a moment he was gone like a flash.  Lottie, who
+had drawn near and was listening, remarked—
+
+“It’s bad luck to meet a wezzel on the _drom_ (road), but if there’s
+anything we does like to meet, it’s the Romany _tshiriklo_ (bird),” which
+I knew to be the pied wagtail, the foreteller of coming Gypsies.
+
+“When we sees our _tshiriklo_ on the road, and it flies, we knows we are
+going to meet Gypsies who’ll be akin to us, but if it only runs away, the
+travellers coming will be strangers.  One day me and my man was on the
+_drom_ and we see a young hare tumbling over and over in front of us.
+That’s a sign as means ill, and, sure enough, a few days after we heard
+tell of the death of my man’s uncle ’Lijah.  Talking about meeting
+things, I’ve heard it said that if you meet two carts, one tied behind
+t’other, you’ll soon go to prison.”
+
+The strains of a fiddle now proceeded from where Sam sat alone by the
+fire, and we joined him.  As the sun was going down one of the girls
+proposed a dance, and soon a merry whirl of Gypsy elves enlivened the
+camp.  By the fireside, reminiscences came crowding into Sam’s brain.
+
+“Many’s the time, as you know, we’ve draw’d on to this place, and I takes
+good care to be friendly with all the keepers round here.  I never
+meddles wi’ nothink, you see, so we never gets across wi’ ’em.  Ay, but I
+minds when I didn’t used to be so pertikler.  See that oak wood up
+yonder?  In my young days me and my old mammy got leave from a keeper to
+gather acorns in that wood.  Us used to take ’ur sacks and fill ’em with
+acorns and sell ’em to a man as we know’d.  And mam ’ud warn me not to
+meddle with the rabbits, lest we should be forbid to stop on here.  One
+afternoon mam had half-filled her sack, and when her back was turned, I
+tumbled the acorns out, and slipped into the sack three rabbits as I’d
+knocked over, and I put the acorns back on the top of ’em.  I was a good
+big lad then, and, my, wasn’t I frit when I see the keeper coming with
+his dog.  When he got up to us, he and mam got a-talking, and I see the
+dog sniffing round the bag.  The keeper, thinking that there was only
+acorns in it, shouts to the dog, “Come away there.”  But the dog stuck
+there, and I was trembling in my boots for fear we should get into
+trouble.  Howsiver, the keeper kept calling the dog off, and soon they
+goes away.  Then I nips up the bag and trots off home with it, and when I
+told mam about it afterwards she gave me a downright good scolding and
+begged me never to do it no more.
+
+“Our old folks allus travelled with pack-donkeys, and they had one donkey
+as was a wery knowing animal.  I’ll tell you one thing it did.  We was
+stopping in a lane of a summer’s evening, and our _foki_ (people) was
+smoking afore the fire under a hedge with the children playing round, and
+everybody was as happy as the Lord in Heaven, but all at once our _maila_
+(donkey) comes and pokes its head atween daddy and me, and I taps it on
+the nose, playful-like, to send it away, but it comes back, and it was
+that restless and fidgety, poking and pulling at us—it wouldn’t be druv
+off.  My mammy had been watching it from the tent, and she come up and
+says—
+
+“‘That _maila_ knows summut, I reckons.’
+
+“‘Ay, it’s a sign sure enough,’ says daddy.  And the donkey still kep’ on
+poking and pulling at us.  Long and by last dad says—
+
+“‘We’d better clear out of here,’ for he thought there was summut queer
+about the donkey’s goings on.  Well, we pulled up the tent rods and
+packed ’ur things, and we’d only just got out of the lane when two
+horsemen come along and began inquiring about a little pig as was missing
+from a farm.  They made us unpack, and they searched through everythink,
+but, of course, they couldn’t find nothink agen us, and they goes their
+way and we goes ours.  And that night, after we had settled down in an
+old quarry a bit furder on, my daddy beckoned me and took me to a deep
+hollow full o’ dead leaves, and, scrabbling among ’em, he takes out—what
+do you think?  The nicest little _bawlo_ (porker) you ever see’d, and we
+gets it safe home.  That donkey _did_ know summut after all.  Ay, them
+were the old times.  Things is wery different now.
+
+“If you come here to-morrow you’ll mebbe walk up with me to the planting
+on t’other side of yon beck.  The _rai_ as this land belongs to lets me
+_tshin_ (cut) all the _wuzen_ (elder) I wants.  My old daddy used to say—
+
+“‘You should never lay a chopper to a tree wi’out first axing the
+fairies’ leave,’ but folks forgets to do it now.”
+
+The eyes of my friends here began to turn frequently in the direction of
+the cart-track.  Indeed, when their eyes were not looking that way it
+seemed to me that their minds still were.  Nor was this expectancy to go
+long unsatisfied, for soon there appeared in the sunken lane a black
+chimney topping a green-hooded vehicle, a light cart bringing up the
+rear.  These Gypsies turned out to be a married son of Sam, with his wife
+and family.  Here was a jolly arrival.  With surprising rapidity the
+horses were unyoked, and the newcomers were gathered round their parents
+on the grass.  Off to a well-known spring run the girls to fill the
+kettle and a bucket or two, and the boys scamper off towards a spinney to
+return with an abundance of dead wood.  Then how the fires crackle and
+spurt, and in next to no time the steam is puffing from kettle spouts.
+
+Feeling ten years younger for my visit to the Furzemoor Gypsies, I
+climbed up the deeply-rutted lane on the way to the distant railway
+station, and, as I turned for a last look, brown hands were waving, and
+_kushto bok_ (good luck), which is the Gypsy’s “good-bye,” was shouted
+after me.  On my part I felt a strong tugging at the heart when, at a
+bend in the lane, I caught a farewell glimpse of the domed tents,
+upcurling blue smoke, and happy Gypsies among the golden gorse.
+
+
+
+
+GLOSSARY
+
+
+PRONUNCIATION {291}
+
+
+I.  VOWEL-SOUNDS
+
+            AS IN
+â      alms (âms).
+a      aloe (alô).
+aw     all (awl).
+ê      ale (êl).
+è      air (èr).
+e      ell (el).
+î      eel (îl).
+i      ill (il).
+ô      old (ôld).
+o      olive (oliv).
+û      ooze (ûz).
+u      book (buk).
+ù      ulcer (ùlsa).
+
+II.  DIPHTHONGS
+
+             AS IN
+ai     aisle (ail).
+oi     oyster (oista).
+ou     ounce (ouns).
+
+III.  CONSONANTS
+
+
+The following are pronounced as in English:—
+
+                   b, d, f, h, k, l, m, n, p, t, v, w.
+
+v and w are, as a rule, easily interchangeable.
+
+                     AS IN
+y           yes (yes).
+r           roam (rôm).
+ch          loch (Scottish loch).
+s           ass (as).
+sh          shin (shin).
+tsh         chin (tshin).
+z           zest (zest).
+zh          pleasure (plezhur).
+j (dzh)     jest (jest).
+g           gate (gêt).
+ng          singer (singa).
+ngg         finger (fingga).
+th          thin (thin).
+dh          then (dhen).
+
+VOCABULARY.
+
+         ROMANY.                            ENGLISH.
+Adrê                       In, into, within.
+Akai                       Here.
+Apopli                     Again.
+Aprê                       On, upon.
+Av                         Come.
+Âva, âvali, âwa, âwali     Yes, certainly, verily
+Avrî                       Away, out.
+
+Bâ                         Stone, sovereign (£1).
+Baiengri                   Waistcoat.
+Bal                        Hair.
+Balovas                    Bacon, ham.
+Barvelo                    Rich.
+Baw                        Comrade, mate.
+Bawlo                      Pig.
+Bawro                      Great, large.
+Bawro-Gav                  London.
+Beng                       Devil.
+Besh                       Sit, rest, lie.
+Bîbi                       Aunt.
+Biken                      Sell.
+Bita                       Little.
+Bitshado                   Sent.
+Bitshado-pawdel            Sent over, transported.
+Bok                        Luck.
+Bokro                      Sheep.
+Bokro-mas                  Mutton.
+Bongo                      Crooked, lame, wrong.
+Boshomengro                Fiddler.
+Bouri                      Snail.
+Bouri-zimen                Snail-broth.
+Bûdika                     Shop.
+
+Dâbla                      Exclamation of surprise.
+Dadus                      Father.
+Dai                        Mother.
+Dawdi                      Exclamation of surprise.
+Delaben                    Gift.
+Del-aprê                   Read.
+Didakai                    Half-breed Gypsy.
+Dik                        See, look.
+Dikamengri                 Picture, looking-glass.
+Diklo                      Kerchief.
+Dinelo                     Fool, simpleton.
+Diri                       Dear.
+Divus                      Day.
+Dosta                      Enough, plenty.
+Dova                       That.
+Drom                       Road.
+Dûi                        Two.
+Dûker                      Tell fortunes.
+Dûkeripen                  Fortune.
+Dûvel                      God.
+
+Fôki                       People.
+
+Gad                        Shirt.
+Gawjikeno                  Belonging to gentiles.
+Gawjo                      Alien, gentile, anyone who is not a Gypsy.
+Gav                        Town.
+Gèro                       Man.
+Gozvero                    Cunning.
+Grai                       Horse.
+Gudlo                      Tale, noise.
+Guno                       Bag, sack.
+Hatsh                      Stop, camp.
+Hatsh-oprê                 Arise, get up.
+Haw                        Eat.
+Hawben                     A meal, food.
+Hĕro                       Leg, wheel.
+Hokano                     Lie, trick, swindle.
+Hora                       Penny.
+Hotsherdo                  Burnt.
+Hotshiwitshi               Hedgehog.
+
+Jaw                        Go.
+Jin                        Know.
+Jiv                        Live.
+Jukel                      Dog.
+
+Kai                        Where.
+Kanengro                   Hare.
+Kani                       Hen.
+Kawlo                      Black.
+Ke-divus                   To-day.
+Kek, keka                  No, not, never.
+Kel, kèr                   Do, make.
+Kèr                        House.
+Kipsi                      Basket.
+Kisi                       Much.
+Kitshima                   Tavern, public-house.
+Klîsin                     Lock.
+Kokero                     Self.
+Koliko                     To-morrow.
+Kom                        Love, like.
+Kon                        Who.
+Konaw                      Now.
+Kongri                     Church.
+Kopa                       Blanket.
+Kosht                      Stick, wood.
+Kova                       This, thing.
+Krafni                     Button.
+Kuro                       Cup, glass, mug.
+Kushto                     Good.
+Laj                        Shame.
+Latsher                    Find, pick up.
+Lav                        Word.
+Lavengro                   Word-man, linguist.
+Lel                        Get, take.
+Len, lendi                 Them, their.
+Lesti                      Him, his.
+Levina                     Beer.
+Lil                        Book, paper.
+Loli                       Red.
+Lova                       Money.
+
+Maila                      Donkey.
+Man, mandi                 I, me.
+Mas                        Meat.
+Masengro                   Butcher.
+Maw                        Don’t.
+Maw                        Kill, slay, murder.
+Mî, mîro, m’o              My, mine.
+Mokado                     Unclean.
+Mokto                      Box.
+Mol                        Wine.
+Mong                       Beg, pray, request.
+Monûshni                   Woman, wife.
+Mûi                        Mouth, face.
+Mûk                        Let, allow, leave, lend.
+Mûleno                     Ghostly, fairy, supernatural.
+Mûlo                       Dead, ghost.
+Mûlo-mas                   Carrion.
+Mûmeli                     Candle.
+Mumpari, mumper            Low-class traveller.
+Mumpli                     Nasty.
+Mûsh                       Man.
+Mûskro                     Policeman.
+
+Nasher                     Lose, waste.
+Nongo                      Naked, bald, bare.
+
+O                          The.
+Odoi                       There.
+Oprê                       On, up, upon.
+Ora                        Hour, watch.
+
+Pal                        Brother.
+Pâni                       Water.
+Pariko                     Thank.
+Patrin                     Trail, sign, leaf.
+Pawdel                     Across, over, beyond.
+Pawni                      Fair, white.
+Pen                        Sister.
+Pen                        Say.
+Peser                      Pay.
+Petulengro                 Smith.
+Pîro                       Foot.
+Pogado                     Broken.
+Poger                      Break.
+Porj                       Bridge.
+Posh                       Half.
+Praster                    Run.
+Pûker                      Tell.
+Pûkinger                   Magistrate.
+Pûri-dai                   Grandmother.
+Pûro                       Old.
+Pûrum                      Leek.
+Pûtsh                      Ask.
+Pûv                        Field.
+Pûvengri                   Potato.
+
+Rai, raia                  Gentleman, sir.
+Rakli                      Girl.
+Rashai                     Priest, parson.
+Rat                        Blood.
+Rat, rati                  Night.
+Rawni                      Lady.
+Rinkeno                    Beautiful.
+Rokamiaw                   Trousers.
+Roker                      Talk, speak.
+Rokerben                   Conversation, speech.
+Rom                        Husband.
+Romanes                    Gypsy-wise, Gypsy language.
+Romanitshel                Gypsy.
+Romano                     Gypsy.
+Romer                      Marry
+Rûp                        Silver.
+
+Sâ                         How.
+Sal                        Laugh.
+Sap                        Snake.
+Saw                        All, everything.
+Sawkûmi                    Everybody.
+Sawla                      Morning.
+Shan                       Are.
+Shûkora                    Sixpence.
+Shûn                       Hear.
+Shushi                     Rabbit.
+Sî                         Is.
+Sig                        Quickly, soon, early.
+Sô                         What.
+Sos                        Was.
+Stari                      Star.
+Staruben                   Prison.
+Stor                       Four.
+Swêgler                    Pipe.
+
+Ta                         And.
+Tâder                      Draw.
+Tălê                       Down.
+Tan                        Tent.
+Tâno                       Young.
+Tatsheno                   True, genuine.
+Tatshipen                  Truth.
+Tatsho                     True.
+Te                         To.
+Tem                        Country, land.
+Tîro                       Your.
+Tôv                        Wash.
+Trash                      Frighten.
+Trin                       Three.
+Tshai                      Lass, daughter, girl.
+Tshavo                     Son.
+Tshib                      Tongue, language.
+Tshikli                    Dirty, foul.
+Tshin                      Cut.
+Tshiriklo                  Bird.
+Tshitshi                   Nothing.
+Tshiv                      Put.
+Tshokaw                    Boots.
+Tshor                      Steal.
+Tshordo                    Stolen.
+Tshori                     Poor.
+Tshovihawni                Witch.
+Tshûmani                   Something.
+Tshûpni                    Whip.
+Tû, tût, tûti              You.
+Tûv                        Smoke.
+Tûvalo                     Tobacco.
+
+Vâdo                       Caravan, cart.
+Vâva                       Another.
+Vast                       Hand.
+Vel, wel                   Come.
+
+Wafodû, wafro              Bad.
+Wesh, vesh                 Wood, forest.
+Wûser                      Throw.
+Wûzen                      Elder.
+
+Yek                        One.
+Yog                        Fire.
+Yoi                        She.
+Yôra                       Egg.
+Yov                        He.
+
+Zimen                      Broth
+
+MUMPER’S PATTER
+
+Dunnock        Steer.
+Mush-fakir     Umbrella-mender.
+
+GYPSY “FORE” OR CHRISTIAN NAMES.
+
+
+MASCULINE NAMES.
+
+
+Airant.
+
+Aniel.
+
+Artelus.
+
+Baius.
+
+Barendon.
+
+Bartholoways.
+
+Bohemia.
+
+Bosko.
+
+Boufi.
+
+Buzi.
+
+Craimia.
+
+Credi.
+
+Dimiti.
+
+Dinki.
+
+Doval.
+
+Dud.
+
+Duraia.
+
+Dusti.
+
+Eros.
+
+Evergreen.
+
+Feli.
+
+Fennix.
+
+Fowk.
+
+Ganation.
+
+Glympton.
+
+Golias.
+
+Gōni.
+
+Gui.
+
+Haini.
+
+Harkles.
+
+Harodain.
+
+Hedji.
+
+Înan.
+
+Îthil.
+
+Îza.
+
+Jaina.
+
+Kaivela.
+
+Kashi.
+
+Khulai.
+
+Ladin.
+
+Lamerok.
+
+Leshi.
+
+Liberty.
+
+Logan.
+
+Loni.
+
+Lumas.
+
+Lusha.
+
+Mairik.
+
+Manabel.
+
+Manfri.
+
+Manful.
+
+Mantis.
+
+Meriful.
+
+Moelus.
+
+Morpus.
+
+Moti.
+
+Motsha.
+
+Motshan.
+
+Motshus.
+
+Muldobrai.
+
+Nelus.
+
+Niabai.
+
+Nipkin.
+
+Nitshel.
+
+Northalion.
+
+Ōbi.
+
+Ōki.
+
+Ŏlbi.
+
+Ŏli.
+
+Orferus.
+
+Ōseri.
+
+Ōthi.
+
+Ōti.
+
+Penderbela.
+
+Persuvius.
+
+Perun.
+
+Pesulia.
+
+Piramus.
+
+Polius.
+
+Potamus.
+
+Rabai.
+
+Raito.
+
+Renda.
+
+Righteous.
+
+Rinki.
+
+Ruslo.
+
+Sairenda.
+
+Santabelphijum.
+
+Santalina.
+
+Santanoa.
+
+Seki.
+
+Seneptune.
+
+Shandres.
+
+Shani.
+
+Shiva.
+
+Silus.
+
+Simpronius.
+
+Solivaino.
+
+Studivares.
+
+Swallow.
+
+Taimi.
+
+Taiso.
+
+Teni.
+
+Thurles.
+
+Tudlin.
+
+Tuti.
+
+Vaina.
+
+Wacka.
+
+Waimore.
+
+Wantelo.
+
+Wingi.
+
+Woodlock.
+
+Yoben.
+
+Zegul.
+
+Zezil.
+
+
+
+FEMININE NAMES.
+
+
+Acorn.
+
+Alamina.
+
+Andelia.
+
+Angelis.
+
+Anis.
+
+Ashena.
+
+Ashila.
+
+Aslog.
+
+Begonia.
+
+Bidi.
+
+Biti.
+
+Bobum.
+
+Boina.
+
+Consuleti.
+
+Daiena.
+
+Darklis.
+
+Delaia.
+
+Delenda.
+
+Deleta.
+
+Deloreni.
+
+Dorenia.
+
+Edingel.
+
+Eldorai.
+
+Elophia.
+
+Elvaira.
+
+Emanaia.
+
+Erosabel.
+
+Everilda.
+
+Ezi.
+
+Fazenti.
+
+Femi.
+
+Fernet.
+
+Fianci.
+
+Fili.
+
+Florentia.
+
+Fluenzi.
+
+Froniga.
+
+Genti.
+
+Glorina.
+
+Graveleni.
+
+Idadê.
+
+Inji.
+
+Jeta.
+
+Jōni.
+
+Kadilia.
+
+Kerlenda.
+
+Kiomi.
+
+Kodi.
+
+Kraisini.
+
+Laini.
+
+Lavaina.
+
+Leanabel.
+
+Lenda.
+
+Leondra.
+
+Levaithen.
+
+Lidi.
+
+Linji.
+
+Liti.
+
+Lurina.
+
+Lusana.
+
+Lwaiden.
+
+Madona.
+
+Maiburi.
+
+Maireni.
+
+Mandra.
+
+Marbeleni.
+
+Melvinia.
+
+Memberensi.
+
+Mezi.
+
+Million.
+
+Mino.
+
+Mireli.
+
+Miselda.
+
+Mitoreni.
+
+Mizereti.
+
+Modiwench.
+
+Morjiana.
+
+Nareli.
+
+Olovina.
+
+Omi.
+
+Oshina.
+
+Paizeni.
+
+Paizi.
+
+Pamela.
+
+Penhela.
+
+Perpagelion.
+
+Piki.
+
+Plenti.
+
+Polovine.
+
+Pomona.
+
+Queenation.
+
+Reni.
+
+Repentance.
+
+Repriona.
+
+Richenda.
+
+Rodi.
+
+Romania.
+
+Saibarini.
+
+Saiera.
+
+Saifi.
+
+Saiforela.
+
+Saiki.
+
+Sanspirela.
+
+Savaina.
+
+Sedinia.
+
+Seluna.
+
+Seni.
+
+Separi.
+
+Shorensi.
+
+Shuri.
+
+Sibela.
+
+Siberensi.
+
+Sibereti.
+
+Sinaminta.
+
+Sinfai.
+
+Spidi.
+
+Stari.
+
+Suti.
+
+Taishan.
+
+Telaitha.
+
+Tiena.
+
+Traienti.
+
+Treci.
+
+Treli.
+
+Trenit.
+
+Vashti.
+
+Wadi.
+
+Waini.
+
+Wasti.
+
+Wenti.
+
+Weson.
+
+Whipni.
+
+Widens.
+
+Wigi.
+
+Wuzi.
+
+Yunakrai.
+
+Zebra.
+
+Zina.
+
+Zuba.
+
+
+
+
+INDEX
+
+
+Arnold, Matthew, _The Scholar-Gipsy_, 123.
+
+Articles enclosed in coffin, 243.
+
+Aryan languages of India and the Gypsy language, 73–74.
+
+Australia, Gypsies in, 167–168.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+Baring-Gould, S., _Book of Folk-Lore_, 22.
+
+Borrow, George, 27, 81, 197, 264; Dumpling Green (Borrow’s birthplace),
+197; _Lavengro_, 27, 28, 160, 197, 241; Borrow’s originals, 28–31, 158;
+_The Romany Rye_, 28–30, 143, 230, 232; _Romany_ (Gypsy) _Word-Book_,
+161, 165, 249; _The Zincali_, 81–83.
+
+Bottomless pool, a, 272.
+
+Brancepeth Castle, 33, 35.
+
+Bread crumbled to ward off evil, 53.
+
+Brewer, Dr., _Dictionary of Fable_, 126.
+
+Burning possessions of the departed, 243, 246.
+
+Byard’s Leap, a witch legend, 140–141.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+_Caian_, _The_ (quoted), 73–74.
+
+Calderari, the, 206.
+
+Charm, a Gypsy, 36.
+
+Childbirth tabu, 53.
+
+Coining words, 170.
+
+Creel (portable grinding-machine), 161.
+
+Creenies, 206.
+
+Crinks, 207.
+
+Crofton, H. T., on continental origin of certain Anglo-Romany Christian
+names, 54; _The Dialect of the English Gypsies_.  See Smart.
+
+Crystal-gazing, 108, 223–225.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+Dancing booth, 177.
+
+_Dark Ages_, _The_, by “L.,” 246.
+
+Death-hawk, 245.
+
+Devil and nuts, 111.
+
+_Dialect of the English Gypsies_, _The_, by Dr. Bath Smart and H. T.
+Crofton, 76, 239.
+
+Dialects, modern Indian, 73.
+
+Dialogue between two Gypsies, 144–145.
+
+Diamond, Manful Heron’s, 190–191.
+
+_Didakais_ (half-breeds), 25, 77.
+
+Drinking-vessels of aliens avoided, 82.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+East Anglian Gypsy family, an, 104–117.
+
+Egyptian origin of the Gypsies, legend of, 74–75.
+
+Ermine Street (High Dyke), a Roman road, 134.
+
+Evil eye, 53, 129.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+Fairies, 15, 288.
+
+Fairs—Bala, 265; Brough Hill, 275; Horncastle, 229–237; Leicestershire
+Fair, a, 47; Lincoln, 257; Newark-on-Trent, 141–142; Peterborough,
+118–133; Seamer, 184–185; Stow Green, 68–70; West Stockwith, 89–98.
+
+Fasting, 111, 163.
+
+Fear of ghost, 243.
+
+Feeding a gibbeted man, 22.
+
+Ferdousi (quoted), 114.
+
+Fight between Gypsies, a, 69–70.
+
+Fighting song, a, 70.
+
+Flaming, Tinman, the, 28.
+
+Fortune-telling, 61, 107–108, 128.
+
+Fossdyke, a Roman canal, 16–17.
+
+Freckles and Gypsies, 102.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+Gamekeepers and Gypsies, 19, 63, 139, 286–287.
+
+Gentleman Gypsy, the.  See Stables, Dr. Gordon.
+
+Ghosts, 66–67, 108–109, 183, 284.
+
+Gibberish, 78, 153.
+
+Gilliat-Smith, B., on the Gypsy language, 73–74.
+
+Glanvill, Joseph, _The Vanity of Dogmatizing_, 123–125.
+
+Gordon, Jean, prototype of Meg Merrilies, 28.
+
+Great North Road, the, 55, 57, 100, 104, 207.
+
+Groome, F. H., 91, 102, 129; _Gypsy Folk-Tales_, 257; _In Gipsy Tents_,
+85; letter (quoted), 126.
+
+Gypsy baptism, a, 52–53.
+
+„ benison, a, 46.
+
+„ bird (pied wagtail), 89, 285.
+
+,, blood, grades of, 77.
+
+„ burial lore, 240–246.
+
+„ carelessness about names, 131.
+
+,, cheerfulness, 34.
+
+Gypsy, Christian or “fore” names, 53–54, 299–302.
+
+„ church-going, 219.
+
+„ cookery, 277.
+
+„ Court, its characters, 18–27, 105, 176.
+
+„ crimes, 254–255.
+
+„ curse, 129.
+
+„ dreams, 109–110, 159.
+
+„ enchantress, a, 164–165.
+
+„ epitaphs, 150, 244.
+
+„ eye, the, 160–161.
+
+„ fetish, 145–146.
+
+„ fiddlers, 10–11, 29–30, 84, 86, 120, 195, 222, 266–267, 274–275.
+
+„ fighters, 3, 30, 69–70.
+
+„ graves, 150, 170, 238, 240.
+
+„ guiding-signs (_patrin_s), 95–96, 142–143.
+
+„ harpist, 85–86, 275.
+
+„ heroism, 30.
+
+„ hospitality, 49–51.
+
+„ incantation over sick person, 164–165.
+
+_Gypsy Jack_, a drama, 103.
+
+,, _Laddie_, the, a ballad, 171.
+
+Gypsy language, the, 73–74, 153.
+
+„ Lore Society (note), 254.
+
+„ love of extraordinary names, 54.
+
+„ love of a fire, 10.
+
+„ marriage, 176.
+
+,, mesmerism, 122–125.
+
+,, migrations, 157.
+
+,, moods, 7.
+
+,, morals, 255.
+
+,, name-changes, 244–245.
+
+,, origins, 72–76.
+
+„ pedigrees, 78–79, 167.
+
+,, pets, 142, 192–193.
+
+,, play-spirit, 91–94, 216.
+
+,, politeness, 3, 79.
+
+„ pride, 76, 156.
+
+,, queens, 71.
+
+,, reverence for the dead, 240.
+
+,, sense of beauty, 281.
+
+„ snuff-taking, 18, 196.
+
+,, soldier, a, 27.
+
+„ song, a, 84–85.
+
+„ surnames, 55–56.
+
+„ tent, construction of, 146.
+
+,, tinkers, 205–212.
+
+„ trial, a, 31.
+
+„ tricks, 121–123, 132, 236.
+
+„ unwillingness to impart names, 54–55.
+
+,, warning whistle, 7, 280.
+
+,, washing rules, 113–114.
+
+Gypsyries—Blackpool, 71–88; Derby, 157–165; Lincoln, 2–4; London, 162,
+198–201; Scarborough, 173–179.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+Half-breeds, 77, 181.
+
+Hangman’s Ditch, 2.
+
+Hedge-crawlers, 77, 156.
+
+Hedgehog, 26, 45, 49–50, 62, 67, 177–178, 257.
+
+“Helm” wind (at Brough Hill), 276.
+
+_Henry IV_. (Shakespeare), quoted, 207.
+
+High Dyke, or Ermine Street, 134–141.
+
+Hindi, 73.
+
+_Hokano Bawro_, a traditional swindle, 121–122.
+
+Holyhead Road, the, 262, 268.
+
+Horse of deceased Gypsy shot or sold, 243, 246.
+
+Horse-stealing, 132.
+
+Hoyland, _Historical Survey of the Gypsies_, 39.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+Irish vagrants, 157.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+Jack o’ Lantern, 147.
+
+Jewellery of deceased Gypsy dropped into river, 243.
+
+_Journal of the Gypsy Lore Society_, _The_, 164–165.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+King Edward the VII. (when Prince of Wales), 203.
+
+Kirk Yetholm, 115.
+
+Knapp, Dr. W. I., _The Life_, _Writings_, _and Correspondence of George
+Borrow_, 28.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+Legends and folk-tales—
+
+  Caspar, one of the Magi, a Gypsy, 75.
+
+  Ghost of the Haystack, the, 147–148.
+
+  Ghost of the Ford, the, 222.
+
+  Happy Boz’ll’s Tales, 257–261.
+
+  Nails at the Crucifixion, a legend, 75.
+
+  O’Neil’s Horse, 182.
+
+  Romanitshels hail from Egypt, a legend, 74–75.
+
+  Ruzlam Boz’ll’s Boy and the Fairies, 14–15.
+
+  Witch of Byard’s Leap, the, 140–141.
+
+  Wry-necked Fiddler, the, and the Devil, 225–227.
+
+  Zuba Lovell sells herself to the Devil, 112–113.
+
+Leland, Charles G., 54; _The English Gipsies and their Language_, 203;
+his discovery of Shelta (note), 208.
+
+Libation on Gypsy graves, 151, 240.
+
+Lincoln, Upper (described), 1–2.
+
+Lithuanian Gypsies, 75.
+
+Loan-words, 74.
+
+Lying tales, 86–87, 257–261.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+Mace, Jem, the pugilist, 195, 233.
+
+M‘Cormick, Provost, his _Tinkler Gypsies_ (quoted), 10.
+
+Macfie, R. A. Scott, lecture (quoted), 254–255; _System of Anglo-Romany
+Spelling for English Readers and British Printers_, 291–292.
+
+Magi, the, a Gypsy legend, 75.
+
+Merrilies, Meg, 28.
+
+Meyer, Kuno, on Shelta (note), 207.
+
+Miller, Thomas, _Gideon Giles the Roper_, 161.
+
+_Mokadi_ (unclean), 113–114.
+
+Mousehold Heath, 28, 80–81, 197.
+
+Moveable Dwellings Bill, the, 155.
+
+_Mulo-mas_ (note), 61, 62.
+
+Mumper’s Dingle, 31.
+
+Mumpers and Gypsies contrasted, 77.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+Name-changes, 192, 244–245.
+
+Newark ale, 221, 223.
+
+No Man’s Land, 178.
+
+Nomenclature, Gypsy, 299–302.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+Oakley (an artist), 163.
+
+Omens, 245, 285–286.
+
+Oppression of Gypsies, 20.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+_Pall Mall Budget_, the, 43.
+
+“Peelers,” 26.
+
+Petulengro Jasper (Ambrose Smith), 28, 30, 157, 197, 229, 241.
+
+Public Record Office, the, 247.
+
+_Puvin Graiaw_, the illegal pasturing of horses, 138.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+Recipe for youth, a, 278.
+
+Robin Hood’s Bay, Gypsies at, 178, 180–183.
+
+„ „ Hills, 149.
+
+Romany Language, its pronunciation, 291–292.
+
+„ Vocabulary, a, 292–298.
+
+Rudiger, 73.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+Sampson, Dr. John, on Shelta (note), 207–208.
+
+Sanskrit, 73–74.
+
+Scott, Sir Walter, 28; _Guy Mannering_, 28; Sheriff of Selkirkshire, 39,
+234.
+
+Scythe blades in Horncastle Church, 230–231.
+
+Self-sacrifice of a sweep, 249.
+
+Shelta (tinkers’ talk), its Celtic origin (note), 207–208; short
+vocabulary of, 212.
+
+Sims, G. R., _The Romany Rye_ (a drama), 103–104.
+
+Smart, Dr. Bath, and Crofton, H. T., _The Dialect of the English
+Gypsies_, 76, 239.
+
+Smith, George, of Coalville (philanthropist), 51, 155–156.
+
+Snail broth, 62.
+
+Snakes, 88, 285.
+
+Spanish Gypsies, 196.
+
+Spirits summoned by the spoken name, 54–55.
+
+Stables, Dr. Gordon, 149–150.
+
+Stone, J. Harris, _Caravanning and Camping Out_, 241.
+
+Stories—
+
+  Bishop Trollope’s Story of Dunston Pillar, 137–138.
+
+  Bobby Faa and the Shepherd’s Pie, 115–117.
+
+  Dunnock (steer), a Tale about, 12–13.
+
+  Eliza Gray’s Tale of a Ghost, 108–109.
+
+  “Finding” a Horse, 132–133.
+
+  Poaching Policeman, a, 63.
+
+  The Bough Licence, 232–233.
+
+  The Donkey that knew Something, 287–288.
+
+  The Gypsy’s Surprise, 37–38.
+
+  Tyso Boswell and the Buried Treasure, 190.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+Tabu, childbirth, 53.
+
+„ on food and drink of the dead, 39–40, 243.
+
+„ on names of the dead, 244–245.
+
+Tales.  See Legends, Lying Tales, Stories, Transportation.
+
+Temple, Sir Richard, on Gypsy Christian names, 54.
+
+Theatre, Harrison’s, 103.
+
+Thompson, T. W., on Gypsy burial, 241.
+
+_Times_, the, 103–104.
+
+Tinkers, 205–212, 249.
+
+Tinkers’ talk.  See Shelta.
+
+Tinklers, 10, 207.
+
+Transportation of Gypsies, 247–254.
+
+,, tales, 247–254.
+
+Trollope, Bishop E., 137.
+
+Turning garments of dead inside out, 242–243.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+Victoria, Queen, _More Leaves from the Journal of a Life in the
+Highlands_ (quoted), 29.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+Watching the corpse, 242.
+
+„ the grave, 243–244.
+
+Wayside burial, 240–242.
+
+Welsh Gypsies, 262–269.
+
+White, Gilbert, of Selborne, 55.
+
+Wine buried, 114.
+
+Wise man, a, 283.
+
+,, woman, a, 223.
+
+Wishing a wish, 129.
+
+Witches, 188, 240, 282–283.
+
+Wood, Abraham, 265–266.
+
+
+
+
+Footnotes
+
+
+{28}  _The Life_, _Writings_, _and Correspondence of George Borrow_, by
+Prof. Wm. I. Knapp.  London, 1899.
+
+{53}  See list of masculine and feminine names, pp. 299–302.
+
+{61}  _Mulo-mas_, the flesh of an animal which has died without the aid
+of a butcher.  “Isn’t what the _diri Duvel_ (God) kills as good as
+anything killed by a _masengro_?” (butcher).
+
+{73}  “Gypsies,” by B. Gilliat-Smith (_The Caian_, vol. xvi. No. 3).
+
+{207}  “Shelta is a secret language of great antiquity . . . in Irish
+MSS. we have mentions and records of it under various names . . . though
+now confined to tinkers, its knowledge was once possessed by Irish poets
+and scholars, who, probably, were its original framers” (Professor Kuno
+Meyer).
+
+“The language of the tinkers is a dialect or jargon exclusively of Celtic
+origin, though, like one of their own stolen asses, it is so docked and
+disguised as to be scarcely recognizable. . . .  A large number of Shelta
+words are formed by transposing the principal letters of the Gaelic word.
+This species of back-slang is, of course, purely phonetic, differing in
+this respect from the more artificial letter-reversing back-slang of
+costers and cabmen. . . .  It is indeed strange that the existence of a
+tongue so ancient and widespread as Shelta should have remained entirely
+unsuspected until Mr. Leland, with whom the undivided honour of this
+discovery rests, first made it public in the pages of _Macmillan’s
+Magazine_” (Dr. John Sampson).
+
+{246}  _The Dark Ages and Other Poems_.  By L.
+
+{256}  _Gypsy Folk-Tales_, by Francis Hindes Groome (London, 1899).
+
+{291}  Taken from _A System of Anglo-Romani Spelling for English Readers
+and British Printers_, by R. A. Scott Macfie.
+
+
+
+
+***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GYPSY'S PARSON***
+
+
+******* This file should be named 46015-0.txt or 46015-0.zip *******
+
+
+This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
+http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/4/6/0/1/46015
+
+
+
+Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions
+will be renamed.
+
+Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no
+one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation
+(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without
+permission and without paying copyright royalties.  Special rules,
+set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to
+copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to
+protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark.  Project
+Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you
+charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission.  If you
+do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the
+rules is very easy.  You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose
+such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and
+research.  They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do
+practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks.  Redistribution is
+subject to the trademark license, especially commercial
+redistribution.
+
+
+
+*** START: FULL LICENSE ***
+
+THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
+PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
+
+To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
+distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
+(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project
+Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project
+Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at
+  www.gutenberg.org/license.
+
+
+Section 1.  General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm
+electronic works
+
+1.A.  By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
+electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
+and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
+(trademark/copyright) agreement.  If you do not agree to abide by all
+the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy
+all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.
+If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project
+Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the
+terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or
+entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.
+
+1.B.  "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark.  It may only be
+used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
+agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement.  There are a few
+things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
+even without complying with the full terms of this agreement.  See
+paragraph 1.C below.  There are a lot of things you can do with Project
+Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement
+and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
+works.  See paragraph 1.E below.
+
+1.C.  The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation"
+or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project
+Gutenberg-tm electronic works.  Nearly all the individual works in the
+collection are in the public domain in the United States.  If an
+individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are
+located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from
+copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative
+works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg
+are removed.  Of course, we hope that you will support the Project
+Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by
+freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of
+this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with
+the work.  You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by
+keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project
+Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.
+
+1.D.  The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
+what you can do with this work.  Copyright laws in most countries are in
+a constant state of change.  If you are outside the United States, check
+the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement
+before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or
+creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project
+Gutenberg-tm work.  The Foundation makes no representations concerning
+the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United
+States.
+
+1.E.  Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
+
+1.E.1.  The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate
+access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently
+whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the
+phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project
+Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed,
+copied or distributed:
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+1.E.2.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived
+from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is
+posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied
+and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees
+or charges.  If you are redistributing or providing access to a work
+with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the
+work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1
+through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the
+Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or
+1.E.9.
+
+1.E.3.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
+with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
+must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional
+terms imposed by the copyright holder.  Additional terms will be linked
+to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the
+permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.
+
+1.E.4.  Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
+License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
+work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.
+
+1.E.5.  Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
+electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
+prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
+active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
+Gutenberg-tm License.
+
+1.E.6.  You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
+compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any
+word processing or hypertext form.  However, if you provide access to or
+distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than
+"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version
+posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org),
+you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a
+copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon
+request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other
+form.  Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm
+License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
+
+1.E.7.  Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
+performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
+unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
+
+1.E.8.  You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
+access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided
+that
+
+- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
+     the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
+     you already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  The fee is
+     owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he
+     has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the
+     Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.  Royalty payments
+     must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you
+     prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax
+     returns.  Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and
+     sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the
+     address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to
+     the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."
+
+- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
+     you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
+     does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
+     License.  You must require such a user to return or
+     destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium
+     and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of
+     Project Gutenberg-tm works.
+
+- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any
+     money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
+     electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days
+     of receipt of the work.
+
+- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
+     distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.
+
+1.E.9.  If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm
+electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set
+forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from
+both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael
+Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark.  Contact the
+Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.
+
+1.F.
+
+1.F.1.  Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
+effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
+public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm
+collection.  Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
+works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain
+"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or
+corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual
+property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a
+computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by
+your equipment.
+
+1.F.2.  LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right
+of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
+Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
+Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
+Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
+liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
+fees.  YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
+LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
+PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3.  YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
+TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
+LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
+INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
+DAMAGE.
+
+1.F.3.  LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
+defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
+receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
+written explanation to the person you received the work from.  If you
+received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with
+your written explanation.  The person or entity that provided you with
+the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a
+refund.  If you received the work electronically, the person or entity
+providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to
+receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund.  If the second copy
+is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further
+opportunities to fix the problem.
+
+1.F.4.  Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
+in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO OTHER
+WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO
+WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
+
+1.F.5.  Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
+warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages.
+If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the
+law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be
+interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by
+the applicable state law.  The invalidity or unenforceability of any
+provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.
+
+1.F.6.  INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
+trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
+providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance
+with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production,
+promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works,
+harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees,
+that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do
+or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm
+work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any
+Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.
+
+
+Section  2.  Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm
+
+Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
+electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers
+including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers.  It exists
+because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from
+people in all walks of life.
+
+Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
+assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
+goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
+remain freely available for generations to come.  In 2001, the Project
+Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
+and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations.
+To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
+and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4
+and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Section 3.  Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
+Foundation
+
+The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
+501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
+state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
+Revenue Service.  The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
+number is 64-6221541.  Contributions to the Project Gutenberg
+Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent
+permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.
+
+The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S.
+Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered
+throughout numerous locations.  Its business office is located at 809
+North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887.  Email
+contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the
+Foundation's web site and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact
+
+For additional contact information:
+     Dr. Gregory B. Newby
+     Chief Executive and Director
+     gbnewby@pglaf.org
+
+Section 4.  Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
+Literary Archive Foundation
+
+Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide
+spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
+increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
+freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
+array of equipment including outdated equipment.  Many small donations
+($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
+status with the IRS.
+
+The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
+charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
+States.  Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
+considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
+with these requirements.  We do not solicit donations in locations
+where we have not received written confirmation of compliance.  To
+SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any
+particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate
+
+While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
+have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
+against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
+approach us with offers to donate.
+
+International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
+any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
+outside the United States.  U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
+
+Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
+methods and addresses.  Donations are accepted in a number of other
+ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations.
+To donate, please visit:  www.gutenberg.org/donate
+
+
+Section 5.  General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
+works.
+
+Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm
+concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared
+with anyone.  For forty years, he produced and distributed Project
+Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.
+
+Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
+editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.
+unless a copyright notice is included.  Thus, we do not necessarily
+keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.
+
+Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:
+
+     www.gutenberg.org
+
+This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
+including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
+Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
+subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
diff --git a/46015-0.zip b/46015-0.zip
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..43ec37d
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-0.zip
diff --git a/46015-h.zip b/46015-h.zip
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..793f2bc
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h.zip
diff --git a/46015-h/46015-h.htm b/46015-h/46015-h.htm
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..38bd957
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/46015-h.htm
@@ -0,0 +1,12266 @@
+<!DOCTYPE html
+     PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
+     "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
+<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en">
+<head>
+<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" />
+<title>The Gypsy's Parson, by George Hall</title>
+    <style type="text/css">
+/*<![CDATA[  XML blockout */
+<!--
+    P {  margin-top: .75em;
+         margin-bottom: .75em;
+         }
+    P.gutsumm { margin-left: 5%;}
+    P.poetry {margin-left: 3%; }
+    .GutSmall { font-size: 0.7em; }
+    H1, H2 {
+         text-align: center;
+		margin-top: 2em;
+		margin-bottom: 2em;
+         }
+    H3, H4, H5 {
+	text-align: center;
+	margin-top: 1em;
+	margin-bottom: 1em;
+	}
+    BODY{margin-left: 10%;
+         margin-right: 10%;
+        }
+ table { border-collapse: collapse; }
+table {margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto;}
+    td { vertical-align: top; border: 1px solid black;}
+    td p { margin: 0.2em; }
+    .blkquot  {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */
+
+    .smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
+
+    .pagenum {position: absolute;
+               left: 92%;
+               font-size: small;
+               text-align: right;
+		font-weight: normal;
+               color: gray;
+               }
+    img { border: none; }
+    img.dc { float: left; width: 50px; height: 50px; }
+    p.gutindent { margin-left: 2em; }
+    div.gapspace { height: 0.8em; }
+    div.gapline { height: 0.8em; width: 100%; border-top: 1px solid;} 
+    div.gapmediumline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%;
+                  border-top: 1px solid; }
+    div.gapmediumdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%;
+		  border-top: 1px solid; border-bottom: 1px solid;}
+     div.gapshortdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%;
+                  margin-left: 40%; border-top: 1px solid;
+                  border-bottom: 1px solid; }
+    div.gapdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 50%;
+                  margin-left: 25%; border-top: 1px solid;
+                  border-bottom: 1px solid;}
+    div.gapshortline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; margin-left:40%;
+		  border-top: 1px solid; }
+    .citation {vertical-align: super;
+               font-size: .8em;
+               text-decoration: none;}
+    img.floatleft { float: left;
+			margin-right: 1em;
+			margin-top: 0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; }
+    img.floatright { float: right;
+			margin-left: 1em; margin-top: 0.5em;
+			margin-bottom: 0.5em; }
+    img.clearcenter {display: block;
+			margin-left: auto;
+			margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0.5em;
+			margin-bottom: 0.5em}
+    -->
+    /* XML end  ]]>*/
+    </style>
+</head>
+<body>
+<pre>
+
+The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Gypsy's Parson, by George Hall,
+Illustrated by Fred Shaw
+
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+
+
+
+Title: The Gypsy's Parson
+       his experiences and adventures
+
+
+Author: George Hall
+
+
+
+Release Date: June 17, 2014  [eBook #46015]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)
+
+
+***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GYPSY'S PARSON***
+</pre>
+<p>Transcribed from the J. B. Lippincott edition by David Price,
+email ccx074@pglaf.org</p>
+<p style="text-align: center">
+<a href="images/fpb.jpg">
+<img alt=
+"The Rev. George Hall.  Photo: Brigham"
+title=
+"The Rev. George Hall.  Photo: Brigham"
+src="images/fps.jpg" />
+</a></p>
+<h1><span class="GutSmall">THE</span><br />
+GYPSY&rsquo;S PARSON</h1>
+<p style="text-align: center">HIS EXPERIENCES AND ADVENTURES</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p style="text-align: center"><span
+class="GutSmall">BY</span></p>
+<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">The Rev</span>.
+GEORGE HALL</p>
+<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">RECTOR OF
+RUCKLAND, LINCOLNSHIRE</span></p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p style="text-align: center"><span
+class="GutSmall"><i>ILLUSTRATED</i></span></p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p style="text-align: center">PHILADELPHIA<br />
+J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY</p>
+<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">London</span>:
+SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON &amp; CO. LTD.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p style="text-align: center"><a name="pagev"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. v</span><span class="GutSmall">TO</span><br />
+MY WIFE<br />
+<span class="GutSmall">MY COMPANION</span><br />
+<span class="GutSmall">ON MANY A GYPSY-JAUNT</span></p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<blockquote><p style="text-align: center"><a
+name="pagevi"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+vi</span>&ldquo;<i>They cast the glamour o&rsquo;er
+him</i>.&rdquo;</p>
+</blockquote>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<blockquote><p>&ldquo;<span class="smcap">You</span> must forgive
+us.&nbsp; We are barbarians. . . .&nbsp; We are ruffians of the
+sun . . . and we must be forgiven everything.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;It is easy to forgive in the sun,&rdquo; Domini
+said.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Madame, it is impossible to be anything but lenient in
+the sun.&nbsp; That is my experience. . . .&nbsp; But, as I was
+saying, the sun teaches one a lesson of charity.&nbsp; When I
+first came to live in Africa in the midst of the
+sand-rascals&mdash;eh, Madame, I suppose as a priest I ought to
+have been shocked by their goings-on.&nbsp; And, indeed I tried
+to be, I conscientiously did my best, but it was no good.&nbsp; I
+couldn&rsquo;t be shocked.&nbsp; The sunshine drove it all out of
+me.&nbsp; I could only say, &lsquo;It is not for me to question
+le bon Dieu, and le bon Dieu has created these people and set
+them here in the sand to behave as they do.&nbsp; What is my
+business?&nbsp; I can&rsquo;t convert them.&nbsp; I can&rsquo;t
+change their morals&mdash;I must just be a friend to them, cheer
+them up in their sorrows, give them a bit if they&rsquo;re
+starving, doctor them a little&mdash;I&rsquo;m a first-rate hand
+at making an Arab take a pill or a powder&mdash;when they are
+ill, and I make them at home with the white
+marabout.&rsquo;&nbsp; That&rsquo;s what the sun has taught me,
+and every sand-rascal and sand-rascal&rsquo;s child in Amara is a
+friend of mine.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;You are fond of the Arabs, then?&rdquo; she said.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Of course I am, Madame.&nbsp; I can speak their
+language, and I&rsquo;m as much at home in their tents, and more,
+than I ever should be at the Vatican&mdash;with all respect to
+the Holy Father.&rdquo;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>(Conversation between Domini and Father Beret in <i>The Garden
+of Allah</i>, quoted here by the kind permission of Mr. Robert
+Hichens.)</p>
+<h2><a name="pagevii"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+vii</span>PREFACE</h2>
+<p><span class="smcap">Not</span> a few writers have essayed to
+study the Gypsies in dusty libraries.&nbsp; I have companioned
+with them on fell and common, racecourse and fairground, on the
+turfy wayside and in the city&rsquo;s heart.&nbsp; In my book,
+which is a record of actual experiences, I have tried to present
+the Gypsies just as I have found them, without minimising their
+faults or magnifying their virtues.&nbsp; Most of the Gypsies
+mentioned in the following pages have now passed away, and of
+those who remain, many have, for obvious reasons, been
+renamed.</p>
+<p>For the majority of the pictures adorning my book, I owe a
+profound debt of gratitude to my friend, Mr. Fred Shaw; also, for
+their kind permission to include several pictures in my
+&ldquo;Romany Gallery,&rdquo; my cordial thanks are due to Mrs.
+Johnson, of Yatton, Rev. H. H. Malleson, Mr. William Ferguson,
+Mr. T. J. Lewis, Mr. H. Stimpson, and Mr. F. Wilkinson.</p>
+<p>The phonetics contained in this work are based upon a system
+invented by my friend, Mr. R. A. Scott Macfie, of the Gypsy Lore
+Society, whose innumerable kindnesses I most gratefully
+acknowledge.</p>
+<p style="text-align: right">G. H.</p>
+<p><span class="smcap">Ruckland Rectory</span>,<br />
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; <span class="smcap">near
+Louth</span>,<br />
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; <span
+class="smcap">Lincolnshire</span>.</p>
+<h2><a name="pageix"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+ix</span>CONTENTS</h2>
+<table>
+<tr>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span
+class="GutSmall">CHAP.</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p>&nbsp;</p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span
+class="GutSmall">PAGE</span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p style="text-align: right">I.</p>
+</td>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">Gypsy Court</span>&mdash;<span
+class="smcap">My Initiation into Gypsydom</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page1">1</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p style="text-align: right">II.</p>
+</td>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">Characters of the
+Court</span>&mdash;<span class="smcap">Reading Borrow</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page16">16</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p style="text-align: right">III.</p>
+</td>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">North-Country Gypsies</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page32">32</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p style="text-align: right">IV.</p>
+</td>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">My Poaching Pussy</span>&mdash;<span
+class="smcap">A Romany Benison</span>&mdash;<span
+class="smcap">My First Taste of Hedgehog</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page41">41</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p style="text-align: right">V.</p>
+</td>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">A Gypsy Baptism</span>&mdash;<span
+class="smcap">Romany Names</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page52">52</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p style="text-align: right">VI.</p>
+</td>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">I make a New Acquaintance</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page57">57</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p style="text-align: right">VII.</p>
+</td>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">The Blackpool Gypsyry</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page71">71</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p style="text-align: right">VIII.</p>
+</td>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">A Trentside Fair</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page89">89</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p style="text-align: right">IX.</p>
+</td>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">Taken for Tramps</span>&mdash;<span
+class="smcap">An East Anglian Family</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page99">99</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p style="text-align: right">X.</p>
+</td>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">Peterborough Fair</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page118">118</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p style="text-align: right">XI.</p>
+</td>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">A Forgotten
+Highway</span>&mdash;&ldquo;<span class="smcap">On the
+Road</span>&rdquo; <span class="smcap">with
+Jonathan</span>&mdash;<span class="smcap">The
+Patrin</span>&mdash;<span class="smcap">The Ghost of the
+Haystack</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page134">134</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p style="text-align: right">XII.</p>
+</td>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">The Gypsy of the Town</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page152">152</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p style="text-align: right">XIII.</p>
+</td>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">With the Yorkshire Gypsies</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page172">172</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p style="text-align: right">XIV.</p>
+</td>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">A Night with the
+Gypsies</span>&mdash;<span class="smcap">The Sweep of
+Lynn</span>&mdash;<span class="smcap">London
+Gypsies</span>&mdash;<span class="smcap">On Epsom
+Downs</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page186">186</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p style="text-align: right">XV.</p>
+</td>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">Tinkers and Grinders</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page205">205</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p style="text-align: right">XVI.</p>
+</td>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">The Inn on the
+Ridgeway</span>&mdash;<span class="smcap">Tales by the
+Fireside</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page213">213</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p style="text-align: right">XVII.</p>
+</td>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">Horncastle Fair</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page229">229</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><a name="pagex"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. x</span>XVIII.</p>
+</td>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">A Gypsy Sepulchre</span>&mdash;<span
+class="smcap">Burial Lore</span>&mdash;<span class="smcap">The
+Passing of Jonathan</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page238">238</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p style="text-align: right">XIX.</p>
+</td>
+<td><p><span class="smcap"><i>Bitshado Pawdel</i></span> (<span
+class="smcap">Transported</span>)</p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page247">247</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p style="text-align: right">XX.</p>
+</td>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">A Romany Munchausen</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page256">256</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p style="text-align: right">XXI.</p>
+</td>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">The Gypsy of the
+Hills</span>&mdash;<span class="smcap">In the Heart of
+Wales</span>&mdash;<span class="smcap">A Westmorland Horse
+Fair</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page262">262</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p style="text-align: right">XXII.</p>
+</td>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">Furzemoor</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page278">278</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p style="text-align: right">&nbsp;</p>
+</td>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">Glossary of Romany Words</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page291">291</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p style="text-align: right">&nbsp;</p>
+</td>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">Gypsy Fore or Christian
+Names</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page299">299</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p style="text-align: right">&nbsp;</p>
+</td>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">Index</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page303">303</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+<h2><a name="pagexi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xi</span>LIST
+OF ILLUSTRATIONS</h2>
+<table>
+<tr>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">The Gypsy&rsquo;s Parson</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>Frontispiece</i></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>&nbsp;</p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="GutSmall">FACING
+PAGE</span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">A Romany Lass</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page6">6</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">The Camp in the Lane</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page20">20</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">A Daughter of &ldquo;Jasper
+Petulengro&rdquo;</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page28">28</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">On the Moorland</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page36">36</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">A North-Country Gypsy Girl</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page36">36</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">Round the Camp-fire</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page48">48</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">A Child of the Caravan</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page48">48</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">A Rest by the Way</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page62">62</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">A Wayside Idyl</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page68">68</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">Children of the Open Air</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page68">68</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">On the Look-out</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page72">72</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">The Gypsy&rsquo;s Parson with his
+Friends</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page86">86</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">Friends at the Fair</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page86">86</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">A Maid of the Tents</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page112">112</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">On the Eve of the Fair</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page118">118</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">Midland Gypsies</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page128">128</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">South-Country Gypsies</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page128">128</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">Netting Rabbits</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page139">139</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">&rsquo;Neath the Hedgerow</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page139">139</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">The Gypsy&rsquo;s Parson on the
+Road</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page142">142</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><a name="pagexii"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+xii</span><span class="smcap">Gypsies at Home</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page146">146</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">Comrades</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page146">146</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>&ldquo;<span class="smcap">A Mother in
+Egypt</span>&rdquo;</p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page160">160</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">House-dwelling Gypsies</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page172">172</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">A Gypsy Lad</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page184">184</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">On the Racecourse</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page202">202</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">A Tinker of the Olden Times</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page208">208</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">A Welsh Gypsy Tinker</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page208">208</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">A Romany Fiddler</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page222">222</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">Horncastle Horse Fair</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page230">230</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">Ready for the Fair</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page232">232</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">Yard of the &ldquo;George&rdquo; Inn,
+Horncastle</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page232">232</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">A London Gypsy</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page246">246</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>&ldquo;<span class="smcap">Black as a
+Boz&rsquo;ll</span>&rdquo;</p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page258">258</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">Oli Purum</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page264">264</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">A Gypsy Harpist</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page264">264</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">A Happy Pair</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page268">268</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">A Chat by the Gate</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page268">268</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>&rsquo;<span class="smcap">Neath Cautley Crag</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page272">272</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">A Bottomless Pool</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page272">272</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">A Wandering Minstrel</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page274">274</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">Brough Hill Horse Fair</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page276">276</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">Gypsy Children</span></p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page280">280</a></span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+<h2><a name="page1"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 1</span>CHAPTER
+I<br />
+<span class="GutSmall">GYPSY COURT&mdash;MY INITIATION INTO
+GYPSYDOM</span></h2>
+<p>A <span class="GutSmall">TANGLE</span> of sequestered streets
+lying around a triple-towered cathedral; red roofs and gables
+massed under the ramparts of an ancient castle; a grey Roman arch
+lit up every spring-time by the wallflower&rsquo;s mimic gold; an
+old-world Bailgate over whose tavern yards drifted the sleepy
+music of the minster chimes; a crooked by-lane leading down to a
+wide common loved by the winds of heaven&mdash;these were the
+surroundings of my childhood&rsquo;s home in that hilltop portion
+of Lincoln which has never quite thrown off its medieval
+drowsiness.</p>
+<p>Not far from my father&rsquo;s doorstep, as you looked towards
+the common, lay a narrow court lined with poor tenements, and
+terminating in a bare yard bounded by a squat wall.&nbsp; Every
+detail of this alley stands out in my memory with the sharpness
+of a photograph; the cramped perspective of the place as you
+entered it from our lane, the dreary-looking <a
+name="page2"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 2</span>houses with
+their mud-floored living-rooms fronting upon the roadway, the
+paintless doors and windows, the blackened chimneys showing
+rakish against the sky, all combined to make a picture of
+dun-coloured misery.&nbsp; There were, it is true, a few
+redeeming features gilding the prevailing drabness of the
+scene.&nbsp; The entrance to the court had a southerly outlook
+upon green fields stretching up to the verge of the Castle
+Dyking, or, to revive its more gruesome name,
+&ldquo;Hangman&rsquo;s Ditch,&rdquo; so called from the grim
+associations of a bygone day.&nbsp; From these fields a clean air
+blew through the court, rendering it a less unwholesome haunt for
+the strange folk who dwelt within its precincts; while not half a
+mile distant lay the breezy common, a glorious playground for the
+children of Upper Lincoln.</p>
+<p>Seeing that this court and its denizens were destined in the
+order of things to make a profound impression upon my childish
+imagination, I may as well develop the picture rising so vividly
+before my mind&rsquo;s eye.</p>
+<p>It was somewhere in the fifties of the last century, a few
+years, that is to say, before my entrance into the world, that
+several families of dark-featured &ldquo;travellers&rdquo; had
+pitched upon the court for their Gypsyry, a proceeding at which
+our quiet lane at first shrugged its shoulders, then focussed an
+interested gaze upon the intruders and their ways, and finally
+lapsed into an indulgent toleration of them.&nbsp; Thus from day
+to day throughout my early years, there might have been seen
+emerging from the recesses of <a name="page3"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 3</span>Gypsy Court swarthy men in twos and
+threes accompanied by the poacher&rsquo;s useful lurcher;
+nut-brown girls with their black hair carelessly caught up in
+orange or crimson kerchiefs; wrinkled crones smoking short clays,
+as gaily they drove forth in their rickety donkey-carts; buxom
+mothers carrying babies slung, Indian fashion, across their
+shoulders, and bearing on their arms baskets replete with pegs,
+skewers, and small tin-ware of home manufacture.&nbsp; As for
+children, troops of the brown imps were generally in evidence,
+their eldritch shrieks rending the air between the portals of the
+little court and the gate opening upon the common.</p>
+<p>No observes could possibly miss the fighting scenes and the
+ringing shouts which made the court echo again.&nbsp; A
+passionate folk are the Gypsies, a provoking word being at any
+time sufficient to call forth a blow.&nbsp; Even as I write these
+words, visions of gory fists and faces obtrude themselves through
+the mists of past days.</p>
+<p>However, the Gypsies were never reported to be otherwise than
+polite towards the outsider who ventured into the alley.&nbsp;
+Diplomats rather than hooligans were they.&nbsp;
+&ldquo;Let&rsquo;s &rsquo;eave &rsquo;alf a brick at
+&rsquo;im,&rdquo; is not the Gypsy&rsquo;s way with a stranger
+who happens to stroll into the camp.&nbsp; At the same time I
+would not have it imagined that the inhabitants of the squalid
+court were of the best black Romany breed; far from it, they were
+mostly of diluted blood, else how came they to turn sedentary at
+all?&nbsp; For <a name="page4"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+4</span>pure Gypsies (or <i>Romanitshelaw</i>, as they call
+themselves), the aristocrats of their race, abhor settled life,
+preferring to die on the road rather than wither inside four
+walls.</p>
+<p>On the occasion of a horse fair in the city, our lane would
+resound with the clanging of hoofs beyond the ordinary, and in
+front of the taverns there was much rattling of whipstocks on the
+insides of hard hats, in order to enliven some weedy
+&ldquo;screw,&rdquo; and so reward its owner for hours of patient
+&ldquo;doctoring&rdquo; in a corner well screened from prying
+eyes.&nbsp; Then when the autumnal rains set in, and the leaves
+began to flutter down in showers, there would come from afar the
+rumbling of Romany &ldquo;homes on wheels,&rdquo; driven
+townwards by the oncoming of winter.&nbsp; To me it was always a
+saddening sight to watch the travel-stained wanderers hying to
+their winter quarters through miry streets heavy with mist and
+gloom.&nbsp; <i>Staruben s&icirc; gav</i> (town is a prison), an
+ancient vagabond was heard to remark on a like occasion.</p>
+<p>A spectacle far more inspiriting was the departure of a Gypsy
+cavalcade from the city on a gay spring morning.&nbsp; For into
+the dingy purlieus where the travellers had wintered more or less
+cheerlessly, stray sunbeams and soft airs had begun to
+penetrate.&nbsp; Tidings had reached them that away in the open
+something had stirred, or called, or breathed along the furzy
+lanes and among the tree boughs, and forthwith every Romany
+sojourner within the ash-strewn yards of the city became eager to
+resume the <a name="page5"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+5</span>free, roving life of the roads.&nbsp; How often have I
+longed for the brush of an artist to depict the company of merry
+Gypsies&mdash;men, women, and bairns, horses, dogs, and donkeys,
+jingling pot-carts and living-wagons bedizened with new paint,
+starting from the top of our lane for the open country, just when
+the wind-rocked woods were burgeoning and every green
+hedge-bottom had a sprinkling of purple violets.</p>
+<p>Now until my eleventh year I had seen no more than the mere
+outside of Romany life, and I might never have had any Gypsy
+experiences to relate but for a trivial blood-spilling, which, as
+I look back upon it, may well be called my initiation into
+Gypsydom.&nbsp; Indeed, the small incident I am about to mention
+had for me a most important result, insomuch as it made me akin
+to Gypsies for the rest of my life.</p>
+<p>My earliest schools were dames&rsquo; academies&mdash;there
+were two of these old-time institutions in our lane.&nbsp;
+Approached by a dark passage, the second of these had for its
+lecture-hall a large brick-floored room, whose presiding spirit
+was a dwarfish lady of sixty-five or more, before whom we sat in
+rows at long desks.&nbsp; The school consisted of about a score
+of children who were awed into subjection by a threatening rod of
+supple ash, half as long again as the tapering stick around which
+the scarlet-runners in your kitchen garden love to entwine
+themselves.&nbsp; This dread implement of discipline, reared in a
+recess near our mistress&rsquo;s desk, would oft descend upon the
+<a name="page6"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 6</span>head of a
+chattering boy or girl, and to the tip of that rod my own pate
+was no stranger.</p>
+<p style="text-align: center">
+<a href="images/p6b.jpg">
+<img alt=
+"A Romany Lass.  Photo: Valentine &amp; Sons"
+title=
+"A Romany Lass.  Photo: Valentine &amp; Sons"
+src="images/p6s.jpg" />
+</a></p>
+<p>Among my acquaintances at this school was a Gypsy girl whose
+parents dwelt at the sunny end of the aforementioned court.&nbsp;
+A year or two my senior, Sibby Smith was a shapely lass, having
+soft hazel eyes and a wealth of dark hair crowning an
+olive-tinted face.&nbsp; Lissom as whalebone, she had a pretty
+way of capering along the lanes with hedgerow berries or leaves
+of autumn&rsquo;s painting in her hair, and I, a silent, retiring
+boy, would watch her movements with admiring eyes.&nbsp;
+Fittingly upon that lithe form sat a garb of tawny-brown, with
+here a wisp of red and there a tag of yellow, mingled as on the
+wings of a butterfly.&nbsp; The girl had a harum-scarum brother,
+Snakey by name and slippery by nature, a little older than
+herself, with whom out of school hours she would be off and away
+searching the bushes for birds&rsquo; nests, or ransacking the
+thickets for nuts; and one day in school I remember how she
+pulled out inadvertently with her handkerchief a catapult&mdash;a
+Gypsy can bring down a pheasant with the like&mdash;and falling
+with a clatter at our teacher&rsquo;s feet, the unholy weapon was
+straightway confiscated, whereat Sibby&rsquo;s face grew darker
+by a shade, as with her pen-nib she savagely stabbed the desk on
+which our copybooks were outspread.&nbsp; A roamer in all the
+copses and lanes around our city, and enjoying the freedom of the
+camps which tarried for little or for long in the old brickyards
+fringing the common, this schoolmate <a name="page7"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 7</span>of mine expressed the out-of-door
+spirit in her very gait, and as she pirouetted along the
+causeway, you caught from her flying figure the smell of wood
+smoke and the mossy odour of deep dingles.</p>
+<p>In all the world it is hard to find the elusive Gypsy&rsquo;s
+compeer.&nbsp; Whimsical as the wind, and brimful of mischief as
+an elf of the wilds, Sibby was to me the embodiment of bewitching
+mystery.&nbsp; From a hillock by the hedge I have watched her
+seize a skittish pony by the mane and, leaping astride its back,
+gallop madly along a lane, to return a few moments later,
+breathless and dishevelled.&nbsp; This was her frolicsome
+mood.</p>
+<p>Never very far below the surface of the Gypsy nature lurks a
+feeling of disdain, waxing fierce at times towards everything and
+everybody outside the Romany world.&nbsp; To this mood the Gypsy
+life appears to be the only life worth living, and the Gypsy is
+the only real man in the world.&nbsp; All other ways and all
+alien folk are suspect.&nbsp; There were times therefore when
+Sibby&rsquo;s eyes would pierce me through with arrows of
+detestation as though one had hailed from beneath the eaves of a
+constabulary.&nbsp; Yet the next day, every shred of this dark
+feeling would be flung to the winds, as under a scented may-bush
+the girl was romancing merrily or instructing me in the peculiar
+whistle giving warning of the approach of Velveteens or a
+policeman.</p>
+<p>Is there in the whole bag of humanity, I wonder, a nut harder
+to crack than the Gypsy?</p>
+<p><a name="page8"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 8</span>One
+afternoon in turning a corner sharply on my way home from school,
+it happened that I ran full tilt into Sibby Smith, and before I
+could say &ldquo;Jack Robinson&rdquo; I received such a blow on
+the mouth as sent me sprawling all my length on the road.&nbsp;
+There was, I suppose, something ludicrous in the sight of a
+prostrate boy with his legs in the air; so at least the girl
+seemed to think, for immediately she burst into laughter, and her
+merriment being ever of an infectious sort, I found myself
+laughing too, though inwardly I thought my punishment
+unmerited.&nbsp; A moment later, however, as I stood wiping the
+blood from my lips, the puzzle was explained.&nbsp; There in the
+dust lay a half-eaten, red-cheeked apple which the Gypsy had been
+munching when the shock of the collision sent it flying from her
+hand; hence the blow that descended upon me so swiftly.&nbsp; Nor
+after the lapse of nearly forty years have I forgotten the
+forceful stroke that laid me low on that autumn afternoon.</p>
+<p>On stormy days, when the loud-lunged gusts made a fanfaronade
+in the chimney-stacks at home, it was my delight as a boy to seek
+the brow of the grassy escarpment overlooking our common, and at
+that time I knew nothing more glorious than a tussle with the
+wind roaring over the hilltop.&nbsp; Leaping on the springy turf,
+hatless and bare-armed, fighting a make-believe giant of sonorous
+voice, what high glee of spirit was mine!</p>
+<p>In those days the escarpment boasted a row of windmills,
+old-fashioned structures, built partly of <a
+name="page9"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 9</span>timber and
+partly of brick and stone, and loud was the whirring of sails
+thereabouts in a brisk wind.&nbsp; At the head of a cleft in the
+hillside, known as &ldquo;Hobbler&rsquo;s Hole,&rdquo; was a mill
+which had fallen into desuetude, and its great sails, shattered
+by a tempest, lay in tangled heaps on the thistle-grown plot
+around the building.&nbsp; To the tall thistles, tufted with
+downy seed, came goldfinches, dainty little fellows, shy as
+fairies.&nbsp; Hitherward came also visitors of another kind,
+for, as might be expected, the unwritten invitation to such a
+harvest of firewood had duly spread to Gypsy Court.&nbsp; More
+than once in the twilight Sibby got me to help her in carrying
+off fragments of timber, and to a boy with <i>Tiger Tom the
+Pirate</i> secreted in the lining of his jacket, these small
+adventures were not without a tang of the picaresque.&nbsp; As
+time went on, the door in the basement of the mill and most of
+the window-frames were dragged piecemeal from their places to
+boil Gypsy kettles, but there still remained the massive ladder
+giving access to the dusty chambers wherein nestled the strangest
+of shadows.&nbsp; Every youngster who came to play in
+Hobbler&rsquo;s Hole knew quite well that the mill was
+haunted.&nbsp; Readily enough we climbed the worm-eaten ladder in
+broad daylight, and scampered about the resounding floors, or sat
+at the frameless windows pelting bits of plaster at the jackdaws
+flitting to and fro, but to think of invading the mouldering mill
+in the dusk hour when hollow and common were visioned away into
+shadowy night was another <a name="page10"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 10</span>matter.&nbsp; Ah, then the mill took
+on an eeriness befitting a very borderland of goblindom.</p>
+<p>Picturing the crumbling ruin and the wrinkled declivity
+dipping below it towards the common, I recall how Snakey Smith
+said one day to me, &ldquo;I likes to sit afore a fire on the
+ground.&nbsp; You don&rsquo;t feel nothing like so lonesome as
+you keeps pushing sticks into the fire and watching &rsquo;em
+burn away.&rdquo;&nbsp; The words aptly express a Gypsy&rsquo;s
+joy in a fire for its own sake, regardless of utilitarian
+considerations.&nbsp; At the moment there may be no kettle
+waiting to be boiled, no black stockpot demanding to be slung on
+the crooked kettle-prop, yet, for the pure pleasure of the thing,
+a Gypsy will light a small pile of dead sticks, and, lounging
+near, will gaze wistfully at the spiral of thin, sweet smoke
+upcurling between the trees in the lane.</p>
+<p>Without a doubt, if &ldquo;you&rsquo;s been a bit
+onlucky,&rdquo; or, if your sky is cloudy with sorrow, there is
+solace in a fire, as in a folk-tale and in the voice of a
+violin.&nbsp; Did not Provost M&lsquo;Cormick, lawyer and lover
+of Gypsies, find his Border Tinklers, amid their brown tents and
+shaggy &ldquo;cuddies,&rdquo; reciting traditional tales to
+banish gloom?&nbsp; &ldquo;Whenever he saw me dull he wad say,
+&lsquo;Come on, Mary, and I&rsquo;ll tell ye a fairy tale,&rsquo;
+and wi&rsquo; his gestures, girns, and granes, he wadna be lang
+till he had us a&rsquo; roarin&rsquo;.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>A Gypsy who resided in a derelict railway carriage on a
+Cheshire common, having lost a dear child, refused to be
+comforted and even declined to take <a name="page11"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 11</span>food.&nbsp; To his old fiddle he
+confided his grief, his body swaying to and fro as he drew forth
+plaintive airs from the strings.</p>
+<p>Wandering one evening in cowslip-time below the decrepit
+windmill, I came to a stile in the hedge, and, passing into the
+lane, I found Sibby and Snakey heaping dead wood upon a fire on
+the margin of the common.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;There!&rdquo; exclaimed the Gypsy girl, &ldquo;I
+know&rsquo;d somebody was a-thinking of me, &rsquo;cos my boots
+kept coming unlaced.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Well, well, you made me jump, <i>baw</i> (mate), you
+did,&rdquo; put in her brother.&nbsp; &ldquo;How did you
+<i>jin</i> we were <i>akai</i>?&rdquo; (know we were here).</p>
+<p>&ldquo;See,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;what a pother you are
+making.&nbsp; I caught a whiff of your smoke right on top of the
+hill.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>With that I dropped down beside the fire, and, yielding the
+soul to the witchery of red-gold flames dancing against the dark,
+it was easy enough to glide into the realm of Faerie.&nbsp;
+Sibby, who had been lying at full length before the fire, now
+gathered herself into a cross-legged posture, and, lapsing into
+meditation, sat twisting a black elf-lock round her
+forefinger.&nbsp; A touch of the &ldquo;creepy&rdquo; world
+seemed also to have fallen upon Snakey, for he lay in silence
+staring into the beyond as though he had sighted fairy faces
+peering between the brier sprays; or was it that the knotted
+tree-bole leaning from the hedge had begun to make
+grimaces?&nbsp; At last the boy awoke with a <a
+name="page12"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 12</span>start.&nbsp;
+By his side lay a maiden ash-plant with numerous hearts and rings
+neatly cut on its green bark, and, whipping out a knife, he
+proceeded to add further touches to his <i>kosht</i>
+(stick).&nbsp; This led me to talk of my own achievement of that
+day in carving my initials on a beech tree not far from where we
+were sitting.&nbsp; Whereat Sibby remarked&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Why, it was only last week that me and mother went in
+our cart past Dalton Brook, and we pulled up to look at the old
+tree what has <i>dui vastaw</i> (two hands) cut into it by
+Orferus Herren, and there they were right enough.&nbsp; It was
+his brother Evergreen who broke his neck by tumbling headlong
+into a stone-pit, wasn&rsquo;t it, Snakey?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;For sure it was, <i>pen</i> (sister), and our uncles
+Fennix and Euri were well-nigh killed the same way right up agen
+Scotland, as I&rsquo;ve heard dad say times and agen.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;How was that?&rdquo; I asked.</p>
+<p>Then followed Snakey&rsquo;s story, which, as well as I
+remember, ran (in his own words) something like this&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;One night my uncles Fennix and Euri was crossing a moor
+among the mountains, a long way up into the North Country.&nbsp;
+They&rsquo;d been sitting all the day in a <i>kitshima</i>
+(tavern) and at last they begins to think it were time to be
+marching to their stopping-place, some five miles away across the
+moor, a wery nasty country with deep pits and ponds in it.&nbsp;
+It was getting dark and the teeny stars were shining above the
+mountains.&nbsp; Well, my uncles made off <a
+name="page13"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 13</span>with a deal
+of bustle at first along a beaten track, but after going a mile
+or two, down comes a fog&mdash;a clear thick &rsquo;un it
+was&mdash;and they soon got off the path and were lost.&nbsp; It
+looked like &rsquo;em having to <i>besh avr&iacute;</i> (lie out)
+all night, as poor Jacob did.&nbsp; Only my uncles didn&rsquo;t
+see no silver ladder with angels dancing up and down on it, and
+<i>mi d&icirc;ri Duvel</i> (God) sitting atop of it.&nbsp; But
+just as they were about dead beat after poddling up and down for
+I can&rsquo;t tell you how long, they walked as nigh as nothing
+over the edge of a deep pit.&nbsp; It were a narrow shave, for
+they only managed to save theirselves by clutching at the bushes
+atop of the pit.&nbsp; Then what do you think, <i>baw</i>?&nbsp;
+They just turned round, and there afore &rsquo;em stood a
+terrible crittur rearing itself up and groaning loud.&nbsp; Their
+hearts was in their mouths.&nbsp; They thought their time had
+come.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;If that ain&rsquo;t a <i>mulo</i> (ghost), my
+name&rsquo;s not Fennix,&rsquo; whispered my uncle.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;<i>Keka</i>&rsquo; (No); &lsquo;it&rsquo;s the
+wery <i>Beng</i> (Devil) hisself,&rsquo; says Euri.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;And there they stands a-dithering like leaves, till at
+last my uncle Fennix pulls hisself together and walks on a yard
+or two, staring hard afore him, and weren&rsquo;t Euri glad above
+a bit to hear his brother say in his nat&rsquo;ral voice,
+&lsquo;Come on, it&rsquo;s nobbut a blessed <i>dunnock</i>
+(steer) after all.&rsquo;&nbsp; And with that the crittur kicked
+up its heels and galloped away, and by a bit of luck my uncles
+stumbled right on to a cartway as led &rsquo;em straight to the
+tents.&rdquo;</p>
+<p><a name="page14"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 14</span>Among
+Gypsies, when the tale-telling mood is on, story will follow
+story, often until drowsiness supervenes; for these folk dearly
+love a tale, and are themselves possessed of no small store of
+family legends and folk-narratives.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Now, it&rsquo;s your turn, sister.&nbsp; Let&rsquo;s
+have that tale about Old Ruzlam Boz&rsquo;ll&rsquo;s
+boy.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Without stopping for a moment to think, Sibby began to reel
+off what was evidently a well-known and favourite story,
+punctuating her sentences by picking from her gown and flinging
+at me sundry prickly balls of burdock seed, telling of what
+prowlings in the woods!</p>
+<p>&ldquo;It&rsquo;s donkey&rsquo;s ears (<i>i.e.</i> long years)
+since Ruzlam Boz&rsquo;ll&rsquo;s wife had a baby boy
+born&rsquo;d in a tent near a spring what bubbled out betwixt two
+rocks, and every summer they used to <i>besh</i> (rest) by the
+same spring.&nbsp; By and by, when the dear little boy grew big
+enough, his mammy sent him every morning to fill the
+kettle.&nbsp; But one day he got a surprise.&nbsp; There on the
+grass by the spring what should he see but a new silver
+shilling.&nbsp; Of course he picked it up and put it into his
+pocket, and never said nothing about it when he got back to the
+tent.&nbsp; Next morning he found double the money at the
+spring-head, and so it went on until his pockets were chinking
+full of silver, and for all that he never breathed no word about
+his luck.&nbsp; But one day Old Ruzlam heard the boy rattling the
+money in his pockets, and forced him to tell where he <a
+name="page15"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 15</span>got it
+from.&nbsp; Next morning the daddy went off, laughing to hisself
+and thinking of the nice heap of silver he was going to pick up,
+but after he had looked up and down and all over, he found just
+nothing at all, leastways he saw no money; but as he stood
+scratting his head, puzzled-like, there, on one side of the
+spring, he saw a dear little teeny old man, and on the other side
+a dear little teeny old woman, and, saying never a word, they
+stooped down and flung water right into Ruzlam&rsquo;s
+eyes.&nbsp; So away he ran home, and there, if he didn&rsquo;t
+find his boy had gone cross-eyed.&nbsp; What&rsquo;s more, he
+never came right agen.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Thus, by pleasant steps amid scenes not lacking in glamour, I
+advanced little by little in my knowledge of these fascinating
+straylings with whom no stranger ever yet found it easy to mingle
+as one of themselves.</p>
+<h2><a name="page16"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+16</span>CHAPTER II<br />
+<span class="GutSmall">CHARACTERS OF THE COURT&mdash;READING
+BORROW</span></h2>
+<p>A <span class="GutSmall">FEW</span> miles outside my native
+city, there stands on the bank of the Roman Fossdyke a lonely
+house known as &ldquo;Drinsey Nook,&rdquo; formerly a tavern with
+bowling greens, swings, and skittle alleys, a resort of wagonette
+and boating parties out for a frolic in the sunshine.&nbsp; Often
+on bygone summer eves have I loitered about the old inn gleaming
+white amid its guardian trees, but best of all I loved to see the
+beechen boughs drop their fiery leaves upon its mossy roof in the
+fading of the year.</p>
+<p>To-day, as of yore, the brown-sailed barges, laden with grain
+or scented fir-planks, glide lazily past the place, and a
+motor-boat will at times go racing by, to the alarm of the
+waterhens which had almost come to look on the sleepy canal as
+their own.</p>
+<p>Does it ever dream of its gay past, I wonder&mdash;this old
+forgotten house fronting upon the rush-fringed waterway?</p>
+<p>One golden October morning, my father, who had a passion for
+boating on our local waters, hired a small sailing craft, and,
+the breezes aiding us, <a name="page17"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 17</span>we were wafted along the Fossdyke as
+far as the said riparian house of call.&nbsp; Hour after hour we
+wandered in the beech woods stretching behind the inn, resting
+now on some protruding snag or fallen bole to watch the squirrels
+at play, and again pushing our way breast-high through sheets of
+changing bracken to the hazel thickets where the nuts hung in
+clusters well within reach of our hooked sticks.</p>
+<p>Linked with this ramble in the time of the falling leaves is
+an impression I have never forgotten.&nbsp; &ldquo;Look,&rdquo;
+said my father, pointing to a decayed stump of a post almost
+buried amid dank moss, &ldquo;this is all that remains of Tom
+Otter&rsquo;s gibbet-tree.&rdquo;&nbsp; I shuddered as he told
+how in other days he had heard the chains clanking in the wind,
+and he went on to relate that <i>his</i> father was among the
+crowd of citizens who, starting from Lincoln Castle one March
+morning in the year 1806, followed the murderer&rsquo;s corpse
+until it was hanged in irons on a post thirty feet high on
+Saxilby Moor.&nbsp; For several days after the event, the
+vicinity of the gibbet resembled a country fair with drinking
+booths, ballad singers, Gypsy fiddlers, and fortune-tellers.</p>
+<p>The impressions of childhood are enduring; and just as the
+smell of the wallflowers after an April shower will revive for
+you, dear fellow, the vision of a garden walk under a lichened
+wall, and the dainty step of your lady love by your side, so for
+me the wild scent of withering bracken in the red <a
+name="page18"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 18</span>autumn glades
+prompts my fancy to envisage anew the gruesome scene as depicted
+by my father on that October day long gone by.&nbsp; Nor is this
+all.</p>
+<p>To mention the name of Tom Otter is to call up for me more
+than one swarthy inhabitant of Gypsy Court who lived to make old
+bones and sit by the fire telling tales and smoking black
+tobacco.&nbsp; I have but to close my eyes to behold a procession
+of these &ldquo;characters&rdquo; straggling out of the dark
+court, their faces and figures lingering for a moment in
+memory&rsquo;s beam of light, then passing again into the
+shadows.&nbsp; And what strange stories are wrapped up in the
+names and lives of some of these folk; quaint comedy, grim
+tragedy, riotous passion, tales of love, laughter, and tears.</p>
+<p>There was old Tom, nicknamed &ldquo;Tom o&rsquo; the
+Gibbet,&rdquo; whose patronymic was <i>Petulengro</i>, which is
+Gypsy for Smith.</p>
+<p>Each of the great Romany clans, be it known, duplicates its
+surname, one form being used before the <i>gawj&ecirc;</i>
+(non-Gypsies, aliens); the other form, of cryptic import, is for
+the brotherhood of the blood.</p>
+<p>Old Tom Petulengro, further known as &ldquo;Sneezing
+Tommy,&rdquo; owing to his liking for snuff, carried on a
+thriving trade in wooden meat-skewers and pegs, and in his
+backyard you might see him with infinite patience cutting up
+willow rods or splitting blocks of close-grained elder-wood; and
+for years I never used to hear in church the familiar words of
+the Psalmist, &ldquo;Our bones lie strewn before the pit, like <a
+name="page19"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 19</span>as when one
+heweth wood upon the earth,&rdquo; without seeing that narrow
+yard with its shining axe lying midst a litter of chips and
+splinters.&nbsp; Elder-wood is still in request for meat-skewers,
+and to this day not a few country butchers prefer to use the
+Gypsy-made article.&nbsp; Old Tom used to say, with a twinkle in
+his eye, that he <i>found</i> nearly all his raw material on his
+journeys up and down the countryside.&nbsp; For, as you could not
+fail to observe, it was a habit with some of the dwellers in
+Gypsy Court to absent themselves periodically with their light
+carts and tents.&nbsp; Halcyon days were those for the court
+Gypsies.</p>
+<p>Let it be remembered that the County Council legend, &ldquo;No
+camping allowed,&rdquo; had not yet begun to hit you in the eye
+from among the bramble brakes on bits of wayside waste.&nbsp; The
+rural constable of that time had not the conveniences his
+successor enjoys in the bicycle and the village telephone.&nbsp;
+There were farmers who still retained a soft place in their
+hearts for the Gypsy, and many a country squire viewed the nomads
+of the grassy lanes with a kindly eye.&nbsp; If a carriage-horse
+grew restive in passing a roadside fire at twilight, up from the
+hedge-bottom sprang an obliging fellow who led the animal safely
+along and thereby won a cheery word from the squire or his
+lady.&nbsp; Even Velveteens would hob-nob with the jovial campers
+on the lord&rsquo;s waste, and, quaffing a dram from their black
+bottle, would toss a rabbit into the lap of a Romany mother and
+go on his way.&nbsp; <a name="page20"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 20</span>Here and there of course were
+tiresome believers in the hoary policy of harassment and
+oppression&mdash;</p>
+<blockquote><p>&ldquo;Pack, and be out of this forthwith,<br />
+D&rsquo;you know you have no business here?<br />
+&lsquo;No, we hain&rsquo;t got,&rsquo; said Samuel Smith,<br />
+&lsquo;No business to be anywhere.&rsquo;<br />
+So wearily they went away,<br />
+Yet soon were camped in t&rsquo;other lane,<br />
+And soon they laughed as wild and gay,<br />
+And soon the kettle boiled again.&rdquo;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p style="text-align: center">
+<a href="images/p20b.jpg">
+<img alt=
+"The Camp in the Lane.  Photo: Fred Shaw"
+title=
+"The Camp in the Lane.  Photo: Fred Shaw"
+src="images/p20s.jpg" />
+</a></p>
+<p>Reverting to Tom Petulengro&rsquo;s sobriquet, I confess it
+provoked my curiosity not a little.&nbsp; Tom <i>o&rsquo; the
+Gibbet</i>&mdash;what could the strange &ldquo;tag&rdquo;
+mean?&nbsp; Time passed, even a few years, and one day its origin
+came to light during a talk with Ashena Brown, Tom&rsquo;s
+married sister, an elderly Gypsy with a furrowed countenance and
+deep-set eyes which flashed with fire as she grew excited in her
+talk.&nbsp; I can see her bowed figure and long jetty curls, as
+in fancy I again stoop to enter the low-ceiled abode in the smoky
+court where I listened to her chatter to the persistent
+accompaniment of a donkey&rsquo;s thump, thump, in an adjoining
+apartment.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Wonderful fond o&rsquo; the County o&rsquo; Nottingham
+was my people,&rdquo; said the old lady.&nbsp; &ldquo;They
+know&rsquo;d every stick and stone along the Trentside, and
+i&rsquo; the Shirewood (Sherwood), and many&rsquo;s the time
+we&rsquo;ve stopped at Five Lane Ends nigh Drinsey Nook.&nbsp;
+Why, my poor dear mammy (Lord rest her soul) was once fired at by
+a foot-pad as she were coming outen the public upo&rsquo; the
+bank there.&nbsp; The <a name="page21"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 21</span>man&rsquo;s pistol had nobbut powder
+in it, for he only meant to <i>trash</i> (frighten) her into
+handing up her <i>lova</i> (money), but she had none about her,
+for her last <i>shukora</i> (sixpence) had gone in <i>levina</i>
+(ale).&nbsp; And after that, my mammy allus wore a big
+<i>diklo</i> (kerchief) round her head for to hide her cheek as
+were badly blued by the rascal&rsquo;s powder.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Ay, and I minds how my daddy used to make teeny
+horseshoes, knife handles, and netting needles, outen the bits
+o&rsquo; wood he <i>tshin</i>&rsquo;d (cut) off the gibbet post,
+and wery good oak it was.&nbsp; Mebbe you&rsquo;s heard o&rsquo;
+Tom Otter&rsquo;s post nigh to the woods?&nbsp; Ah, but
+p&rsquo;raps you&rsquo;s never been tell&rsquo;d that our Tom was
+born&rsquo;d under it?&nbsp; The night my mammy were took bad,
+our tents was a&rsquo;most blown to bits.&nbsp; The wind banged
+the old irons agen the post all night long, as I&rsquo;ve heard
+her say.&nbsp; And when they wanted to name the boy, they
+couldn&rsquo;t think of no other name but Tom, for sure as they
+tried to get away from it, the name kept coming back
+again&mdash;Tom, Tom, Tom&mdash;till it sort o&rsquo; dinned
+itself into their heads.&nbsp; So at last my daddy says,
+&lsquo;Let&rsquo;s call him Tom and done with it,&rsquo; and
+i&rsquo; time, folks got a-calling him Tom o&rsquo; the Gibbet,
+and it stuck to him, it did.&nbsp; There, now, I must give that
+here <i>maila</i> (donkey) a bite o&rsquo; summut.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>But I have not done with Tom Otter.</p>
+<p>Here is a story even more &ldquo;creepy&rdquo; than the
+last.&nbsp; Ashena is again the speaker.&nbsp; &ldquo;I&rsquo;
+them days I&rsquo;d some delations as did funny things that folks
+<a name="page22"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+22</span>wouldn&rsquo;t never think o&rsquo; doing
+nowadays.&nbsp; I&rsquo;d an uncle as used to talk to the
+<i>Beng</i> (Devil).&nbsp; If anything went wrong wi&rsquo; a
+hoss, he&rsquo;d say, &lsquo;<i>Beng</i>, do this, and
+<i>Beng</i>, do that,&rsquo; like we talks to the <i>Duvel</i>
+(God) when we says &rsquo;ur prayers.&nbsp; But he weren&rsquo;t
+eddicated, you see, he didn&rsquo;t know no better.&nbsp; And
+whenever uncle and aunt used to pass by Tom Otter&rsquo;s gibbet,
+they&rsquo;d stop and look up at the poor man hanging there, and
+they allus <i>wuser</i>&rsquo;d (threw) him a bit o&rsquo;
+<i>hawben</i> (food).&nbsp; They couldn&rsquo;t let theirselves
+go by wi&rsquo;out doing that.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;And there was a baker from Harby, and whenever he
+passed by the place he would put a bread loaf on to the pointed
+end of a long rod and shove it into that part o&rsquo; the irons
+where poor Tom&rsquo;s head was, and sure enough the bread allus
+went.&nbsp; The baker got hisself into trouble for doing that, as
+I&rsquo;ve heard our old people say.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Commenting on a parallel instance, occurring about the year
+1779, in which some women were wont to throw up to a gibbeted man
+a bunch of tallow candles for him to eat, the Rev. S.
+Baring-Gould, in his <i>Book of Folk-Lore</i>, writes:
+&ldquo;Obviously the idea was still prevalent that life continued
+to exist in the body after execution.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>In the procession of &ldquo;characters&rdquo; issuing from the
+dark court, I see two familiar figures, the parents of my Gypsy
+schoolmate, who would surely have arrested even a
+stranger&rsquo;s gaze.</p>
+<p>Partly from age, and partly from the habit of <a
+name="page23"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 23</span>his calling,
+Plato Smith the tinman stooped somewhat, yet his legs, which were
+long in comparison with his body, carried him over the ground
+fast enough.&nbsp; A nearer view of the old man&rsquo;s
+countenance revealed certain scars concerning which tales were
+told to his credit as a fighter.&nbsp; True, he had on one
+occasion been worsted by an adversary, for the bridge of his nose
+diverged somewhat from the straight line, a record of a telling
+blow.&nbsp; Always alert, Plato looked the picture of spryness
+when soap and water had removed all traces of the workshop, and
+he had donned a green cutaway coat, a bright yellow neckcloth,
+and a felt &ldquo;hat of antique shape,&rdquo; high in the crown
+and broad of brim, which was pulled well over his eyes whenever
+he went out.&nbsp; It was whispered that none knew better than he
+how to whistle a horse out of a field, but in this art I fancy he
+had grown rusty of late years.&nbsp; To be sure, his long record
+as a poacher had brought him occasional lodgments in the local
+house of detention, yet so ingrained was this Gypsy habit that he
+could hardly refrain from chalking his gun-barrel and sallying
+forth on moonlit nights.</p>
+<p>A riverside incident associated with Sibby&rsquo;s father is
+as fresh in my memory as if it happened but yesterday.&nbsp; A
+stream neither broad nor deep is our homely Witham, crawling
+onward through fenny flats to the North Sea.&nbsp; It was here
+that I learned on summer days to pull an oar in an old black
+coble, and to glide steel-shod over the ice in the Christmas <a
+name="page24"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+24</span>holidays.&nbsp; Along a certain reach of the river, I
+was initiated by an elder brother into the mysteries of angling
+on those tranquil evenings when the bold perch showed their heads
+above water, like the fishes that listened to St. Anthony&rsquo;s
+sermon.&nbsp; Now it fell upon a day that my brother and I were
+crossing the river by ferry-boat, a few miles outside the city,
+our companions being Plato Smith and an ecclesiastic from the
+minster-close&mdash;four happy anglers were we.&nbsp; At one end
+of the flat-bottomed ferry-boat stood the parson fingering his
+rod and whistling a lively tune, when, in midstream, there was a
+sudden hitch in the chain, flinging the perspiring ferryman upon
+his face, and at the same time precipitating our friend from the
+minster-close headlong into the river.&nbsp; Never have I seen a
+wild duck, or a white-pate coot, disappear more cleanly from
+sight than did our brother of &ldquo;the cloth&rdquo; into the
+liquid element.&nbsp; Thanks mainly to Gypsy Plato&rsquo;s
+resourcefulness, he was extricated pretty quickly, and we left
+him in the care of an innkeeper, in whose parlour at dusk we met
+him in borrowed raiment, looking more than usually pallid of
+countenance beneath the broad eaves of our kindly host&rsquo;s
+old-fashioned Sunday &ldquo;topper&rdquo; padded to fit with a
+vivid red handkerchief.</p>
+<p>A personality even more striking was Plato&rsquo;s consort,
+Abigail, as you saw her sunning herself under the parapet of the
+Witham bridge hard by the &ldquo;Three Magpies&rdquo; Inn, her
+black eyes blinking as a gust from the river flapped the loose
+ends of her <a name="page25"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+25</span>gay kerchiefs which she wore three or four deep, meeting
+on her bosom in old-time style.&nbsp; Hooked like a
+falcon&rsquo;s beak, her nose drooped over her pursed lips
+towards a prominent chin, giving her a witchlike mien.&nbsp;
+Quadrupled strings of corals encircled her wizened neck, and a
+black velvet bodice bedecked with silver buttons, a skirt of bold
+check pattern, and a poke-bonnet formed her customary walking
+attire.&nbsp; Often, on her homeward way after her daily round
+with the basket, have I met her puffing a small black pipe as she
+shuffled along our lane.&nbsp; By <i>didakais</i> (half-breeds)
+she was certainly feared, and they maintained it was bad luck to
+meet her first thing of a morning, and were known to turn back on
+seeing her in the street.&nbsp; &ldquo;Her eyes make you feel
+that queer&rdquo; was a common saying, and it follows that she
+ranked high as a fortune-teller.&nbsp; Seldom a fair passed but
+you met her in the noisy throng, chaffing the <i>gawj&ecirc;</i>
+(gentiles), or surrounded by a group of village Johnnies and
+Mollies eager to have their palms read.&nbsp; What a picture she
+made as she stooped to tighten the girths of her shaggy donkey at
+whose head stood the wild, dusky Sibby with a spring wind
+whisking her black locks about her cheeks, out on the open road
+beyond the town, for maid and mother were devoted companions on
+many a foray into the villages dotted over Lincoln Heath.</p>
+<p>Another conspicuous character of the court was a quaint little
+hunchback, a pedlar by trade, whose <a name="page26"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 26</span>sad deformity and resentful temper
+caused him to become the butt of every street gamin&rsquo;s
+joke.&nbsp; He would often be seen in company with Sammy Noble, a
+wooden-legged vendor of firewood.&nbsp; The pair, I regret to
+say, called too frequently at taverns, and more than once I have
+seen them assisted home by kindly policemen, or
+&ldquo;peelers,&rdquo; as they were then called, who if
+resurrected to-day in their long black coats and chimney-pot
+hats, would surely be taken for nothing short of cathedral
+dignitaries.</p>
+<p>The hero of the Gypsy colony was a tall athletic fellow,
+&ldquo;Soldier&rdquo; &rsquo;Plisti (or Supplistia) Boswell, who
+also bore the nickname of &ldquo;Jumping Jack,&rdquo; of whom I
+give a reminiscence or two here.</p>
+<p>One day a country squire was driving a pony chaise along a
+lane, and, rounding a corner, he came upon a ring of Gypsies
+roasting hedgehogs.&nbsp; Imagine his astonishment to see a
+slender lad spring up, and, running a few yards, take a flying
+leap clear over the pony&rsquo;s back, a feat so pleasing to the
+squire that he called the boy to his side and, presenting him
+with a bright crown-piece, offered&mdash;so the tale
+runs&mdash;&ldquo;to keep him like a gentleman for
+life.&rdquo;&nbsp; In return for which kindness, the Gypsy was
+expected to disown his people, a condition which was not jumped
+at by Jack.</p>
+<p>&rsquo;Plisti&rsquo;s home in Gypsy Court was one day the
+scene of a singular incident.&nbsp; A fox closely pursued by the
+hounds dashed through the open door of the living-room, where
+before the fire lay the Gypsy <a name="page27"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 27</span>asleep and snoring.&nbsp; Reynard in
+his haste managed to sweep the sleeper&rsquo;s face with his
+brush; and mighty was the yell that burst from
+&rsquo;Plisti&rsquo;s throat on being thus disturbed, causing the
+fox to seek refuge in a hovel hard by, where the dogs fell upon
+him.&nbsp; A brother of mine who was in the court at the time
+obtained possession of the brush, and the trophy was given a
+conspicuous place in our home.</p>
+<p>In those days it was no unusual course for the Gypsy lads to
+enlist in the Militia, and &rsquo;Plisti looked every inch a
+soldier as he marched homeward from the morning&rsquo;s drill on
+the common.&nbsp; In play he would level his musket at you, and
+laugh like a merry boy, if you caught his spirit and made believe
+that you were wounded.&nbsp; If he was proud of his scarlet
+jacket, his characteristic Gypsy vanity led him to glory in
+shirts of dyes so resplendent that in comparison the vaunted
+multi-coloured coat of Joseph would indeed have been thrown into
+the shade.</p>
+<p>The Gypsy spell cast upon me in childhood was now reinforced
+by my discovery of the autobiographical writings of George
+Borrow.&nbsp; It was in my teens that I devoured <i>Lavengro</i>
+in its original three-volume form.&nbsp; By taper-light in an
+attic bedroom at home, or in some hollow on the common where the
+battered race-cards whitened the base of the gorse
+bushes&mdash;our old common is the annual scene of the
+Lincolnshire Handicap&mdash;I thrilled over the boy
+Borrow&rsquo;s encounter with the Gypsies in the <a
+name="page28"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 28</span>green lane at
+Norman Cross.&nbsp; I followed him through the crowded horse-fair
+at Norwich, and into the smoky tents pitched upon Mousehold
+Heath.&nbsp; But the episode which impressed me most of all was
+the fight with the Flaming Tinman.&nbsp; The <i>dramatis
+person&aelig;</i> of that narrative would pursue me even into my
+dreams.&nbsp; <i>The Romany Rye</i>, with its vivid picture of
+Horncastle Fair, was pleasant enough reading, though not nearly
+so fascinating as <i>Lavengro</i>.&nbsp; Little did I think that
+the coming days were to bring some of Borrows originals within my
+ken.</p>
+<p style="text-align: center">
+<a href="images/p28b.jpg">
+<img alt=
+"A daughter of &ldquo;Jasper Petulengro&rdquo;"
+title=
+"A daughter of &ldquo;Jasper Petulengro&rdquo;"
+src="images/p28s.jpg" />
+</a></p>
+<p>How far Borrow&rsquo;s Gypsies are portraits of individuals,
+and to what extent we are able to identify them, are questions
+which have often been asked.&nbsp; Don Jorge would probably have
+denied the charge of individual portraiture, yet there is no
+doubt that he had definite prototypes in his mind&rsquo;s eye
+when penning his narratives.&nbsp; Just as in <i>Guy
+Mannering</i>, Sir Walter Scott portrayed an actual Jean Gordon
+under the name of Meg Merrilies, so we know that Borrow has given
+us his old friend Ambrose Smith under the now famous cognomen of
+&ldquo;Jasper Petulengro,&rdquo; a fact made plain by Dr. Knapp
+in his monumental work <a name="citation28"></a><a
+href="#footnote28" class="citation">[28]</a> familiar to all
+Gypsy students.&nbsp; Shortly before his death at Dunbar in
+October, 1878, Ambrose Smith and his wife Sanspirela (a Heron
+before marriage), together with their family, had been noticed
+and befriended by Queen Victoria.&nbsp; To <a
+name="page29"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 29</span>wit: the
+following entry in <i>More Leaves from the Journal of a Life in
+the Highlands</i>.</p>
+<blockquote><p>&ldquo;<i>August</i> 26<i>th</i>, 1878.&mdash;At
+half-past three started with Beatrice, Leopold, and the Duchess
+in the landau, and four, the Duke, Lady Ely, General Ponsonby,
+and Mr. Yorke, going in the second carriage, and Lord Haddington
+riding all the way.&nbsp; We drove through the west part of
+Dunbar, which was very full, and we were literally pelted with
+small nosegays, till the carriage was full of them; then for some
+distance past the village of Belheven, Knockendale Hill, where
+were stationed in their best attire the queen of the gipsies, an
+oldish woman [Sanspirela] with a yellow handkerchief on her head,
+and a youngish, very dark, and truly gipsy-like woman in velvet
+and a red shawl, and another woman.&nbsp; The queen is a thorough
+gipsy, with a scarlet cloak and a yellow handkerchief around her
+head.&nbsp; Men in red hunting-coats, all very dark, and all
+standing on a platform here, bowed and waved their
+handkerchiefs.&rdquo;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>In the seventh chapter of <i>The Romany Rye</i>, Borrow tells
+how he one day got his dinner &ldquo;entirely off the body of a
+squirrel which had been shot the day before by a chal of the name
+of Piramus, who, besides being a good shot, was celebrated for
+his skill in playing on the fiddle.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Nieces of Piramus Gray, whom I know, have testified to their
+uncle&rsquo;s excellence as a marksman, and on the authority of
+Sinfai, a daughter of Piramus, <a name="page30"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 30</span>I have been told that Ambrose
+Smith&rsquo;s praise of her father&rsquo;s fiddling was well
+founded.</p>
+<blockquote><p>&ldquo;About a week ago my people and
+myself&rdquo; (the speaker is Ambrose, <i>i.e.</i> Jasper
+Petulengro) &ldquo;were encamped on a green by a plantation in
+the neighbourhood of a great house.&nbsp; In the evening we were
+making merry, the girls dancing, while Piramus was playing on the
+fiddle a tune of his own composing, to which he had given his own
+name, Piramus of Rome, and which is much celebrated amongst our
+people, and from which I have been told one of the grand gorgio
+composers who once heard it has taken several hints.&rdquo;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>The gifted fiddler was at that time only a slim fellow of
+twenty-eight summers.&nbsp; Long years afterwards, when Piramus
+was a very old man and I a youth of twenty, I remember seeing him
+in our Lincolnshire town of Louth, where he was still tapping
+with his tinker&rsquo;s hammer and fondling his violin in his
+cottage at the River Head.&nbsp; A story which the old man never
+tired of telling was that of his brother Jack&rsquo;s
+heroism.</p>
+<p>Upon a day, many years ago, the children of Piramus were
+boating on a river, and, their craft capsizing, all were flung
+into the stream.&nbsp; Jack, who happened to be on the bank,
+leaped in and saved all but two, the oldest and the youngest, who
+were drowned.&nbsp; In his day Piramus had excelled as a fighter,
+and certainly the knotty fists of the aged tinman looked as if
+they had done service in the bruising line.</p>
+<p><a name="page31"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 31</span>Two
+visitors who loved to cheer the last days of Piramus were his
+daughter Sinfai and her husband, Isaac Heron, who have themselves
+now passed away.&nbsp; Whenever I think of the tall figure of Old
+Isaac, I recall one evening in the summer of 1876, when a camp of
+the Herons lay just outside of Lincoln.&nbsp; What appeared to be
+a Gypsy trial was in progress, and I remember the inward thrill
+on beholding those Herons in a ring, chattering like a flock of
+daws.&nbsp; Inside the circle stands a young man, bare-headed,
+stripped of coat and vest, and gesticulating wildly.&nbsp; Now he
+flings his arms about, and now he thrusts his fingers through his
+shaggy black hair.&nbsp; On his brow the sweat stands in
+beads.&nbsp; I can hear the name &ldquo;Wilhelmina,&rdquo; as it
+comes in a piercing shriek from his lips.&nbsp; The old men and
+women are muttering together as calmly they look on.&nbsp; In
+that throng were Isaac and Sinfai, along with some of the older
+Yorkshire Herons, Golias, Khulai, and others.</p>
+<p>In after years I came to know very intimately many members of
+the clan Heron, and among them a niece of that weird old hag,
+Mrs. Herne (to use Borrow&rsquo;s spelling of the name), who sent
+the poisoned cake to Lavengro in Mumper&rsquo;s Dingle.</p>
+<p>Having had a romantic interest in the Gypsies aroused in me
+thus early, I naturally looked forward to the days when I should
+leave home and meet the people of the <i>kawlo rat</i> (black
+blood) in other parts of the country.</p>
+<h2><a name="page32"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+32</span>CHAPTER III<br />
+<span class="GutSmall">NORTH-COUNTRY GYPSIES</span></h2>
+<p>A <span class="GutSmall">TYPICAL</span> colliery village in a
+bleak northern county was the scene of my first curacy.&nbsp;
+Silhouettes of ugliness were its black pit buildings, dominated
+by a mountain of burning refuse exhaling night and day a
+poisonous breath which tarnished your brass candlesticks and
+rendered noxious the &ldquo;long, unlovely street&rdquo; of the
+parish.&nbsp; What in the name of wisdom induced me to pitch my
+tent in such a spot, I can scarcely say at this distance of time,
+unless perhaps it was a mad desire to rub against something rough
+and rude after having been reared in the drowsy atmosphere of
+pastoral Lincolnshire.</p>
+<p>But if the picture which met my gaze on parochial rounds
+possessed no inspiring feature, you may take my word for it that
+the setting of the picture was undeniably charming.&nbsp; Close
+at hand lay the valley of the Wear, by whose brown and amber
+waters, broken by frequent beds of gravel, I used to wander,
+trout-rod in hand, or, wading ankle-deep in bluebells, I added to
+my store of nature-knowledge by observing the ways of the
+wood-folk&mdash;the tawny squirrel on his fir-bough, the
+red-polled woodpecker hammering at a <a name="page33"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 33</span>decayed elm-branch, or a lank heron
+standing stiff as a stake on the margin of a pool.</p>
+<p>Across the airy uplands at the back of the village runs a road
+which was ever a favourite walk of mine.&nbsp; Away in the
+distance, Durham&rsquo;s towers lift their grey stones, and
+nearer across the fields, &ldquo;like a roebuck at bay,&rdquo;
+rises the castle, which together with the lordship of Brancepeth,
+Geoffrey, grandson of the Norman Gilbert de Nevil, received as
+dowry with Emma Bulmer, his Saxon bride.&nbsp; Right well I came
+to know the weathered walls of Brancepeth Castle, where in fancy
+I used to hear the blare of bugle (<i>not the motor-horn</i>),
+and to a dreamer it is still a place where &ldquo;the swords
+shine and the armour rings.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>One June day I took the byway over the hills, and as I leaned
+upon a gate looking towards the castle, a sound of wheels not far
+off was heard on the gritty roadway, and from round the corner a
+party of Gypsies hove in sight.&nbsp; There were two or three
+carts bearing the name of Watland, with several comely people
+aboard, and lagging in the rear came a pair of shaggy colts,
+whipped up by a shock-headed lad of fifteen.&nbsp; When I greeted
+these wanderers, they drew rein and descended from the carts, and
+standing there in the sunshine on the road, they appeared to me
+more than anything like a gang of prehistoric folk risen from
+some tumulus on the moor; features, garments, horses,
+vehicles&mdash;all were tinctured with Mother Earth&rsquo;s reds
+and browns picked up from wild heaths, clay-pits, and sandy
+lanes.&nbsp; To my mind the <a name="page34"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 34</span>sight was an agreeable variation from
+the daily procession of miners so black with coal-dust that you
+could not for the life of you distinguish Bill from Bob, or Jack
+from Jerry.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Are you stopping about here?&rdquo; I asked, after an
+exchange of salutations.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Yes; come and see us to-night on top o&rsquo; the
+moor.&nbsp; We&rsquo;ll be fixed up by then.&rdquo;&nbsp; Turning
+to his wife, the leader of the party said&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Ay, doesn&rsquo;t he remind you of that young priest up
+yonder by Newcastle, what used to come and take a cup of tea with
+us?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>There was something about these Watlands which impressed
+me.&nbsp; Although obviously poor, they were
+light-hearted&mdash;I had caught the lilt of a song before they
+came in sight.&nbsp; A blithesome spirit of acceptance, a
+serenity drawn from Nature&rsquo;s bosom was theirs, and I could
+imagine them whistling cheerily as they bent their heads to
+buffeting storms.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Take no thought for the morrow,&rdquo; is the
+Gypsy&rsquo;s own philosophy.&nbsp; Were real road-folk ever able
+to tell you the route of the morrow&rsquo;s itinerary?&nbsp;
+Break of day will be time enough to discuss the next stage of the
+journey.</p>
+<p>Sundown&rsquo;s fires burned redly behind the black pines, as
+I found myself on the moor, a wide expanse tracked by little
+paths worn by passing feet, a haunt of whin-chats, grasshoppers,
+and bright-eyed lizards&mdash;sun-lovers all.</p>
+<p>Knowing the whimsicalities of the Gypsy nature, <a
+name="page35"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 35</span>I had half
+expected to draw a blank after dawdling through the afternoon at
+Brancepeth Castle.&nbsp; I wondered whether my luck would be the
+same as on a past occasion whereon it happened that down a green
+lane I had located a picturesque lot of Gypsies who might almost
+have stepped straight out of a Morland canvas, and most anxious I
+was to secure a few snapshots, but unfortunately my camera had
+been left at home.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;You&rsquo;ll be here all day, I expect?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;To be sure we shall, my <i>rai</i>, you&rsquo;ll find
+us here <i>koliko sawla</i> (to-morrow morning), if you&rsquo;s a
+mind to come.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Preferring to act upon the <i>carpe diem</i> principle, I
+returned with my camera as expeditiously as I could, and though
+but an hour and a half had elapsed, alas! my birds had
+flown.&nbsp; Homewards I trudged, a joy-bereft soul for whom the
+world had suddenly grown empty.</p>
+<p>This leads me to remark that the Gypsies are far from easy to
+photograph.&nbsp; The degree of friendship does not enter into
+the problem.&nbsp; I have known strangers to pose readily, while
+old friends have doggedly refused to be &ldquo;took.&rdquo;&nbsp;
+Once a friend and I had talked one of the reticent Herons into a
+willingness to be photographed.&nbsp; Yes, on the morrow he would
+be &ldquo;took.&rdquo;&nbsp; But with the morrow his mood had
+changed.&nbsp; &ldquo;No, <i>raia</i>, not for a thousand
+pounds.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>I remember photographing a Gypsy girl under <a
+name="page36"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 36</span>curious
+conditions.&nbsp; Said I, as she sat upon the grass&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;You&rsquo;ll allow me to take a little picture?&nbsp;
+Your hair is so pretty, and you have a happy face.&rdquo;</p>
+<p style="text-align: center">
+<a href="images/p36ab.jpg">
+<img alt=
+"A North-Country Gypsy Girl.  Photo. H. Stimpson"
+title=
+"A North-Country Gypsy Girl.  Photo. H. Stimpson"
+src="images/p36as.jpg" />
+</a></p>
+<p>But, no, my words were wasted.&nbsp; Bad luck followed that
+sort of thing, a cousin of hers had died a fortnight after being
+&ldquo;took.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;But isn&rsquo;t there some charm for keeping off bad
+luck?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Looking thoughtful for a moment, she replied&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Oh yes, if you&rsquo;ll give me a pair of bootlaces,
+you can <i>lel mi mui</i> (take my face) as many times as you
+<i>kom</i>&rdquo; (like).</p>
+<p>I had a pair of laces, <i>but they were in my boots</i>.&nbsp;
+Nothing daunted, however, I went off to a shop in the village
+half a mile away, and was soon back again presenting the laces to
+the girl with an Oriental salaam.</p>
+<p>Then I got my picture.</p>
+<p style="text-align: center">
+<a href="images/p36bb.jpg">
+<img alt=
+"On the Moorland.  Photo. Chas. Reid"
+title=
+"On the Moorland.  Photo. Chas. Reid"
+src="images/p36bs.jpg" />
+</a></p>
+<p>Reverting to the Watlands, I was not disappointed.&nbsp; There
+in a hollow on the moor I found them squatting around their
+fires.&nbsp; Wearied by travel, some of the elders had retired
+for the night.&nbsp; &ldquo;<i>Dik lesti</i>&rsquo;s
+<i>p&icirc;ro</i>&rdquo; (look at his foot), said one of the
+boys, pointing to a man&rsquo;s bare brown foot protruding from
+beneath a tent cover.&nbsp; Within view of Durham&rsquo;s
+twinkling lights we sat, and my tobacco pouch having gone the
+round, we were soon deep in the sayings and doings of the
+Watlands of other days, for when business is off Gypsies ever
+talk of Gypsies.&nbsp; As I looked at these <a
+name="page37"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 37</span>folk, it
+seemed as though behind them through the dusk peered the shades
+of Romanies of an older, weirder sort, who shunned contact with
+cities and hated <i>gawj&ecirc;</i> (non-Gypsies) with a
+bitterness unknown to-day.</p>
+<p>Here is a tale of the old times, obtained from grizzled
+&ldquo;Durham&rdquo; Mike Watland, and translated more or less
+into my own words.</p>
+<blockquote><p>&ldquo;When I was a little fellow, I used to
+listen with delight to a blood-curdling story which my
+grandfather used to tell as we sat watching the red embers die
+out at night.&nbsp; One time he found himself in a strange
+predicament, and got such a &ldquo;gliff&rdquo; as he had never
+experienced before.&nbsp; This of course was many years ago, for
+my grandfather lived to the age of ninety-four, and I am one of
+the third generation of a long-lived family of Gypsies.&nbsp; The
+ways of our people were a bit different then.&nbsp; In those
+days, you saw no harm in taking anything you had a fancy for, if
+you could get it.&nbsp; My grandfather was a young fellow, and on
+this particular morning he crossed a moor and came to a hamlet
+containing three or four straggling houses, and near one of these
+stood a cowshed and a low barn.&nbsp; In passing the shed he saw
+hanging there a nice porker which had been killed early that
+morning, and round it was wrapped a sack to prevent dogs or cats
+from gnawing it.&nbsp; All this my grandfather observed as he
+hawked his goods at the cottage door, inwardly resolving to pay
+Mr. Piggy a visit by night.&nbsp; All was quiet when at a late
+hour <a name="page38"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 38</span>he
+re-crossed the moor and arrived at the shed, on entering which he
+put out his hands and felt for the pig where he had seen it
+hanging in the morning, but, no, it had been removed.&nbsp; It
+then occurred to him that for greater safety it might have been
+carried into the low-roofed barn, so in he went and felt all
+along the cross-beam.&nbsp; He was right.&nbsp; Sure enough the
+pig&rsquo;s face struck cold to his hand.&nbsp; Quickly he cut
+the rope, and, slinging piggy across his shoulder, was soon
+making his way back to the camping-place.&nbsp; But crossing that
+rough land with a heavy load was no easy task, and you may be
+sure that the farther he went the heavier it became.&nbsp; When
+descending a slope, he caught his foot in a hole, and down he
+tumbled with his burden.&nbsp; Now as he arose and laid hold of
+the rope in order to hoist the pig once more, the moon came out
+from behind a cloud, and revealed the face of&mdash;<i>a dead
+man</i>!&nbsp; For a moment he stood mesmerized by fright, then
+sick at heart he proceeded to acquaint the nearest constable with
+the fact.&nbsp; The corpse was identified as that of a
+feeble-minded cottager who had hanged himself in the
+barn.&rdquo;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>One day I was exploring the city of Durham, for my early life
+in Lincoln had imbued me with a love of old architecture, and the
+nave of Durham minster profoundly gratified my love of the
+sombre, when, lo, just over the way, I saw a weather-beaten
+<i>v&acirc;do</i> (living-van), and near it was the owner,
+looking up and down the street as if expecting someone to
+appear.&nbsp; Crossing <a name="page39"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 39</span>the road, I greeted the Gypsy, who
+turned out to be one of the Winters, a North-Country family to
+whom has been applied (not without reason) the epithet
+&ldquo;wild,&rdquo; and I remembered how Hoyland, in his
+<i>Historical Survey of the Gypsies</i>, had written&mdash;</p>
+<blockquote><p>&ldquo;The distinguished Northern poet, Walter
+Scott, who is Sheriff of Selkirkshire, has in a very obliging
+manner communicated the following statement&mdash;&lsquo; . . .
+some of the most atrocious families have been extirpated.&nbsp; I
+allude to the Winters, a Northumberland clan, who, I fancy, are
+all buried by this time.&rsquo;&rdquo;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>But Sheriff Scott was wrong.</p>
+<p>The Winters had only changed their haunts, and on being driven
+out of the Border Country had moved southward.</p>
+<p>As I stood chatting with Mr. Winter, his handsome wife came up
+with a hawking-basket on her arm.&nbsp; I shall always remember
+her in connection with a story she told me.</p>
+<blockquote><p>&ldquo;One day I was sitting on a bank under a
+garden hedge.&nbsp; It was a hot day and I was very
+thirsty.&nbsp; I said aloud, &lsquo;Oh, for a drink of
+beer.&rsquo;&nbsp; Just then a voice came over the hedge, a nice,
+clear, silvery voice it was, like as if an angel from heaven was
+a-talking to me&mdash;&lsquo;You shall have one, my
+dearie.&rsquo;&nbsp; And in a minute or two a kind lady came down
+with a big jug of beer.&nbsp; How I did bless that lady for her
+kindness to a poor Gypsy, and I drank the lot.&nbsp; About a
+month <a name="page40"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+40</span>afterwards, I heard of the death of that lady, and I
+vowed to myself and to the <i>rawni</i>&rsquo;s <i>muli</i>
+(lady&rsquo;s spirit) that I would never touch another drop of
+beer as long as I lived, and I never have done and never will no
+more.&rdquo;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<h2><a name="page41"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+41</span>CHAPTER IV<br />
+<span class="GutSmall">MY POACHING PUSSY&mdash;A ROMANY
+BENISON&mdash;MY FIRST TASTE OF HEDGEHOG</span></h2>
+<p><span class="smcap">My</span> clerical life has been spent for
+the most part in green country places, chiefly amid wind-swept
+hills.&nbsp; Consequently one has learned to delight in the
+creatures that run and fly, the wild things of wood and wold and
+brookside, and this love of Nature and her children has never
+left me; it has companioned with me throughout my
+wanderings.&nbsp; Give me now an elevated crest commanding a
+broad sweep of field and forest, with the swift rush of keen air
+over the furze bushes, a footpath among the thorn-scrub where the
+finches chatter, the sedgy bank of a moorland stream from which I
+can hear the &ldquo;flup&rdquo; of the trout, or the call of the
+peewits somersaulting in the sunlight: simple pleasures are
+these, yet they bring a world of happiness to a man who loves the
+wilds more than cities, and the windy wold better than the
+stifling street.</p>
+<p>Contrary to the popular notion that Lincolnshire is no more
+than a dreary expanse of black fenland soil intersected by drains
+of geometric straightness, I may point out that there are two
+well-defined hill <a name="page42"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+42</span>ranges extending almost throughout the county&mdash;the
+chalk and greensand Wolds, and the limestone
+&ldquo;Heights,&rdquo; running parallel after the manner of the
+<i>duplex spina</i> of Virgil&rsquo;s well-bred horse.</p>
+<p>On the western edge of the Wolds, overlooking a richly varied
+landscape, nestles the hamlet where I made my first home after
+marriage, and the country lying around our hilltop parsonage was
+an ideal hunting-ground for a naturalist.&nbsp; Borne on the rude
+March gales the wild pipe of the curlew greeted the ear as you
+met the buffeting gusts along the unfrequented ridgeways, and
+over winter snows an observant eye might trace the badger&rsquo;s
+spoor.&nbsp; On summer evenings when the far-away minster of
+Lincoln was a purple cameo upon an amber ground, and the shadows
+creeping out of the woods began to spread over the hills, a brown
+owl would sail by on noiseless wings, or Reynard might be seen
+trotting across the sheep-nibbled sward towards the warren below
+the clustering firs.</p>
+<p>Rambling along the wold one gleaming autumn afternoon, my
+attention was attracted by the rapid movements of some
+diminutive, fluffy-looking creature, which to a casual saunterer
+might have been a wren or a hedgesparrow; but after having stood
+quietly for a moment or two, a dark velvety ball of fur darted
+towards me, and in a most confiding manner ran over my boots, and
+sniffed at the stout ash-plant which I invariably carry with me
+along the lanes.&nbsp; For some time I stood watching the
+unconscious <a name="page43"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+43</span>play of this tiny mouse.&nbsp; At last, however, I made
+a move and my wee friend fled like a thought to his retreat in
+the hedge.</p>
+<p>On another occasion, I was seated in my old oak stall in the
+village church.&nbsp; It was a harvest festival, and a college
+friend was in the midst of his sermon, when I distinctly felt
+something nibbling at the hem of my cassock.&nbsp; It was a plump
+grey mouse, and on moving my foot I saw him speed down the aisle
+like an arrow.&nbsp; As fortune had it, the ladies in the front
+pew, being properly rapt in the eloquent discourse, escaped the
+disquieting vision of my church mousie.</p>
+<p>These mice incidents, with a few more like them, were strung
+together and dispatched to the <i>Pall Mall Budget</i>, edited at
+that time by Mr. Charles Morley.&nbsp; My literary effort was
+duly printed, with pleasing sketches from the pencil of that
+peerless lover of pussies, Mr. Louis Wain, the then president of
+the Cat Club.</p>
+<p>It was in the same parish that I had a favourite pussy,
+&ldquo;Tony&rdquo; by name, who would daily follow me to church,
+and wait at the vestry door for my reappearance after
+matin-prayers.&nbsp; But, alas, he acquired the poaching habit, a
+sure path to destruction, as I learned one day to my sorrow in
+passing the keeper&rsquo;s gibbet at the end of a woodland
+glade.</p>
+<p>One of my rambles with this pussy I recall quite
+vividly.&nbsp; One afternoon I set off across the wold intending
+to make pastoral visits upon a few outlying <a
+name="page44"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+44</span>cottagers.&nbsp; I had got about half a mile from home,
+and, looking round, there was Tony just at my heels.&nbsp; I
+strolled along, and presently heard a squealing, and out of a
+clump of nettles came my cat dragging a plump rabbit.&nbsp; It
+was dead, and the cat, panting after his effort, looked up at me,
+as much as to say, &ldquo;You&rsquo;re not going to leave it
+here, are you?&rdquo;&nbsp; Whereupon I remembered the saying of
+an old Gypsy, &ldquo;If you had a dog that brought a hare or a
+rabbit to your feet, wouldn&rsquo;t it be flying in the face of
+providence to refuse to take it?&rdquo;&nbsp; So, picking up the
+rabbit, I put it in one of the roomy pockets of my long-tailed
+coat, and went on.&nbsp; The cat persisted in following.&nbsp; By
+and by, we drew near to a disused quarry, where the cat captured
+a second rabbit, which went into the other pocket of my long
+coat.&nbsp; By this time I began to feel the charm of the sport
+of that gentleman who sallies forth on &ldquo;a shiny night at
+the season of the year.&rdquo;&nbsp; The pastoral visits had now
+perforce to be abandoned, but on turning my face homeward, oh,
+horrors! there, not a hundred yards away, was a man on horseback,
+accompanied by a dog, and, seeing them, my cat scooted along a
+gulley up the hill, and was gone.&nbsp; I could not disappear
+quite so easily.&nbsp; However, as I did not altogether fancy a
+strange dog sniffing at my coat-tails, I made a detour, and the
+horseman passed a good way below me on the slope.&nbsp; You
+should have seen my wife smile as I plumped two nice bunnies on
+the kitchen table.&nbsp; We observed that those rabbits <a
+name="page45"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 45</span>tasted quite
+as good as any you purchase at a game-dealer&rsquo;s stall in the
+market.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>Gypsies, as all the world knows, are fond of the hedgehog.</p>
+<p>They do not keep him as a pet.&nbsp; They eat him, and roast
+hedgehog accompanied with sage and onions is a dish for an
+episcopal table.&nbsp; I never see one of these prickly fellows
+without being reminded of several experiences.</p>
+<p>Once in passing along a town street on my way to the
+Archdeacon&rsquo;s Visitation, I noticed not far ahead of me an
+elderly woman stepping out with a swinging stride.&nbsp; Her face
+I could not see, but she wore a tattered shawl about her
+shoulders, and her black hair was done up in small plaits like a
+horse&rsquo;s mane at fair-time.&nbsp; &ldquo;Gypsy,&rdquo; said
+I to myself, and, hastening alongside, I greeted her in the
+Romany tongue.&nbsp; The words had a magical effect.&nbsp;
+Instantly she wheeled round and scanned me up and down with a
+puzzled air.&nbsp; There before her, wearing an orthodox collar
+and black coat, stood a parson who nevertheless talked like a
+Gypsy.&nbsp; Now in common with some ladies of high degree,
+nearly all Gypsy women enjoy a whiff of tobacco smoke.&nbsp; This
+old lady, however, declined a gift of the weed on the ground that
+&ldquo;the brantitus&rdquo; had troubled her of late, but she
+gladly stepped with me into a snug coffeehouse close by, where
+over our steaming cups we conversed aloud in the Gypsy language,
+to the complete <a name="page46"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+46</span>mystification of the prim-looking manageress whose
+curiosity kept her hovering near.&nbsp; What that good
+woman&rsquo;s thoughts were, I have not the faintest idea.&nbsp;
+I only know that she seemed amazed at the sight of a Gypsy in
+easy intercourse with a simple-looking cleric who appeared to be
+enjoying himself.&nbsp; Both, too, were speaking a queer-sounding
+language understandable to each other, but utterly
+incomprehensible to the listener.&nbsp; What could it all
+mean?&nbsp; Well, Gypsies at anyrate are not without a sense of
+humour; indeed, no one enjoys a bit of fun more than they.&nbsp;
+Taking in the situation at a glance, my Gypsy companion gave me a
+sly look, and, waving her hand playfully, exclaimed, &ldquo;Never
+mind him, missis, he&rsquo;s nobbut an Irishman, and can&rsquo;t
+a boy and his mither talk a word or two in their own
+language?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>On my taking leave of the Gypsy mother, she bestowed this
+benison upon me: &ldquo;The Lord love you, my son, and <i>may you
+always have a big hedgehog in your mouth</i>.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Hedgehog, as I have said, is a dainty dish with Gypsies, and
+the old woman was no more than kindly wishing that there might
+ever be a titbit ready to slip into my mouth.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>I am not likely to forget the occasion of my first actual
+taste of this Romany delicacy.</p>
+<p>Charley Watland (brother of &ldquo;Durham&rdquo; Mike), a wide
+traveller, had told me much of the delights of a certain
+old-fashioned Midland horse-fair, concluding <a
+name="page47"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 47</span>one of his
+glowing descriptions by inviting me to meet him in mid-September
+at this fair.&nbsp; Thus it came to pass that I set out one fine
+morning with my face towards the distant hills of
+Leicestershire.&nbsp; Of the day-long journey, I am now concerned
+only with its closing scenes.&nbsp; Pushing up a long, tiring
+hill, I spied over a hedge in the dusk two or three
+<i>v&acirc;d&ecirc;</i> (living-vans), some low tents with
+flickering fires before them, and dark figures moving to and
+fro.&nbsp; With what energy I had left, I climbed over a fence
+and made straight for the Gypsy fires.&nbsp; A tall
+<i>Romanitshel</i>, leaning against a tree-bole, was singing
+snatches of a song in which I caught the words <i>Beng</i>
+(Devil) and <i>puri-dai</i> (grandmother), but, on seeing a
+stranger approach, he ceased.&nbsp; The Romany greeting, which I
+flung on the evening air, caused a stoutish woman to thrust her
+head from the doorway of the nearest caravan.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;He&rsquo;s one o&rsquo; the Lees, I&rsquo;ll be
+bound.&nbsp; He talks like &rsquo;em.&nbsp; He&rsquo;s come back
+from over the <i>p&acirc;ni</i>&rdquo; (water).&nbsp; Which,
+being interpreted, meant that I was a &ldquo;lag&rsquo;s&rdquo;
+boy returned from over-sea.&nbsp; The idea tickled me so that I
+laughed outright.</p>
+<p>Beside the fire which was burning brightly at the feet of the
+tall Gypsy man, children and dogs were rolling over one another
+in perfect happiness, and at my elbow a lad, peering into my
+face, exclaimed&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll swop <i>diklo</i>s (kerchiefs) with you,
+<i>rai</i>.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;No, you won&rsquo;t,&rdquo; I replied;
+&ldquo;mine&rsquo;s silk and yours cotton.&rdquo;</p>
+<p><a name="page48"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+48</span>&ldquo;<i>Pen mandi</i>, <i>baw</i>&rdquo; (Tell me,
+friend), I inquired of the tall man under the trees, &ldquo;Is
+Charley Watland here this time?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;<i>Keka</i>, <i>mi pal</i>, the <i>puro</i>&rsquo;s
+<i>poger</i>&rsquo;d his <i>h&#277;ro</i> (No, my brother, the
+old man&rsquo;s broken his leg) at Peterborough.&nbsp; He&rsquo;s
+got kicked by a hoss, and he&rsquo;s in the
+infirmary.&rdquo;&nbsp; This was bad news, for I had hoped to
+meet my friend here and spend the night with him.</p>
+<p style="text-align: center">
+<a href="images/p48ab.jpg">
+<img alt=
+"Round the camp-fire.  Photo. F. R. Hinkins"
+title=
+"Round the camp-fire.  Photo. F. R. Hinkins"
+src="images/p48as.jpg" />
+</a></p>
+<p>A little way across the fields the lights of a village gleamed
+through the darkness, and, making my way thither, I sought for a
+resting-place, but in vain.&nbsp; Every available bed was already
+engaged.&nbsp; In and out of the taverns passed horse-dealers and
+rollicking Gypsies.&nbsp; Groups of Romany lads and lasses stood
+talking in the lane.&nbsp; Burly women with foaming jugs bumped
+against you in the shadows.&nbsp; Between the barking of dogs and
+the whinnying of horses, a word or two of Romany floated now and
+then to one&rsquo;s ear.</p>
+<p style="text-align: center">
+<a href="images/p48bb.jpg">
+<img alt=
+"A child of the caravan.  Photo. Fred Shaw"
+title=
+"A child of the caravan.  Photo. Fred Shaw"
+src="images/p48bs.jpg" />
+</a></p>
+<p>Tired after my day in the open air, I turned into a by-lane to
+think matters over.&nbsp; A gentle wind rustled the leaves on the
+trees, and on the eastern horizon a growing light told of
+approaching moon-rise.&nbsp; I sat on a fence and watched Old
+Silver appear above the hills.&nbsp; Away from the village, I
+began to notice the sights and sounds of night.&nbsp; An owl on
+velvety wing fluttered by.&nbsp; Little birds cheeped in the
+thicket behind me.&nbsp; Field-mice squeaked in the grass on the
+bank.&nbsp; I <a name="page49"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+49</span>began to feel cut off from the world.&nbsp; What was I
+to do?&nbsp; Walk about all night?&nbsp; Make a bed on the
+bracken in a neighbouring wood?&nbsp; Renew my search for a more
+civilized couch in one or other of the adjacent villages?&nbsp;
+Tramp down the long dusty road to a small town some few miles
+off, where I knew of more than one snug hostelry?&nbsp; Why
+indeed?&nbsp; Was I not out for adventure?&nbsp; I resolved to
+ask the Gypsies to give me a bed.&nbsp; Therefore, without
+further ado, I slipped through a gap in the hedge, and made
+tracks for the Gypsy fires already mentioned.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Hello, here&rsquo;s the <i>rai</i> back
+again.&rdquo;&nbsp; It was the tall Gypsy&rsquo;s wife who
+spoke.&nbsp; My tale was soon told, and I was promptly offered a
+corner under Arthur West&rsquo;s tilt-hood placed tent-wise on
+the ground.&nbsp; Now that my mind was at ease, I sat me down by
+the fire near which a savoury smell of supper arose.&nbsp; It was
+astonishing how quickly we cleaned the bones of several bird-like
+objects set before us.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Did you ever taste of these little things
+afore?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Well, whatever they are, I shouldn&rsquo;t mind if they
+had been larger.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>At this they all laughed aloud.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;<i>Dawdi</i>, the <i>rai</i> doesn&rsquo;t <i>jin</i>
+he&rsquo;s <i>haw</i>&rsquo;d <i>hotshwitshi</i>&rdquo; (Fancy,
+the gentleman doesn&rsquo;t know he&rsquo;s eaten hedgehog).</p>
+<p>So this was the much-vaunted Romany dish, <a
+name="page50"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 50</span>nor did it
+disappoint me.&nbsp; The blended flavours of pheasant and
+sucking-pig are still present to my memory as I recall that
+moonlit meal washed down by a jug of brown ale.</p>
+<p>On awaking next morning, I realized the truth of the saying,
+&ldquo;Gypsies get something straight from heaven which is never
+known to people who sleep in stuffy houses and get up to wash in
+warm water.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>When I recall awakenings in lodgings with the bedclothes,
+valances, curtains, falderals, antimacassars, all heavy with
+suggestions of humanity, I marvel no more at the Gypsy&rsquo;s
+choice of a bed of crisp bracken or sweet straw, with maybe a
+wisp of dried river-mint or wild thyme mingled with it.</p>
+<p>Walking bare-foot in the dewy grass with the Gypsy children,
+we made our toilet together in the open, with the light airs of
+the wold playing about us.&nbsp; Then came breakfast by the wood
+fire, and during the meal my host&rsquo;s donkey affectionately
+put his cold nose on the bare of my neck.&nbsp; In a little while
+we stood on the common where the fair was in full swing, and,
+strolling among the horses and dealers, I spied a curly-haired
+son of old Horace Boswell, just arrived from Leicester, who found
+time to tell me a funny tale about his father.</p>
+<p>Since early morn Horace had been riding a lively horse, and,
+dismounting, handed the reins to <a name="page51"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 51</span>a pal and walked a few yards into the
+fair.&nbsp; As he was looking about him, he lighted upon George
+Smith of Coalville, who, arching his bushy eyebrows and stroking
+his great beard, stood shocked at the sight of a Gypsy walking
+unsteadily.&nbsp; As a matter of fact, Horace&rsquo;s legs had
+not yet thrown off the cramp of many hours&rsquo; riding on a
+skittish animal.&nbsp; When solemn George opened his mouth it was
+to ask a question&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Do you drink beer, my good man?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Well, my kind gentleman,&rdquo; replied Horace,
+&ldquo;afore I answers that question, I&rsquo;d reely like to
+know whether it&rsquo;s a simple inquiry or an
+inwitation.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>This was too much for the worthy philanthropist who, turning
+swiftly on his heel, went his way swinging his Gladstone-bag and
+gingham.</p>
+<p>About the middle of the afternoon I sought out my hospitable
+friend Arthur West before quitting the fair, and, looking me
+straight in the eyes, he said, &ldquo;Are you quite sure that you
+have enough <i>lova</i> (money) to see you home?&nbsp; For if I
+thought you hadn&rsquo;t, I should chuck a handful on the
+<i>drom</i> (road) and leave it for you to pick up.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>How shall we ever get you to understand the spirit of these
+wanderers; you who coddle yourselves in hot, close rooms; who are
+wedded to the life of a mill-horse jogging in convention&rsquo;s
+dusty track, and whose souls are imprisoned within the dimensions
+of a red-ochred flower-pot?</p>
+<h2><a name="page52"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+52</span>CHAPTER V<br />
+<span class="GutSmall">A GYPSY BAPTISM&mdash;ROMANY
+NAMES</span></h2>
+<p><span class="smcap">Quitting</span> the Wolds, described in
+the preceding chapter, I took up my abode in a large village
+situated on Lincoln Heath, where I had further opportunities of
+pursuing my Gypsy studies round about home.</p>
+<p>In a sinuous turfy lane which ran behind our house, the
+Gypsies would pitch their camp from time to time, and one of
+these wandering families conceived the notion of renting a
+cottage in the village.&nbsp; In my mind&rsquo;s eye I can see
+that little house, wearing a lost, desolate air.&nbsp; It stood
+in a walled-in yard, where loose stones lay strewn, and the ridge
+of the red-tiled roof sunken in the middle threatened a
+collapse.</p>
+<p>Unaccustomed to sleeping under a roof, and a rickety one at
+that, the Gypsies fled in alarm from their chamber one wild,
+boisterous night, fearing lest the chimney-pots should tumble in
+upon them.&nbsp; Near by stood their green caravan, and snugly
+abed therein they felt secure from all harm.&nbsp; Next day a
+timid rap came at the Rectory door, and a black-eyed girl
+whispered in my ear that her mother <a name="page53"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 53</span>would like the baby, a few hours old,
+to be christened.&nbsp; This I did, and a day or two afterwards I
+was agreeably surprised to meet the Gypsy mother with her baby
+taking the fresh air on the high road.&nbsp; What mother in any
+other rank of life could carry her child in the open so soon
+after its birth?</p>
+<p>&ldquo;It&rsquo;s a way we have,&rdquo; said Walter Heron,
+when explaining to me that a plate, cup, and saucer are set apart
+for the mother&rsquo;s use during the four weeks following the
+birth of a child.&nbsp; The vessels are then destroyed in
+accordance with an old puerperal tabu.&nbsp; This custom is still
+observed in all good Romany families.</p>
+<p>Tom Lee, an English Gypsy, broke up a loaf of bread and
+strewed the crumbs around his tent when his son Bendigo was born,
+for some of the old-time Gypsies hold the notion that bread
+possesses a protective magic against evil influences.&nbsp;
+Seated one day in the tent of Bendigo Lee on the South Shore at
+Blackpool, I questioned him about his father&rsquo;s
+practice.&nbsp; &ldquo;In the days when I was born,&rdquo; he
+replied, &ldquo;there were people that could do hurt by looking
+at you, and I s&rsquo;pose my <i>dadus</i> (father) sprinkled the
+crumbs lest any evil person going by should cast harm upon
+me.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>A distinct survival of the belief in the evil eye.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>Romany &ldquo;fore,&rdquo; or Christian names, <a
+name="citation53"></a><a href="#footnote53"
+class="citation">[53]</a> are often peculiar, and afford much
+material for reflection.</p>
+<p><a name="page54"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 54</span>Whence
+come such names as Khulai, Maireni, Malini, Mori, Shuri?&nbsp; In
+these names Sir Richard Temple discerns Indian forms or
+terminations.&nbsp; The Anglo-Romany names, Fenela, Siari, and
+Trenit, have been identified by Mr. H. T. Crofton with the
+Continental forms, Vennel, Cihari, and Tranitza, the last being a
+common feminine Gypsy name in Hungary.</p>
+<p>Euphonious and out-of-the-way names are irresistible to the
+Gypsy.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;What metal is that box made of, sir?&rdquo; asked a
+Gypsy mother on seeing a gentleman&rsquo;s cigarette-case.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Aluminium,&rdquo; was the reply.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;What a beautiful name for my gell&rsquo;s
+baby!&rdquo;</p>
+<p>According to Charles G. Leland, a Gypsy father, hearing two
+gentlemen talking about Mount Vesuvius, was greatly impressed by
+the name, and consulted with them as to the propriety of giving
+it to his little boy.</p>
+<p>Gypsies dislike to be addressed by their peculiar
+&ldquo;fore&rdquo; or Christian names in the presence of
+<i>gawj&ecirc;</i>; hence to the postman, &Egrave;nos become
+Amos, F&egrave;mi&mdash;Amy, and Poley&mdash;George, and so
+on.&nbsp; As a rule, you find a Gypsy is unwilling to impart his
+true name to a stranger.&nbsp; May not this reluctance be due to
+a lingering subconscious belief that the possession of
+one&rsquo;s true name would enable a stranger to work harmful
+spells upon the owner?</p>
+<p>Time was when the belief was widely spread <a
+name="page55"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 55</span>that the
+utterance of a man&rsquo;s true name drew him to the
+speaker.&nbsp; Medieval records are full of legendary accounts of
+spirits who were summoned by the casual pronunciation of their
+names.&nbsp; Until lately there were peasants in the North of
+Ireland and Arran who absolutely refused to tell their names to a
+stranger because such knowledge, it was believed, would enable
+him to &ldquo;call&rdquo; them, no matter how far he was from
+them, and whenever he cared to do so.&nbsp; They also believed
+that any spell worked on the written name would have the same
+effect as if worked on the owner.</p>
+<p>It is a fact that not a few Gypsy surnames are identical with
+those of ancient noble families, <i>e.g.</i> Boswell, or Bosville
+(sometimes contracted to Boss), Gray, Heron, Hearne, or Herne,
+Lees, Lovells, and Stanleys.&nbsp; It has been surmised, by way
+of explanation, that the Gypsies soon after their arrival in this
+country adopted the surnames of the owners of the estates on
+which particular hordes usually encamped, or the names of those
+landed families who afforded protection to the persecuted
+wanderers.</p>
+<p>Speaking of the Gypsies, Gilbert White of Selborne, says,
+&ldquo;One of these tribes calls itself by the noble name of
+Stanley.&rdquo;&nbsp; This mention of the Stanleys reminds me
+that once on Gonerby Hill, near Grantham, on the Great North
+Road, I met a young man who looked like a mechanic out of work,
+yet his bearing was that of a Gypsy.&nbsp; In our talk he
+admitted that he was of Romany blood.&nbsp; He had <a
+name="page56"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 56</span>been a
+horseman in Lord George Sanger&rsquo;s circus, but something had
+gone wrong and he was thrown out of employ.&nbsp; At first he
+gave his name as Richardson (not a Gypsy name), but he afterwards
+told me that his grandfather, a Stanley, had been transported,
+for which reason the family assumed the name of Richardson.</p>
+<h2><a name="page57"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+57</span>CHAPTER VI<br />
+<span class="GutSmall">I MAKE A NEW ACQUAINTANCE</span></h2>
+<p><span class="smcap">For</span> several years I was
+curate-in-charge of a parish abutting upon the Great North Road,
+and during that time I used to meet many Gypsies on the famous
+highway.&nbsp; There passed along it members of the Boswell clan,
+making their way from Edinburgh to London; the dark Herons, after
+spending the summer months in the Northern Counties, came by this
+route to their winter quarters at Nottingham; a lawless horde of
+Lovells also knew this road well.&nbsp; Sometimes these Gypsies
+would turn aside from the dusty highway for a brief rest in the
+green lanes across an adjacent river, but they rarely tarried
+longer than a day.&nbsp; With one of these Gypsies I became
+intimately acquainted, and this is how our friendship began.</p>
+<p>One May morning I had been strolling along the aforesaid road,
+and, turning towards the river where it is spanned by an old
+mill-bridge, I loitered there in expectation of the arrival of a
+pack of otter-hounds, visitors from another county; for
+complaints had long been accumulating to the effect that
+<i>Lutra</i> had been making depredations among the fish, game,
+and poultry all along the reaches of the river.&nbsp; Adjoining
+<a name="page58"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 58</span>the bridge
+was a watermill where often might be heard the humming of the
+great wheel and the roar of foam-flecked water.&nbsp; Mellowed by
+time&rsquo;s gentle touch, the irregular outlines of the building
+seemed verily as if arranged to be imaged on canvas; timbers and
+weathered stones were everywhere mottled with rosettes of orange
+and grey lichen, and when the sunbeams warmed the tints and tones
+of the old mill into rich masses of colour you experienced a
+thrill which made you wish to repeat it.</p>
+<p>A little way off, our river was crossed by a shallow ford
+rarely used by vehicular traffic, which mostly passed by the
+bridge.&nbsp; Once a year, however, the miller closed the bridge
+in order to preserve a right-of-way through his yard, and on this
+occasion toll was taken of every cart, while a free way was
+allowed by the ford.&nbsp; But the astute fellow usually arranged
+that the closing of the bridge should coincide with a market day
+at the nearest town, and he would choose a time when the river
+was swollen by flood-water beyond its ordinary dimensions, thus
+rendering the ford a dangerous crossing.</p>
+<p>After waiting awhile, a murmur of deep voices broke upon my
+ear, as with a rush and a splash about a score of bonny,
+rough-coated dogs burst into view round a bend in the
+stream.&nbsp; It was not in my plans to follow the dogs, so when
+the pack and its excited companions had gone by, I proceeded
+leisurely along a lane leading towards the green uplands looking
+down upon the valley.</p>
+<p><a name="page59"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 59</span>A
+little way up the lane I came upon two dark-featured lads, and,
+going up to one of them who was tacking strips of straw-plait
+upon the top of a three-legged table, I said&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;You seem very busy this morning.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;We must do something for a living.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;You&rsquo;re certainly a good hand at your
+business.&nbsp; How long are you stopping here?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;That&rsquo;s more nor I know.&rdquo;&nbsp; (This with a
+shrewd look at me from top to toe.)&nbsp; &ldquo;Ax grandfather,
+up yonder wi&rsquo; the hosses.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Higher up the lane, and almost hidden by outlying tangles of
+bramble and wild-rose, sat a man of sixty or more, puffing
+tobacco smoke from his black clay, and near him on the wayside
+three horses ripped the tender grasses.</p>
+<p>Looking up at me with a start, the man said&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Well, you fairly took me by surprise, sir.&nbsp; For a
+wonder I never heard you a-coming.&nbsp; I must be getting
+deaf.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;<i>Romanitshel</i>?&rdquo; (Gypsy) I queried.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;<i>&Acirc;vali</i>, <i>mi tshavo</i>&rdquo; (Yes, my
+son), he replied; &ldquo;you&rsquo;s been among our people,
+that&rsquo;s plain, or you wouldn&rsquo;t talk like you do.&nbsp;
+Mebbe you&rsquo;s heard tell o&rsquo; Jonathan
+Boswell&mdash;that&rsquo;s me.&nbsp; But I must be off now with
+these here hosses to the smithy.&nbsp; We&rsquo;s <i>besh</i>in
+<i>akai</i> (stopping here) for a day or two.&nbsp; Our
+wagon&rsquo;s in the <i>kitshima</i> (tavern) yard just past the
+mill.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Well, Jonathan, I want you to bring one of <a
+name="page60"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 60</span>those
+Gypsy-tables the boys are making to my place this afternoon;
+don&rsquo;t fail to come.&nbsp; I shall <i>dik avr&icirc;</i> for
+<i>t&icirc;ro mui</i> about <i>trin ora</i>&rdquo; (look out for
+your face about three o&rsquo;clock).</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Right, I&rsquo;ll be there, <i>raia</i>.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>In due course the Gypsy presented himself at my door in
+company with his two grandsons, and among them they carried three
+tables.&nbsp; I had only asked for one, but Jonathan was such a
+&ldquo;find&rdquo; that I gladly purchased all the articles and
+bade the little party follow me into the garden.&nbsp; The two
+grandsons displayed a remarkable knowledge of trees, which they
+were able to identify not merely by their foliage, but by the
+character of their bark.&nbsp; Wild birds they knew by note and
+flight as well as by plumage.&nbsp; There is so much a Gypsy boy
+knows about nature.</p>
+<p>How meagre, by contrast, is the information possessed by the
+average County Council schoolboy; which reminds me that I was
+once giving an object-lesson to a class of fifth-standard
+children attending our village school.&nbsp; We were seated on a
+river bank whose insect life and botanical treasures I had been
+pointing out to an interested group of listeners.&nbsp; As
+nothing had been said about the scaly denizens of the stream, I
+concluded my talk by putting a question to the entire class.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Hands up, those who can tell me the names of any fish
+to be found in this river.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Quickly a dozen pink palms were uplifted, and I could see that
+several lips were bursting with information.&nbsp; <a
+name="page61"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 61</span>Imagine my
+surprise when I was informed&mdash;&ldquo;red-herring, sprats,
+and mackerel.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>On the following evening I went across the fields to see my
+friends by the watermill.&nbsp; The amber light of sunset was
+falling upon green hedge and rippling river.&nbsp; From a thorn
+bush a nightingale jug-jugged deliciously.&nbsp; There was poetry
+in the air.&nbsp; Nor was it dispelled by the discovery that my
+friends had drawn their &ldquo;house on wheels&rdquo; into the
+grassy lane leading down to the ford.</p>
+<p>Seated on a mound of sand, Jonathan was chatting with a
+stranger who had the looks of an Irishman.&nbsp; I joined them,
+but no sooner had I dropped a word or two of Romany than the
+stranger arose, saying, &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t understand your
+talk, so I&rsquo;d better be going.&rdquo;&nbsp; He then left us,
+and, seeing he had gone away, old Fazenti, Jonathan&rsquo;s wife,
+stepped down from the living-wagon, and our discourse became
+considerably enlivened by her presence.</p>
+<p>Speaking of <i>duker</i>in (fortune-telling), she said,
+&ldquo;It&rsquo;ll go on while the world lasts,&rdquo; which was
+Fazzy&rsquo;s way of saying that the credulous will be in the
+world after the poor have left it.&nbsp; &ldquo;It&rsquo;s the
+hawking-basket that gi&rsquo;s us our chance, don&rsquo;t you
+<i>dik</i> (see)?&nbsp; I takes care never to be without my
+licence, and the <i>muskro</i> (policeman) would have to get up
+wery early to catch old Fazzy asleep.&nbsp; Did I ever have any
+<i>mulo-mas</i>? <a name="citation61"></a><a href="#footnote61"
+class="citation">[61]</a>&nbsp; <a name="page62"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 62</span>Many&rsquo;s the time I&rsquo;ve had
+a bit.&nbsp; In spring, when lambs are about, that&rsquo;s the
+time for <i>mulo-mas</i>.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;A good country for hedgehogs is this, but we
+don&rsquo;t eat &rsquo;em in the spring.&nbsp; The back end of
+the year is the best time for &rsquo;em; there&rsquo;s a bit of
+flesh on &rsquo;em then.&nbsp; When you find one, if he&rsquo;s
+rolled up in a ball, you rub his back with a stick right down his
+spine, and he&rsquo;ll open out fast enough.&nbsp; Then you hit
+him hard on the nose, and he&rsquo;s as dead as a door
+nail.&nbsp; The old way of cooking him was to cover him with clay
+and bake him in the fire.&nbsp; When he was cooked you tapped the
+clay ball, and the prickles and skin came away with the
+clay.&nbsp; Nowadays we burn down the bristles, then shave
+&rsquo;em off, draw and clean him and roast him on a spit before
+a hot fire.&nbsp; He&rsquo;s wery good with <i>puvengri</i>s
+(potatoes), sage, and onions.&nbsp; <i>Bouri</i>s (snails) are
+good to eat in winter.&nbsp; You get them in a hard frost from
+behind old stumps of trees.&nbsp; You put salt on &rsquo;em and
+they make fine broth.&nbsp; Wery strengthening is
+<i>bouri-zimen</i>&rdquo; (snail broth).</p>
+<p style="text-align: center">
+<a href="images/p62b.jpg">
+<img alt=
+"A rest by the way.  Photo. Fred Shaw"
+title=
+"A rest by the way.  Photo. Fred Shaw"
+src="images/p62s.jpg" />
+</a></p>
+<p>While we were conversing, Jonathan&rsquo;s grandsons passed by
+with a lurcher.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;A useful dog, that, I should think,&rdquo; said I.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;<i>Kushto yek s&icirc; dova</i> for <i>shushiaw</i> and
+<i>kanengr&ecirc;</i>&rdquo; (A good one is that for rabbits and
+hares), replied the old man.&nbsp; &ldquo;I minds well the day I
+bought him off a man with a pot-cart as was stopping along with
+us.&nbsp; We&rsquo;d got leave from a farmer to draw into a lane
+running between some clover fields, and we were <a
+name="page63"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 63</span>just sitting
+down to a cup o&rsquo; tea when a keeper comes along and
+says&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;I&rsquo;m afraid some of you fellows have been
+up to mischief, because there&rsquo;s a hare in a snare along
+this hedge.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Then it&rsquo;s somebody else&rsquo;s snare, not
+ours,&rsquo; I says, &lsquo;for we&rsquo;s only just got here,
+and yon farmer as give us leave to stop will tell you the same if
+you ask him.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Well, see here,&rsquo; says the keeper,
+&lsquo;there&rsquo;s a rabbit for your pot.&nbsp; Keep a sharp
+look out, and mind you let me know if anybody comes to fetch that
+hare.&nbsp; There&rsquo;s my cottage up yonder.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Then he went away, and would you believe it, a bit
+after the moon got up we see a man coming across the field and
+straight to that snare he went, and as he was taking the hare out
+of it, there was a tap on his shoulder from the keeper.&nbsp;
+Now, who do you think the man was that got catched so
+nicely?&nbsp; <i>It was the willage policeman</i>.&nbsp; And that
+night I bought that here <i>jukel</i> (dog), I did, and me and
+the dog had a fine time among the <i>shushiaw</i> (rabbits) after
+the keeper and the policeman had gone away.&nbsp; About a week
+after, the <i>muskro</i> (policeman) had to appear in court, and
+a wery poor figure he cut afore the <i>pukinger</i>
+(magistrate).&nbsp; You see, he was catched proper, and
+couldn&rsquo;t get out of it no-how.&nbsp; The pot-cart man and
+me had to go up as witnesses.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;You&rsquo;ll know this countryside well, I
+expect.&nbsp; <a name="page64"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+64</span>Do you ever spend the night in Dark Lane, as I believe
+they call it?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;One time we used to stop there a lot, <i>rai</i>, but
+they won&rsquo;t let us now.&nbsp; How&rsquo;smiver, we <i>hatsh
+odoi</i> (encamp there) for a <i>r&acirc;ti</i> (night) at odd
+times, spite of everybody.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>This remark was accompanied by a half-smothered chuckle from
+Jonathan, who, while filling his pipe from my tobacco pouch,
+seemed to be ruminating upon a reminiscence which presently came
+out.</p>
+<p>The said lane lies pleasantly between a neighbouring village
+and the river, and about the month of May the grass down there
+begins to be sweet, but woe to the Gypsies whom the constable
+finds encamped thereabouts.</p>
+<p>Jonathan went on to tell how he and his party once passed a
+night very happily there when the may-buds were bursting.&nbsp;
+And this is how it was done.</p>
+<p>In a wayside tavern the Gypsy had heard it whispered that the
+County Police had gone to the town for the annual inspection,
+which involved a temporary absence of the constables from their
+respective localities.&nbsp; But, to make quite sure of this, on
+arriving at the village of F&mdash;, Jonathan sought out a
+certain cottage and thus addressed himself to a constable&rsquo;s
+wife&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Is the sergeant at home?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;No, my man.&nbsp; What do you want him for?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;A pony of mine has gone astray, and I want <a
+name="page65"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 65</span>him to let me
+know if he hears anything about it.&nbsp; Perhaps he&rsquo;ll be
+at home to-night?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;He won&rsquo;t, I&rsquo;m afraid.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Thank you, ma&rsquo;am.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Thus Jonathan camped down Dark Lane with impunity.</p>
+<p>One morning shortly after my meeting with Jonathan, a Gypsy
+mother called at my Rectory.&nbsp; She led her black-eyed,
+five-year-old boy by the hand.&nbsp; Brown as a berry, the
+handsome little fellow would have served admirably for an
+artist&rsquo;s model, and his mother had many pleasing touches of
+Gypsy colour about her attire.&nbsp; From beneath a bright red
+<i>diklo</i> (kerchief) which she wore, a few black curls
+straggled out on to her forehead, and a gay bodice showed under
+her green shawl.&nbsp; The woman said that she had heard so much
+of me from her father&mdash;Jonathan Boswell&mdash;that she had
+come on purpose to see me.&nbsp; I invited her into the kitchen,
+and over bread and cheese and ale we chatted.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Ain&rsquo;t we all delated, <i>raia</i>, come to think
+of it?&nbsp; There&rsquo;s a Man above as made us all.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Quickly I made friends with the little boy, and at my request
+his mother afforded our household no small delight by leaving her
+son with us for the day.&nbsp; The tiny lad was entirely
+unaccustomed to house ways, and his behaviour was a study.&nbsp;
+On seeing a Christmas card with the Christ-child lying in the
+manger guarded by a white-winged angel, he exclaimed, <a
+name="page66"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 66</span>&ldquo;I know
+what that is&rdquo; (pointing to the heavenly visitant);
+&ldquo;we often sees &rsquo;em flying over the fields.&nbsp;
+<i>It&rsquo;s a seagull</i>.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>With great readiness he joined in the games of my children,
+such as shuttlecock and battledore, skipping, and the like.&nbsp;
+Sitting at a table for a meal was evidently a novel experience
+for the little chap, and it was amusing to see him slip off his
+chair and squat on the hearthrug, putting his plate on his knee
+as though a Gypsy boy ought not to do exactly as the
+<i>gawj&ecirc;</i>, and he used his fingers freely in lieu of
+fork and spoon.&nbsp; After the meal we sat round the fire, and
+talked of his life on the road.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;I found a hen&rsquo;s nest in the hedge-bottom, this
+morning, I did.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Any eggs in?&rdquo; I asked.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Yes; three.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Did you take them?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;No, I left &rsquo;em&mdash;<i>till there was
+more</i>.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Then I told him fairy tales of green woods, ghosts, and
+goblins, and he became excited, springing once or twice from his
+chair, as if he would like to have danced about the room.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Oh, I knows a lot about <i>mulo</i>s&rdquo; (ghosts),
+said the little Gypsy.&nbsp; &ldquo;There&rsquo;s different
+sorts&mdash;milk-white &rsquo;uns and coal-black
+&rsquo;uns.&nbsp; When we&rsquo;re abed at nights, they come
+screaming round our wagon and flapping at the windows.&nbsp; My
+daddy gets his gun and shoots, then we hears &rsquo;em no more
+for a bit.&nbsp; But they are soon back agen, and I&rsquo;m that
+frit <a name="page67"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 67</span>when
+I hears &rsquo;em, I can&rsquo;t sleep.&nbsp; When mammy&rsquo;s
+going out with her basket of a morning, and daddy&rsquo;s gone
+somewhere to see about a hoss, I daren&rsquo;t go far into the
+big wood agen our stopping-place, &rsquo;cos of the black pig
+what lives there.&nbsp; Daddy has seen it, and nobody can&rsquo;t
+kill it, for you can bang a stick right through it without
+hurting it.&nbsp; Mammy allus says, &lsquo;Don&rsquo;t you never
+go into that wood, else the black pig&rsquo;ll get
+you.&rsquo;&rdquo;</p>
+<p>We showed him picture books, and, pointing to an ass and a
+foal, he said, &ldquo;My daddy&rsquo;s got a little donkey just
+like that, three months old, and when it&rsquo;s bigger I shall
+ride on it, like that man&rsquo;s doing in the
+pictur&rsquo;.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>We rambled in the Rectory garden, and he quickly found a
+hedgehog in its nest.&nbsp; All the senses of this little fellow
+were extremely alert.</p>
+<p>In the early evening his mother returned for him, and their
+meeting was a pretty sight.&nbsp; Placing her hawking-basket on
+the ground, she picked up her laddie in her arms and kissed
+him.&nbsp; Slowly the pair walked away, casting more than one
+backward glance at the house.</p>
+<p>A few days later, news reached me of a Gypsy arrival in a
+green lane about a mile from my Rectory.&nbsp; I therefore
+hastened across the fields, and, long before sighting the party,
+whiffs of wood-smoke, which the breeze brought my way, told that
+they were already encamped.&nbsp; On reaching the spot, Farmer
+W&mdash;&rsquo;s best bullock pasture, I spied <a
+name="page68"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+68</span>Jonathan&rsquo;s cart along with other vehicles drawn up
+with their backs towards a high hedge.&nbsp; There were fires on
+the grass, and from family groups merry voices rang out on the
+air.&nbsp; In the lane a troop of children were hovering around a
+little black donkey, a pretty young foal, which allowed them to
+fondle it to their hearts&rsquo; content.&nbsp; What a picture it
+was which greeted me&mdash;tree-boles, tilt-carts, and hedgerows
+lit up by the fading sunlight, and the blue smoke of the fires
+wafted about the undulating field dipping down to the
+river.&nbsp; Quickly I dropped into a corner by one of the fires,
+and the mirth was just at its height when up rode Farmer W&mdash;
+on his chestnut cob.</p>
+<p style="text-align: center">
+<a href="images/p68ab.jpg">
+<img alt=
+"A Wayside Idyl.  Photo. Fred Shaw"
+title=
+"A Wayside Idyl.  Photo. Fred Shaw"
+src="images/p68as.jpg" />
+</a></p>
+<p>&ldquo;Where&rsquo;s that scamp of a Boswell?&rdquo; he
+shouted angrily.</p>
+<p>Jonathan stepped forward, hanging his head somewhat.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;What does all this mean?&rdquo; asked the farmer.&nbsp;
+&ldquo;I thought it was only for yourself that you begged leave
+to stop here.&nbsp; Who the divil&rsquo;s all this
+gang?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;I really couldn&rsquo;t help it,&rdquo; said
+Jonathan.&nbsp; &ldquo;They stuck to me, and would come in.&nbsp;
+They&rsquo;re all delations of mine, don&rsquo;t you see,
+sir?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>A look from the Gypsy made me step forward and plead for the
+party, which I did with success.</p>
+<p style="text-align: center">
+<a href="images/p68bb.jpg">
+<img alt=
+"Children of the Open Air.  Photo. Fred Shaw"
+title=
+"Children of the Open Air.  Photo. Fred Shaw"
+src="images/p68bs.jpg" />
+</a></p>
+<p>About the middle of June I was again in Old Boswell&rsquo;s
+company.&nbsp; Under a hedge pink with wild-roses, we sat smoking
+and waiting for the fair to begin on Stow Green, a South
+Lincolnshire common.&nbsp; <a name="page69"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 69</span>Already horses were assembling and
+dealers were beginning to arrive in all sorts of
+conveyances.&nbsp; Hot sunshine blazed down upon the common,
+whose only building was a wretched-looking lockup, around which
+lounged several representatives of the county constabulary.&nbsp;
+Wandering in and about the motley throng, I caught a whisper
+going the round that a fight was to take place before the end of
+the day.&nbsp; It had been explained to me that this fight was
+not the result of any quarrel arising at the fair.&nbsp; It had
+been arranged long beforehand.&nbsp; Whenever a difference arose
+between two families, champions were told off to fight the matter
+out at Stow Green Fair.</p>
+<p>Somewhere about the middle of the afternoon, as the business
+began to slacken, a number of people were seen to move to one
+corner of the common.&nbsp; Evidently something was afoot.&nbsp;
+I wandered across and found a crowd consisting mainly of Gypsies,
+and in order to get a better view, I climbed upon a trestle table
+outside a booth.&nbsp; In the middle of a ring of people stood
+two of the dark Grays, stripped to the waist, and, at a signal
+given by an elderly man, the combatants put up their
+&ldquo;maulers&rdquo; and the fight began.&nbsp; It was by no
+means a one-sided contest, the men being well matched with regard
+to weight and strength.&nbsp; Blow followed blow in quick
+succession, and at the first drawing of blood the Gypsy onlookers
+became excited, and the entire crowd began to surge to and
+fro.&nbsp; Of course, the <a name="page70"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 70</span>police hurried up, but soon perceived
+that it was useless to interfere.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Let &rsquo;em have it out,&rdquo; cried many
+voices.&nbsp; After a breathing space, the fighters again closed
+in, and, parting a little, one of them stepped back a pace or two
+and, springing towards his opponent, dealt him a heavy blow which
+determined the battle, and all was over.&nbsp; At this juncture,
+the table on which I and others stood suddenly gave way, and we
+were precipitated to the grass, but no harm was done, beyond a
+few bruises and the shattering of sundry jugs and glasses.</p>
+<p>An echo of a fighting song haunts me as I recall this Gypsy
+contest on Stow Green&mdash;</p>
+<blockquote><p>&ldquo;Whack it on the grinders, thump it on the
+jaw,<br />
+Smack it on the tater-trap a dozen times or more.<br />
+Slap it on the snuff-box, make the claret fly,<br />
+Thump it on the jaw again, never say die.&rdquo;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>After the fair was over I sat under a hedge and took tea with
+Jonathan and Fazenti.</p>
+<p>A hare&rsquo;s back adorned my plate.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Why, mother, I didn&rsquo;t know that this was in
+season.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;My <i>dinelo</i> (simpleton), don&rsquo;t you
+<i>jin</i> (know) <i>it&rsquo;s always in season with the likes
+of us</i>?&rdquo;</p>
+<h2><a name="page71"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+71</span>CHAPTER VII<br />
+<span class="GutSmall">THE BLACKPOOL GYPSYRY</span></h2>
+<p><span class="smcap">It</span> has been said that if an
+architect, a caterer, and a poet were commissioned to construct
+out of our existing south and east coast resorts a place which,
+in its appeal to the million, might compare with Blackpool, they
+would utterly fail, a saying not to be questioned for a
+moment.</p>
+<p>Yet the sight which thrilled me most, as I beheld it years
+ago, was not the cluster of gilded pleasure-palaces in the town,
+but the gay Gypsyry squatting on the sand-dunes at the extremity
+of the South Shore.&nbsp; Living-vans of green and gold with
+their flapping canvas covers; domed tents whose blankets of red
+and grey had faded at the touch of sun and wind; boarden porches
+and outgrowths of a fantastic character, the work of Romany
+carpenters; unabashed advertisements announcing Gypsy queens
+patronized by duchesses and lords; bevies of black-eyed,
+wheedling witches eager to pounce upon the stroller into
+Gypsydom; and troops of fine children, shock-headed and
+jolly&mdash;all these I beheld in the Gypsyry which is now no
+more.&nbsp; &ldquo;Life enjoyed to the last&rdquo; might well
+have been its epitaph.</p>
+<p><a name="page72"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 72</span>Those
+were the days of Old Sarah Boswell and her nephews Kenza and
+Oscar; Johnny and Wasti Gray; Elijah Heron and his son Poley;
+Bendigo and Morjiana Purum; the vivacious Robinsons; Dolferus
+Petulengro and Noarus T&acirc;no; some of whom, alas, &ldquo;have
+joined the people whom no true Romany will call by
+name.&rdquo;</p>
+<p style="text-align: center">
+<a href="images/p72b.jpg">
+<img alt=
+"On the Look-Out.  Photo. T. J. Lewis"
+title=
+"On the Look-Out.  Photo. T. J. Lewis"
+src="images/p72s.jpg" />
+</a></p>
+<p>Hot June sunshine flooded the sandhills on the afternoon of my
+entry into the encampment, which, by the way, was made
+strategetically from the rear.&nbsp; Thus it was that I lighted
+upon the retired tent of the oldest occupants of the
+Gypsyry.&nbsp; Unlike the alert and expectant Romany mothers and
+maids who hovered about this Gypsy town&rsquo;s front gate, Ned
+Boswell&rsquo;s widow sat drowsing at the tent door, overpowered
+by the midsummer heat.&nbsp; I was about to turn away, intending
+to revisit the old lady later on, when her son Alma, the
+lynx-eyed, popped upon me from round the corner, and in a sandy
+hollow a little way off we were soon deep in conversation.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Now, <i>rashai</i>,&rdquo; said Alma, after we had
+talked awhile, &ldquo;there&rsquo;s one thing I would like to ask
+you.&nbsp; Where do you think us <i>Romanitshel</i>s reely
+origin&rsquo;d from?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Here I was confronted by a question which has been asked
+throughout the ages, and addressed to myself how many times?</p>
+<p>Who are the Gypsies, and where did they come from?&nbsp; Bulky
+tomes have been filled with scholarly speculations upon these
+questions, and so varied have <a name="page73"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 73</span>been the conclusions arrived at that
+we appear to be no nearer to the solution of the mystery than
+when about the year 1777 the German Rudiger first made known to
+the world that the Gypsies spoke an Indian dialect, which
+discovery is said &ldquo;to have injured more than it served in
+the quest after the origin of the Gypsies, because it has
+prevented scholars from searching for it.&rdquo;&nbsp; Taking
+philology for our guide, we may believe that the ancestors of our
+Gypsies tarried for centuries in North-West India, a region which
+they quitted with their faces set towards the west not later than
+about 1000 <span class="GutSmall">A.D.</span>&nbsp; To quote the
+words of an authority <a name="citation73"></a><a
+href="#footnote73" class="citation">[73]</a> on the linguistic
+side of the problem: &ldquo;Their language proves that they once
+inhabited Northern India, but as no Indian writers have left any
+documents describing this people, their mode of life in India,
+and the most interesting point of all, why they emigrated, must
+for ever remain a matter for conjecture.&nbsp; It is, however,
+surprising what can be proved from our present knowledge of their
+language, which, it is generally admitted, must rank as an
+independent eighth among the seven modern Indian languages of the
+Aryan stock, based on Sanskrit.&nbsp; To begin with, the
+grammatical peculiarities of the language of the Gypsies resemble
+those of the modern Aryan languages of India so closely that it
+is impossible not to believe that they were developed side by
+side.&nbsp; Comparing Gypsy and Hindi, for example, we find that
+their declensions are based exactly on <a name="page74"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 74</span>the same principle, that neither has
+a real genitive case, that both decline their adjectives only
+when used as nouns.&nbsp; Now it is generally held that these
+modern forms came slowly into existence throughout the eleventh
+century, when the old synthetical structure of the Sanskrit was
+broken up and thrown into confusion, but not quite lost, while
+the modern auxiliary verbs and prepositions were as yet hardly
+fully established in their stead.&nbsp; Therefore, it is
+extremely unlikely that the Gypsies left India before the tenth
+century, when they could have carried away with them, so to
+speak, the germs of the new construction, absorbed on Indian
+soil.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>From the words they borrowed from Persia, Armenia, and Greece,
+we know that the wanderers passed through these countries on
+their way westward, but, since no Arabic or Coptic words are
+found in the Gypsy tongue, we infer that they were never in
+Egypt.&nbsp; The theory of the Egyptian origin of the
+<i>Romanitshel</i>s probably arose from legends which they
+themselves set afloat.</p>
+<p>Two stories were repeated by the Gypsies.&nbsp; They said that
+they were Egyptian penitents on a seven years&rsquo;
+pilgrimage.&nbsp; The Saracens had attacked them in Egypt, and,
+having surrendered to their enemies, they became Saracens
+themselves and denied Christ.&nbsp; Now, as a penance, they were
+ordered to travel for seven years without sleeping in a
+bed.&nbsp; A second story was that their exile was a punishment
+for the sin of having refused hospitality to Joseph and <a
+name="page75"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 75</span>the Virgin
+Mary when they fled into Egypt with the newborn Christ-child to
+escape the anger of Herod.</p>
+<p>Associated with the Gypsies are other legends which may have
+been invented by them for similar purposes.&nbsp; An old
+tradition asserts that Caspar, one of the three Magi, was a
+Gypsy, and that it was he who (as their ruler) first converted
+them to the Christian religion.&nbsp; The Lithuanian Gypsies say
+that stealing has been permitted in their favour by God because
+the Gypsies, being present at the Crucifixion, stole one of the
+four nails, and therefore God allows them to steal, and it is not
+accounted a sin to them.</p>
+<p>Needless to say, the foregoing statements were not delivered
+to Alma Boswell.&nbsp; Of their actual history the Anglo-Romany
+folk know nothing, but this does not prevent them from holding
+some curious notions about themselves.&nbsp; So, in response to
+Alma&rsquo;s question about the origin of the Gypsies, I replied
+that great scholars believed his race to have come from
+India.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Oh, I think they&rsquo;re wrong,&rdquo; said
+Alma.&nbsp; &ldquo;Far more likely we came from the land of
+Bethlehem.&nbsp; Being a <i>rashai</i> (parson), you&rsquo;ll
+know the Bible, I suppose, from cover to cover.&nbsp; Well,
+you&rsquo;ve heard of the man called Cain.&nbsp; Now, don&rsquo;t
+the Old Book say that he went away and married a black-eyed
+camper-gal, one of our roving folks?&nbsp; I reckons we sprang
+from them.&nbsp; We was the first people what the dear <a
+name="page76"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 76</span>Lord made,
+and mebbe we shall be the last on earth.&nbsp; When all the rest
+is wore out, there&rsquo;ll still be a few of our folks
+travelling with tents and wagons.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Such was Alma&rsquo;s idea of the origin of the Gypsies.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;But there,&rdquo; he continued, &ldquo;you must read my
+Uncle Westarus&rsquo;s big book all about our people.&nbsp; There
+was a doctor and a lawyer, wery kind gentlemen, real
+<i>bawr&ecirc; raiaw</i> (swells), who used to talk to my uncle
+for hours on end, and they wrote down every word he said, and
+then he wrote them a sight of letters, wery long ones, and they
+are all of &rsquo;em in print.&nbsp; So if you reads that book,
+you&rsquo;ll larn all as is&rsquo; known about us.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Alma&rsquo;s Uncle Westarus was certainly a remarkable Gypsy,
+possessing quite a library, which he carried about with him on
+his travels.&nbsp; It is on record that at the age of fifty-five
+his library included several volumes of fiction, history, poetry,
+and science, a large Bible, a Church of England Prayer Book,
+Burns&rsquo;s <i>Justice</i>, as well as English, Greek, and
+Latin dictionaries.</p>
+<p>For the information of those who may not already know it, the
+volume designated by Alma &ldquo;my uncle&rsquo;s book&rdquo; is
+a most valuable <i>vade mecum</i> for Gypsy students entitled
+<i>The Dialect of the English Gypsies</i>, by Dr. Bath Smart and
+Mr. H. T. Crofton.</p>
+<p>There was a strong dash of Gypsy pride in Alma&rsquo;s remark
+that the Boswells were the only real Gypsies left.&nbsp;
+&ldquo;These others all about us are <i>kek tatsho</i>&rdquo;
+(not <a name="page77"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+77</span>genuine), he said, with a wave of the hand;
+&ldquo;they&rsquo;re only half-breeds.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;But,&rdquo; I queried, &ldquo;are not the Herons and
+Lees good Gypsies?&rdquo;&nbsp; Then, veering from his first
+statement, he admitted that the families I had named might be
+allowed a place among the old roots.</p>
+<p>Then followed a discussion about grades of Gypsy blood.&nbsp;
+These were classified by Alma&mdash;</p>
+<p>1.&nbsp; The Black <i>Romanitshel</i>s, &ldquo;the real
+thing.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>2.&nbsp; The <i>Didakai</i>s, or half-breeds, who pronounce
+the Romany words <i>dik akai</i> (look here) as <i>did
+akai</i>.</p>
+<p>3.&nbsp; Hedge-crawlers, or mumpers.&nbsp;
+&ldquo;There&rsquo;s a lot of &rsquo;em up London way,&rdquo;
+said Alma.&nbsp; &ldquo;We&rsquo;d scorn to go near the likes of
+them&mdash;a <i>tshikli</i> (dirty) lot, not Gypsies at
+all.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>In his last remark Alma certainly hit the nail on the
+head.&nbsp; The distinction between the Gypsy and the mumper
+cannot be too strongly emphasized.&nbsp; Anyone who has known
+members of our old Gypsy families, such as the Boswells, Grays,
+Herons, Lees, Lovells, Smiths, Stanleys, and Woods, will never
+again make the grave error of confounding the Gypsy with the
+mumper.</p>
+<p>Rising from our hollow in the sand, we walked a little way
+between the tents, and when Alma took the railway crossing for a
+ramble in the town, I betook myself to his mother&rsquo;s
+tent.&nbsp; Having just aroused from sleep, the old lady was
+somewhat absent-minded, but she was quickly on the alert at
+hearing my greeting in Romany.</p>
+<p><a name="page78"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+78</span>&ldquo;What gibberish is it you&rsquo;re talking, my
+gentleman?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;You understand it well enough, I&rsquo;m thinking,
+mother.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>So blank was her look, so well-feigned her ignorance, that for
+the nonce it seemed that after all the ancient language of the
+tents was a delusion and a dream.</p>
+<p>Then methought of a plan I had tried before.&nbsp; Having for
+many years made a study of Gypsy pedigrees, I have often been
+able to give a temporary shock to a Gypsy&rsquo;s mind by telling
+him the names of his great-grandfathers and of his uncles and
+aunts, paternal and maternal.&nbsp; &ldquo;How came you to know
+all this, Mr. Hall?&rdquo; my Gypsy will ask.&nbsp; &ldquo;You
+certainly don&rsquo;t look an old man.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>It was now my turn to pretend ignorance.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;If it&rsquo;s not being very inquisitive, Mrs. Boswell,
+I am wondering what your maiden-name may have been?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;That I won&rsquo;t tell you, and nobody in this town
+knows what it was.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Is that really so?&nbsp; Fancy, no one in Blackpool
+knows your maiden-name.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Not a soul.&rdquo;&nbsp; (This very solemnly.)</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Then what if I can tell you?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Well, what was it, my gentleman?&rdquo; eyeing me
+curiously.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;You are one of the Drapers&mdash;Old Israel&rsquo;s
+daughter, if I&rsquo;m not mistaken&rdquo; (looking straight into
+<a name="page79"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 79</span>her large
+eyes as though reading the information at the back of her brain),
+&ldquo;and your two sisters were Rodi and Lani.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>If a stone figure had spoken, she could scarcely have looked
+more amazed, and, quite forgetting herself, she
+exclaimed&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;<i>Av adr&ecirc;</i>, <i>mi tshavo</i>, and <i>besh
+t&#259;l&ecirc;</i>&rdquo; (Come inside, my son, and sit
+down).</p>
+<p>Mrs. Boswell&rsquo;s manner was now so amiable, and her voice
+so soft, that as she handed me cake and tea, I felt as if I had
+known her all my life.&nbsp; All who have ever met a pure-bred
+Gypsy will know what Romany politeness is, and how charming a
+sense of the fitness of things these wanderers possess.&nbsp; As
+one who has worked hard at Gypsy genealogy, I have myself often
+been surprised at one thing.&nbsp; A member of the <i>kawlo
+rat</i> (black blood) will betray no inquisitiveness in regard to
+his tiresome interlocutor who may be a perfect stranger to
+him.&nbsp; How many of us, I wonder, would care to be subjected
+to such an inquisition as we sometimes inflict upon a Gypsy by
+our interrogations as to his ancestry?&nbsp; Yet the Gypsy
+apparently takes it all with complacence and good humour.</p>
+<p>When taking mine ease behind the scenes in a Gypsy camp, it
+has often amused me to observe how extremes meet.&nbsp; After
+all, the tastes of the high and the low are not so very far
+removed.&nbsp; If the duchess is proud of her blue blood and her
+ancestral tree, so is the Gypsy of her black blood and lengthy
+pedigree.&nbsp; <a name="page80"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+80</span>I have known &ldquo;swells&rdquo; who liked their game
+so &ldquo;high&rdquo; that it almost ran into the fields again, a
+taste akin to the Gypsy&rsquo;s liking for <i>mulo-mas</i>.&nbsp;
+The Gypsy mother&rsquo;s love for her black cutty joins hands
+with the after-dinner cigarette in my lady&rsquo;s boudoir.&nbsp;
+It goes without saying that politeness is a stamp of both
+extremes.</p>
+<p>In the cool of the evening I wandered inland to a sequestered
+camp, where Isaac and Sinfai Heron, those aristocrats of their
+race, sat by their fire in an angle where two hedgerows met.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;We likes a bit o&rsquo; quiet, you see,&rdquo; said the
+slender, gracious Sinfai, when I asked why they had pitched on a
+spot so far from Blackpool&rsquo;s South Shore.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Get the <i>rai</i> one o&rsquo; the rugs to <i>besh
+opr&ecirc;</i>&rdquo; (sit upon), said Isaac to his grandson
+Walter, who trotted off briskly to a large tent, and reappeared
+with a smartly striped coverlet, which he spread for me beneath
+the hedge.&nbsp; A second grandson, with a similar alacrity, set
+off at Sinfai&rsquo;s bidding to find sticks for the fire.&nbsp;
+The devotion of these lads to their grandparents seemed to spring
+from a sense of comradery rather than reverence, and the quaint
+deference paid in turn by the old people to the boys impressed me
+not a little&mdash;a thing I have often observed in Romany
+camps.</p>
+<p>Old Isaac&rsquo;s memory carried him back to Mousehold Heath
+of the long ago, and, listening to his talk, one could see the
+brown tents and smoking fires amid the ling and fern.&nbsp; Among
+the Gypsies reclining <a name="page81"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 81</span>by those fires were the Smiths, the
+Maces, the Pinfolds, and the Grays&mdash;Sinfai&rsquo;s
+folk&mdash;and of course some of the old Herons.&nbsp; Niabai,
+Isaac&rsquo;s father, would sit mending kettles, for, like many
+of the Gypsies of those days, he was a tinker by calling, and
+when on travel would carry his grindstone on his back.&nbsp;
+Sometimes of an evening, &ldquo;Mister Burrow&rdquo; would walk
+up on to the Heath for a chat with Niabai and his wife
+&ldquo;Crowy,&rdquo; so called by reason of her very dark
+features.&nbsp; Borrow picked up from Crowy many a Romany
+<i>lav</i> (word).&nbsp; Gypsy fights were common on the Heath,
+and at times the fern would be trampled down by the crowds who
+came from far and near to witness these thrilling scenes.</p>
+<p>Old Isaac had two uncles of whom he made mention&mdash;William
+Heron, always known as &ldquo;the handsome man,&rdquo; and Robert
+Heron, known as &ldquo;the lame man.&rdquo;&nbsp; Examples of a
+remarkable exactness of observation are Borrow&rsquo;s
+pen-portraits of the two last-named brothers contained in the
+Introduction to <i>The Zincali</i>.&nbsp; The writer does not
+mention them by name, but when I submitted a memorized version of
+these word-pictures to my friend Isaac he at once recognized his
+uncles, William and Robert.</p>
+<p>Let us open <i>The Zincali</i>.</p>
+<p>Handsome William is standing by his horse.&nbsp; He is tall,
+as were all the men of his clan.</p>
+<blockquote><p>&ldquo;Almost a giant, for his height could not
+have been less than six feet three.&nbsp; It is impossible for <a
+name="page82"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 82</span>the
+imagination to conceive anything more perfectly beautiful than
+were the features of this man, and the most skilful sculptor of
+Greece might have taken them as his model for a hero and a
+god.&nbsp; The forehead was exceedingly lofty&mdash;a rare thing
+in a Gypsy; the nose less Roman than Grecian&mdash;fine, yet
+delicate; the eyes large, overhung with long, drooping lashes,
+giving them almost a melancholy expression; it was only when the
+lashes were elevated that the Gypsy glance was seen, if that can
+be called a glance which is a strange stare, like nothing else in
+the world.&nbsp; His complexion was a beautiful olive, and his
+teeth were of a brilliance uncommon even amongst these people,
+who have all fine teeth.&nbsp; He was dressed in a coarse
+wagoner&rsquo;s slop, which, however, was unable to conceal
+altogether his noble and Herculean figure.&nbsp; He might be
+about twenty-eight.&rdquo;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>William is said to have persisted in carrying his own silver
+mug in his coat pocket, and would drink out of no other
+vessel.&nbsp; &ldquo;I&rsquo;d scorn to wet my lips with a drop
+of drink out of a <i>gawjikeno kuro</i>,&rdquo; meaning the
+publican&rsquo;s mugs.</p>
+<p>Robert, William&rsquo;s elder brother, remained on horseback,
+looking &ldquo;more like a phantom than anything human.&nbsp; His
+complexion was the colour of pale dust, and of that same colour
+was all that pertained to him, hat and clothes.&nbsp; His boots
+were dusty of course, for it was midsummer, and his very horse
+was of a dusty dun.&nbsp; His features were <a
+name="page83"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 83</span>whimsically
+ugly, most of his teeth were gone, and as to age, he might be
+thirty or sixty.&nbsp; He was somewhat lame and halt, but an
+unequalled rider when once upon his steed, which he was naturally
+not very solicitous to quit.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Robert was always considered the wizard of the clan.&nbsp;
+Never having been married, he dispensed with a tent, preferring,
+like some of the deep Woods of Wales, to sleep in a barn.&nbsp;
+He was nicknamed &ldquo;Church&rdquo; Robert, because he was a
+reader and had a wonderful memory, and sometimes going to church
+he listened to lessons and psalms and would afterwards reel them
+off like a <i>roker</i>in <i>tshiriklo</i> (parrot).</p>
+<p>When I made a move to go, Old Isaac drew himself to his full
+height and said, &ldquo;<i>Av akai apopli</i>,
+<i>rashai</i>&rdquo; (Come here again, parson), and the boys to
+whom I had mentioned my roving experiences urged me to come and
+camp near them.&nbsp; &ldquo;Let us put up a tent for you here
+next to ours.&rdquo;&nbsp; Sinfai, who walked to the field-gate
+with me, slipped into my pocket a <i>bita delaben</i> (small
+gift), a green wineglass.</p>
+<p>A sunset of rare beauty was reddening the sandhills when I
+returned to the Gypsyry on the South Shore.&nbsp; For a while I
+walked up and down in the miniature fair, and before I turned my
+face towards the town, lights began to appear in the tent baulks
+and the stars came out over the darkening sea.</p>
+<p>Next morning I was walking along the spacious <a
+name="page84"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 84</span>sea-front
+with Archie Smith for companion, and in the distance appeared a
+little man pushing a grinding-barrow.&nbsp; Quickening our steps,
+we overtook him and found he was Elijah Heron on his morning
+round.&nbsp; I inquired where he was stopping, and promised to
+visit him later in the day.&nbsp; My companion, the lively
+Archie, was reeling off for my benefit a list of the inhabitants
+of the South Shore Gypsyry, and had just mentioned Bendigo Purum,
+when, rounding a corner, we met the man himself, a very swarthy
+Gypsy&mdash;almost black, one might say.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;<i>Roker</i> of the <i>Beng</i>,&rdquo; whispered
+Archie, &ldquo;and you&rsquo;ll <i>dik lesti</i>&rdquo; (see
+him).</p>
+<p>Farther along in a narrow thoroughfare we observed several
+Gypsy women out a-shopping, their gay <i>diklo</i>s and blouses
+making splashes of bright colour in the crowded street.&nbsp; It
+seemed to me that Blackpool was alive with Gypsies.&nbsp; In the
+afternoon I returned to the South Shore, and, hearing the strains
+of a violin proceeding from a gorgeous red blanket tent in a
+field near the railway, I made my way thither, and to my joy I
+discovered Eros and Lias Robinson at home.</p>
+<p>Here is a song which I heard from the lips of Lias&mdash;</p>
+<blockquote><p>&ldquo;<i>Mandi&rsquo;s tshori puri dai</i><br />
+<i>Jaw</i>&rsquo;d <i>adr&ecirc; kongri</i> to <i>shun</i> the
+<i>rashai</i>;<br />
+The <i>gawj&ecirc; saw sal</i>&rsquo;d as <i>yoi besh</i>&rsquo;d
+<i>tal&ecirc;</i>;<br />
+<i>Yoi dik</i>&rsquo;d &rsquo;<i>dr&ecirc;</i> the <i>lil</i>,
+but <i>yoi keka del-apr&ecirc;</i>;<br />
+<a name="page85"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 85</span>The
+<i>rashai roker</i>&rsquo;d agen <i>duker</i>in,
+<i>pen</i>&rsquo;d <i>dova sos</i> a <i>laj</i>,<br />
+But <i>yov keka jin</i>&rsquo;d <i>mandi duker</i>&rsquo;d
+<i>yov</i>&rsquo;s <i>tshai</i>,<br />
+<i>Puker</i>&rsquo;d <i>yoi</i>&rsquo;d <i>romer</i> a <i>barvdo
+rai</i>.&rdquo;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p><i>Translation</i>.</p>
+<blockquote><p>&ldquo;My poor old mother<br />
+Went into church to hear the parson;<br />
+The gentiles all laughed as she sat down;<br />
+She looked into the book, but she could not read;<br />
+The parson talked against fortune-telling, said it was a
+shame,<br />
+But he never knew I had told his daughter&rsquo;s fortune,<br />
+Told her she&rsquo;d marry a wealthy squire.&rdquo;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>Lias was full of reminiscences of wanderings through the heart
+of Wales, and I listened with keen interest to his talk about the
+deep Woods.&nbsp; In my readings of Leland&rsquo;s writings I had
+come upon the mention of Mat Wood whom, in after years, I had the
+good fortune to meet in Wales.&nbsp; During his Welsh wanderings,
+Lias had met several sons of John Roberts, the harpist,
+concerning whom I had learned much from Groome&rsquo;s delightful
+book, <i>In Gipsy Tents</i>.&nbsp; Here I may mention that Old
+John Roberts was an occasional visitor to Lincolnshire in days
+gone by.&nbsp; He travelled widely with his harp, on which he was
+a talented player.&nbsp; My wife, who hails from the Fen country,
+remembers John&rsquo;s visits to her native village of Fleet,
+near Holbeach in Lincolnshire, where he would play on the parish
+green, as well as on the lawns of private houses.&nbsp; A
+venerable-looking, bearded man, who might have passed for a
+clergyman, he was a welcome guest in the home of my <a
+name="page86"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+86</span>father-in-law, where he would play old airs to a
+pianoforte accompaniment.</p>
+<p style="text-align: center">
+<a href="images/p86ab.jpg">
+<img alt=
+"The gypsy&rsquo;s parson with his friends.  Photo. Fred Shaw"
+title=
+"The gypsy&rsquo;s parson with his friends.  Photo. Fred Shaw"
+src="images/p86as.jpg" />
+</a></p>
+<p>The afternoon and evening which followed my morning ramble
+were crowded with Gypsy experiences.&nbsp; At the back of a large
+tent sat Kenza Boswell fiddling, while his daughters danced with
+exceeding grace.</p>
+<p>Next, Noarus T&acirc;no, in one of his skittish moods, kept me
+in fits of laughter for ten minutes.&nbsp; He was the humorist of
+the Blackpool camp.</p>
+<p>Entirely unaccustomed to controlling his imagination, Noarus
+will tell an extraordinary tale in which he himself plays a part,
+with no other object than to amuse his hearer, or to lift himself
+a little higher in your esteem.&nbsp; And just as no one is
+expected to believe the narratives of Baron Munchausen, so the
+Gypsy in telling his &ldquo;lying tale&rdquo; is perfectly
+content with the laughter of the listener.&nbsp; This gay spirit
+of exaggeration certainly stamps the following tale told by Old
+T&acirc;no.</p>
+<p style="text-align: center">
+<a href="images/p86bb.jpg">
+<img alt=
+"Friends at the fair.  Photo. Fred Shaw"
+title=
+"Friends at the fair.  Photo. Fred Shaw"
+src="images/p86bs.jpg" />
+</a></p>
+<p>The scene is the kitchen of the village inn, and
+poultry-lifting is the topic of conversation.&nbsp; It is Noarus
+who speaks&mdash;</p>
+<blockquote><p>&ldquo;There&rsquo;s a farmer&rsquo;s wife up in
+the willage what&rsquo;s been blaming a two-legged fox for
+robbing her hen-roost.&nbsp; I say it&rsquo;s some low dealer
+what comes out of the town with a light cart on a shiny night
+when the stormy winds are blowing, so as folks shan&rsquo;t hear
+him at work.&nbsp; You knows the sort, but us Gypsies has a
+different way.&nbsp; When did you ever know any <a
+name="page87"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 87</span>of us to
+meddle with anythink in these here parts?&nbsp; Don&rsquo;t your
+farmers buy ponies off us?&nbsp; Ain&rsquo;t we highly respected
+by the gentle-folk for miles round?&nbsp; Why, there was a squire
+up in Yorkshire, a prize-poultry fancier, as know&rsquo;d my
+people wery well.&nbsp; We often camped on his land and never
+meddled with nothink.&nbsp; He trusted us so much that he comes
+down to our tents one day and says to my daddy&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;I want to beg a favour of you, T&acirc;no.&nbsp;
+I&rsquo;m going abroad for a while, and I want you and your son
+to take charge of my poultry farm while I&rsquo;m
+away.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Well, my daddy and me took charge of his prize fowls,
+and when he come back again, how do you think he found things, my
+gentlemen?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>The company, profoundly impressed by the speaker&rsquo;s
+discourse, exclaimed with one voice&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;All right to a feather.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Nay, that he never did.&nbsp; <i>We</i>&rsquo;d <i>ate
+the hull blessed lot</i>!&rdquo;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>Mindful of my promise to visit Elijah Heron, I sought out his
+tent, and I had to stoop very low to get in the doorway.&nbsp; In
+my pocket was a heavy, silver-mounted brier pipe possessing a
+large amber mouthpiece.&nbsp; This I presented to the old man,
+and it was good to see his face light up with pleasure.&nbsp;
+&ldquo;<i>Tatsheni rup si kova</i>&rdquo; (Real silver is this),
+he said, pointing to the mountings.&nbsp; &ldquo;A
+<i>sw&ecirc;gler</i>&rsquo;s <i>kek kushto</i> without
+<i>tuvalo</i>&rdquo; (A pipe&rsquo;s no good without tobacco), <a
+name="page88"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 88</span>I remarked,
+handing him a cake of Black Jack.&nbsp; He lighted up and looked
+as happy as a king.</p>
+<p>Noticing that I was slightly deaf, he recommended oil
+extracted from vipers as good for deafness.&nbsp; The mention of
+snakes took him back to his sojourn in the Antipodes.&nbsp;
+&ldquo;I never talks of <i>saps</i> (snakes) but I thinks of the
+days when I was travelling in &rsquo;Stralia.&nbsp; One night I
+got leave from a farmer to stop near a river, but I didn&rsquo;t
+<i>hatsh odoi</i> (remain there) for more than an hour or two,
+for I found there was <i>saps</i> about&mdash;nasty, hissing
+critturs.&nbsp; A black man as come down to the river to water
+some hosses told me that the <i>saps</i> sometimes
+<i>maw</i>&rsquo;d (killed) animals near the river, so I packed
+up my traps and kept on the road all night.&nbsp; Give me Old
+England, I say.&nbsp; I&rsquo;m right glad to be back
+here.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>In a little tent hard by, I heard Poley and his wife singing
+as I said &ldquo;Good-night&rdquo; to Elijah.&nbsp; Happy,
+twinkling eyes they were that looked out at me from that little
+tent door as I passed.&nbsp; I envy you that merry heart, Poley,
+that evergreen spirit of yours, and, recalling your face, I see
+again the array of Gypsy tents as twilight dropped its purple
+veil on Blackpool&rsquo;s pleasant shore.</p>
+<h2><a name="page89"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+89</span>CHAPTER VIII<br />
+<span class="GutSmall">A TRENTSIDE FAIR</span></h2>
+<p><span class="smcap">Overnight</span> a welcome rain had fallen
+upon a thirsty land, and morning broke cool and grey, with a
+lively breeze stirring the tree-tops, and shaking the raindrops
+from the grasses, as I strode along the banks of the river Trent,
+with my face set towards West Stockwith Horse Fair.&nbsp; The
+long, dry summer was drawing to a close, and there was an
+agreeable sense of novelty in the rain-drenched aspect of the
+countryside.&nbsp; After a harvest prematurely ripened by an
+exuberance of sunshine, brown-cheeked September was now hastening
+to splash here a leaf and there a spray with rich colour, and on
+this particular morning it seemed to me that reeds, flags, and
+willows were taking on autumnal tints earlier than usual.&nbsp;
+Occasionally, from the river bank, I spied a water-rat or a coot
+swimming amongst the sedges, and once on the path stretching
+before me a pert wagtail&mdash;the Gypsy bird&mdash;foretold, as
+the Gypsies say, a coming encounter with roving friends.</p>
+<p>Pleasantly enough my early morning walk terminated at the
+old-world Trentside village of my destination.&nbsp; By this
+time, between the vapours <a name="page90"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 90</span>rolling overhead, the sun had
+appeared, and was gilding the barges moored to a primitive quay
+below the long line of straggling houses.&nbsp; On the
+Lincolnshire side of the Trent quite a colony of Gypsy vans had
+drawn up on a turfy plateau, and their owners were now to be seen
+crossing the river by ferry-boat, their laughter floating to me
+over the water.&nbsp; This was by no means my first visit to the
+riverside horse fair, and after refreshing at one of the inns, I
+went down the lane to the fair-ground occupying two fields, in
+the larger of which were already assembled horses and dealers in
+a state of lively commotion beyond a fringe of ale-booths and
+luncheon tents; while in the smaller field were gathered numerous
+Gypsy families with their carts and smoking fires.</p>
+<p>Never in my life do I remember to have witnessed such a horde
+of ancient vagabonds of both sexes as on this occasion, and with
+no little delight I stood and gazed upon the picture.&nbsp; What
+struck me in particular was the motley character of the
+party.&nbsp; Decrepit great-grandfolks mumbling together;
+grandfathers in ragged garb and battered hats; wizened
+grandmothers sucking their pipes; aged uncles and aunts in
+time-stained tatters; wives in their teens dandling babies;
+bright-eyed children drumming happily on the bottoms of inverted
+pots and pans; merry lads and lasses, interspersed amongst an
+assembly of the quaintest rag dolls it has ever been my fortune
+to behold.&nbsp; It seemed to me as if all the old Romany <a
+name="page91"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 91</span>folk of
+several counties had met together for the last time in their
+lives.</p>
+<p>Moving into the larger field, I had not gone far before I felt
+a tug at my sleeve, and, looking round, I saw the two lads whom I
+had met with Jonathan by the watermill.&nbsp; They led me
+straight to a little covered cart drawn under the hedge where
+Boswell was conversing with &rsquo;Plisti Smith.</p>
+<p>As I have said elsewhere, the play-spirit is strong in the
+Gypsy, even in his latter years, and while talking with my two
+friends up came a comical-looking Gypsy, Charley Welch, who must
+have been nearer ninety than seventy, and, picking up a potato
+lying on the ground&mdash;the large field had grown a crop of
+potatoes that summer&mdash;he laughingly dropped it into
+Jonathan&rsquo;s coat pocket.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;There, don&rsquo;t say that Old Charley never gave you
+nothink.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>After that I walked with Jonathan among the horses, and we
+came upon Flash Arno and Black &Icirc;nan, who found time to
+accompany us to one of the refreshment booths where the talk
+ranged through a variety of topics.&nbsp; &Icirc;nan knew Mister
+Groome, the book-writer, up Edinburgh way.&nbsp; He had met him
+there not long before in company with my friend Frampton
+Boswell.&nbsp; I soon found that these Gypsies did not hold with
+folks writing books about their race and telling the <i>mumpli
+gawj&ecirc;</i> (nasty gentiles) about their ways.</p>
+<p>No one loves a little fun more than the Gypsy, <a
+name="page92"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 92</span>and generally
+he means no harm by his playful romancing.&nbsp; After all, he is
+but a grown-up child, and loves to make-believe.&nbsp; The
+Gypsy&rsquo;s world is a haphazard one, in which luck plays a
+large part.&nbsp; He knows nothing of the orderly cosmos of
+providence or science.&nbsp; I make these remarks by way of
+prelude to examples of this spirit.</p>
+<p>Who can help laughing inwardly as the Gypsy weaves a romantic
+tale about you, all for the benefit of a stranger?&nbsp; And in
+the course of my morning&rsquo;s ramble through West Stockwith
+Fair I had several experiences of the kind.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;See that little dealer over there?&rdquo; said Peter
+Smith, indicating a small Gypsy man holding a tall black horse by
+a halter.&nbsp; The animal looked gigantic by the side of its
+owner.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Come along with me, and while I <i>roker</i> (talk) to
+him, <i>maw puker</i> a <i>lav</i>&rdquo; (don&rsquo;t speak a
+word).&nbsp; Then we both went up to the little Gypsy, and with
+the gravest of countenances Peter began to spin a long romance
+all about an imaginary sister of mine who lived at Brighton and
+was wanting just such a horse as the one before us.&nbsp; It
+really was a fine animal, and I could not refrain from stroking
+its glossy skin.</p>
+<p>Peter continued: &ldquo;This here gentleman doesn&rsquo;t ride
+hisself, you see, but his sister has asked him to look out for a
+horse, and this one &rsquo;ull just suit her.&rdquo;&nbsp; I
+found it difficult to preserve silence, but somehow I managed to
+do so.&nbsp; Finally, Peter took me aside <a
+name="page93"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 93</span>and talked
+mysteriously about nothing in particular, and quietly bade me
+walk away.&nbsp; A few minutes later I beheld Peter quaffing a
+large mug of ale evidently at the little man&rsquo;s expense.</p>
+<p>Moving in and out among the throng, I presently walked out
+along the road, and there I came upon Hamal&ecirc;n Smith, who,
+after some talk, suggested a bit of fun.&nbsp; Pointing to a
+Gypsy camp down a lane, he said&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;That&rsquo;s Belinda Trickett sitting by the fire with
+her children.&nbsp; Go you down the lane and have a little
+game.&nbsp; I&rsquo;ll stop here and see how you get on.&nbsp;
+You don&rsquo;t know the woman, I suppose?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Not I.&nbsp; She&rsquo;s a stranger to me.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;That&rsquo;s all right.&nbsp; Togged as you are,
+she&rsquo;ll never take you for a parson, not she.&nbsp; Mind you
+look severe-like and say to Belinda, &lsquo;Is your husband at
+home?&nbsp; What&rsquo;s his name?&rsquo;&nbsp; It&rsquo;s Harry,
+but she&rsquo;s sure to say it&rsquo;s something else.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Down the lane I went, and, approaching Mrs. Trickett and
+family, I drew out a notebook and pencil&mdash;a sure way to
+frighten a Gypsy.&nbsp; Why these things should suggest
+&ldquo;police&rdquo; I can scarcely say, but they do.&nbsp; The
+woman&rsquo;s clay pipe dropped from her mouth and fell upon the
+grass, and beneath the brown of her cheeks a pallor crept.&nbsp;
+Mrs. Trickett was alarmed.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;What is your husband&rsquo;s name?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;George Smith.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;When will he be at home?&rdquo;</p>
+<p><a name="page94"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+94</span>&ldquo;I can&rsquo;t say.&nbsp; He&rsquo;s gone to the
+fair.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Under their mother&rsquo;s shawl three tiny children huddled
+like little brown partridges beneath an outspread wing, a sight
+which caused me some pricking of heart.&nbsp; The biggest child
+kept saying, &ldquo;What does the <i>gawjo</i> want,
+mammy?&rdquo;&nbsp; Just then I looked up the lane and saw a man
+coming down, who by his jaunty air I guessed was the
+woman&rsquo;s husband.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;<i>Kushti sawla</i> (Good morning), Mr. Trickett; take
+a little <i>tuvalo</i>.&rdquo;&nbsp; I handed him my tobacco
+pouch.&nbsp; &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve come a long way to see you.&nbsp;
+Ask me to sit down a bit, now I&rsquo;ve got here.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Mrs. Trickett&rsquo;s face was a study in wonderment, as I sat
+down for a friendly chat.&nbsp; &ldquo;<i>Dawdi</i>,&rdquo; said
+she, &ldquo;you did <i>trasher mandi</i> (frighten me).&nbsp; I
+thought there was <i>tshumani opr&ecirc;</i>&rdquo; (something
+up).</p>
+<p>When Hamal&ecirc;n Smith, from the top of the lane, saw that
+the episode had arrived at a happy termination, he strolled down
+the lane and joined us.</p>
+<p>A far-travelled Gypsy is Hamal&ecirc;n, and many a tale can he
+unfold.</p>
+<blockquote><p>&ldquo;One morning,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;a
+policeman came up to my wagon and told me as how twenty-four
+fowls was missing from the next field to where we was
+stopping.&nbsp; Somebody had stole &rsquo;em in the night.&nbsp;
+&lsquo;Of course you suspects us,&rsquo; says I to the policeman,
+&lsquo;but you&rsquo;re wrong.&nbsp; We&rsquo;ve never touched a
+feather of &rsquo;em.&rsquo;&nbsp; However, nothing would do but
+the man <a name="page95"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+95</span>must search my wagon from top to bottom, and for all his
+trouble he found nothing.&nbsp; I know&rsquo;d very well I
+hadn&rsquo;t touched &rsquo;em, and I was telling him the
+truth.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Wait a bit,&rsquo; says he.&nbsp;
+&lsquo;Didn&rsquo;t I see <i>three</i> vans in this field last
+night as I was going along the high road?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Yes,&rsquo; I replied.&nbsp; &lsquo;My boys have
+gone on in front with the other wagons.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Says he, &lsquo;That looks suspicious.&nbsp; I must
+make haste and find them.&nbsp; Where have they gone?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;I can&rsquo;t say, for I don&rsquo;t know
+myself.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Well, I shall have to come with you, and you
+must show me where to find them.&rsquo;&nbsp; The policeman
+jumped up and sat on the seat along with me and my wife, and off
+we went to find the boys.&nbsp; Of course it was plain to see by
+the wheel-marks just outside the gate which way they had turned,
+but when we got to the cross-roads about three miles furder on,
+the road was that hard and dry that no wheel-marks could be
+seen.&nbsp; Now I could easily have misled the policeman, but I
+thought it best to try to find the boys as quick as I could, for
+I didn&rsquo;t believe for a minute they had done it.&nbsp;
+Looking down the road, I saw the boys&rsquo; <i>patrin</i>
+(guiding sign).&nbsp; The policeman didn&rsquo;t know what I was
+looking at, and it wasn&rsquo;t likely as I should show him our
+signs, so I says we&rsquo;ll take this road, and we turned off to
+the left.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;How did you know which way the boys had
+gone?&rsquo; asked the policeman.&nbsp; &lsquo;Was it some <a
+name="page96"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 96</span>thing tied on
+that tree bough hanging over the road?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;I never sees nothing on the tree bough,&rsquo;
+says I.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;I thought to myself the policeman must have been
+reading some tale about the Gypsies.&nbsp; Anyway, he had heard
+something about <i>patrin</i>s and such-like, but I wasn&rsquo;t
+going to be the one to larn him our signs, so I changed the
+subject.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Yon&rsquo;s my boys on in front,&rsquo; says
+I.&nbsp; The policeman began rubbing his hands and smiling.&nbsp;
+At last we caught up with the boys, and the policeman searched
+inside the two wagons and found nothing.&nbsp; Then he
+says&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;I might as well look on the top,&rsquo; and he
+climbed on to the roofs of the wagons.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Hello, what have we here?&rsquo; says he, in a
+way that made me turn warm.&nbsp; He lifted up a dead pigeon.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Where did you get that from?&rsquo; I asked the
+boys.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Picked it up a bit o&rsquo; way down the
+road.&nbsp; It had just killed itself on the telegraph wires by
+the wood side.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;After that, the disappointed policeman went away, and
+the thieves were never found out.</p>
+</blockquote>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<blockquote><p>&ldquo;Another time we draw&rsquo;d into a rutted
+lane lying off the high road.&nbsp; We had our three wagons, and
+at night we always covered the big one up, because <a
+name="page97"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 97</span>we
+didn&rsquo;t sleep in it.&nbsp; It was a nice quiet lane, and we
+thought there would be nobody to trouble us as there was no
+willage near.&nbsp; But about midnight a man knocked on the wagon
+and woke us up.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;What are you doing here?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;No harm, I hope.&nbsp; We&rsquo;ll clear out
+first thing in the morning.&rsquo;&nbsp; He said he&rsquo;d been
+knocking at the big wagon what was covered up, and he
+couldn&rsquo;t make anybody hear.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Well,&rsquo; says I, &lsquo;whatever you do,
+don&rsquo;t you touch that big wagon agen.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Why, what&rsquo;s in it?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Wild beasts, for sure&mdash;<i>a lion and a
+tiger</i>.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;You&rsquo;d ha&rsquo; laughed at the way that man made
+hisself scarce.&nbsp; Next morning, as we draw&rsquo;d out of the
+lane, we met a policeman.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;I hear you have some wild beasts in that big
+wagon of yours.&nbsp; Wasn&rsquo;t it a bit dangerous stopping so
+near the highway?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Well, we&rsquo;re clearing out in good
+time.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Get along with you then.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;A few miles furder on the road we come to a little
+town, and as it was market day we pulled up in the big square,
+and I took the cover off the big wagon.&nbsp; Just as I was doing
+this, who should come up but the policeman we&rsquo;d met in the
+early morning.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Where&rsquo;s those wild beasts of yours?&rsquo;
+says he.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Oh,&rsquo; says I, &lsquo;I&rsquo;ll soon show
+you.&rsquo;&nbsp; And I went inside my brush and carpet wagon and
+brought out <a name="page98"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+98</span>two big rugs, and I showed him a tiger skin and a lion
+skin, both lined with red.&nbsp; &lsquo;There&rsquo;s my wild
+beasts,&rsquo; said I.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Talk about laughing, I thought that policeman would
+never ha&rsquo; stopped.&rdquo;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<h2><a name="page99"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+99</span>CHAPTER IX<br />
+<span class="GutSmall">TAKEN FOR TRAMPS&mdash;AN EAST ANGLIAN
+FAMILY</span></h2>
+<p><span class="smcap">Day</span> after day, in the woods around
+our village, the autumnal gales roared and ravened with unabated
+fury, snapping brittle boughs, cracking decrepit boles, and
+piling up drifts of brown leaves around grey roots protruding
+like half-buried bones through the mossy woodland floor.&nbsp;
+Then right in the midst of it all came a spell of calm weather,
+as if summer had stolen back to her former haunts in sylvan glade
+and ferny lane.&nbsp; Call it by what name you please, this brief
+season of sunny repose following upon the heels of the
+tempestuous equinoctials is a time when some of us are impelled,
+as by a primal instinct, to shake off the collar of routine and
+take the road leading over the hill into what realm of adventure
+beyond.</p>
+<p>Fully a week the summer-like interlude had held sway in the
+land.&nbsp; Upon the newly-turned furrows shimmered a golden
+light.&nbsp; A dreamy haze trailed its filmy skirts over hill and
+dale.&nbsp; In narrow lanes invisible threads of spiders&rsquo;
+silk stretched from hedge to hedge, and wayside tangles again
+were silvered over with a fine dust suggestive of July.&nbsp;
+Amid the <a name="page100"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+100</span>lingering clover-flowers bees buzzed and
+blundered.&nbsp; Through the still air, leaves of maple and
+chestnut, like red-winged insects, twirled down to the grass, and
+the tall elms in the village churchyard littered their yellow
+foliage upon the graves.&nbsp; Everywhere, serenitude, repose,
+peace, save in restless hearts chafing at the humdrum of tasks
+grown monotonous by reason of long-continued performance.&nbsp;
+For who with a soul fully awake can resist the lure of the road
+at gossamer-time?</p>
+<p>Thus it came to pass one afternoon that my wife and I,
+slipping out of our drowsy village, took the upland way which
+after numerous windings brought us into the Great North
+Road.&nbsp; Our plans were of the flimsiest.&nbsp; It mattered
+little whether we went north or south, so long as we were absent
+for a few days.&nbsp; On reaching the far-famed highway we stood
+under the branching arms of a finger-post, and tossed pennies to
+determine the course of our itinerary.&nbsp; &ldquo;North&rdquo;
+having won the toss, we footed it gaily in that direction.&nbsp;
+To be sure, our semi-Gypsy garb, donned for this jaunt, was not
+long in taking on a coating of road dust, and we were about to
+shake off this clinging powder, when the rattle of wheels was
+heard behind us, and almost immediately a dogcart slowed down by
+our side, and the driver, a rubicund farmer, amicably invited us
+to take a lift, an offer which was gladly accepted, and we
+climbed aboard the conveyance.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;I&rsquo;ve allus had a feeling for folks like you, and
+<a name="page101"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 101</span>I offens
+give &rsquo;em a lift as I&rsquo;m passing back&rsquo;ards and
+forrards on the ramper.&nbsp; Afore I pulled up just now I says
+to myself, &lsquo;They&rsquo;ve seen better days, I&rsquo;ll be
+bound.&rsquo;&nbsp; Maybe you&rsquo;ve been in the army?&nbsp;
+Leastways, I thought you seemed to hold yourself up pretty
+straight in your walk.&nbsp; I&rsquo;ve done a bit of soldiering
+myself.&nbsp; Once at a big do-ment in London, I was in the
+Queen&rsquo;s Escort.&nbsp; Yes, I&rsquo;ve been about a bit in
+my time.&nbsp; I dessay you two&rsquo;s got a goodish way to go
+yet afore you come to your night&rsquo;s lodgings.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Ay, dear me,&rdquo; he went on, &ldquo;we offens has
+your sort calling at our place&mdash;my farm&rsquo;s a few miles
+farther along this way&mdash;and one day not long since a poor
+chap knocked at our door and asked for work.&nbsp; He was a
+parson&rsquo;s son, so we gave him a lightish job and fed him
+well and bedded him in the barn for three or four nights, till
+his sore feet got right agen.&nbsp; Poor fellow, he worn&rsquo;t
+much good at labouring work, but we liked to listen to his tales;
+he could tell you summut now.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Thus he rambled on after the manner of a garrulous Guardian of
+the Poor who had acquired an interest in tramps.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Yon&rsquo;s my place among the trees, so I must leave
+you here.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>We thanked him for his kindly lift, and, rounding a bend in
+the highway, were glad to relieve our pent-up feelings in
+laughter over the good man&rsquo;s misconception.</p>
+<p>Now, as everyone knows, who has journeyed <a
+name="page102"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 102</span>along it,
+the fine old turnpike abounds in travellers of every shade and
+grade.&nbsp; Not once or twice on its turfy wayside have I
+fraternized with &ldquo;Weary Willies&rdquo; boiling their tea in
+discarded treacle-tins.&nbsp; Even now as we went along, two or
+three tramps passed by, one of them coming up to beg a few
+matches, the others scarcely giving us a glance.</p>
+<p>Hearing the rumble of an approaching vehicle, we looked
+towards the bend of the road, and round it came what looked like
+a carrier&rsquo;s cart drawn by a horse apparently old, for it
+proceeded slowly, and the cart creaked and jolted as if it, too,
+were ancient.&nbsp; As it jogged nearer, I saw it contained but a
+single occupant&mdash;a brown-faced little man who wore a faded
+yellow kerchief&mdash;and, stepping into the roadway, I greeted
+him with <i>s&acirc; shan</i> (how do?).&nbsp; Whereupon he
+pulled up.&nbsp; &ldquo;I heard what you said just now, but
+you&rsquo;ve made a mistake.&nbsp; I&rsquo;m no
+Romany&mdash;I&rsquo;m a showman, an Aunt Sally man, bound for
+Retford.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Now a Gypsy will frequently deny his blood.&nbsp; Knowing that
+his kind live under a ban, he has no desire to draw attention to
+himself.&nbsp; But, looking at this Aunt Sally man, I saw that he
+had told the truth.&nbsp; His face was freckled.&nbsp; No real
+Gypsy freckles.&nbsp; After all, as Groome says, &ldquo;It is not
+the caravan that makes the Gypsy, any more than my cat becomes a
+dog if she takes to living in a kennel.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Our road now became a gradual descent into a clean,
+flower-loving village, where amid the trees we caught the gleam
+of a large canvas booth in a field, <a name="page103"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 103</span>and there were knockings of a mallet
+to be heard.&nbsp; Nor was it long before we learned what was
+afoot.&nbsp; Within a tavern&rsquo;s comfortable parlour, a
+coloured playbill informed the world that Harrison&rsquo;s
+travelling theatre would that evening present a sensational
+drama&mdash;<i>Gypsy Jack</i>&mdash;and in due time we found
+ourselves seated among the cottagers and farm-hands, enjoying a
+highly entertaining, though garbled, version of Mr. G. R.
+Sims&rsquo;s <i>Romany Rye</i>.&nbsp; Opening with a Gypsy
+encampment in which the gaily dressed Lees sat talking round a
+fire in a forest glade, we were successively shown Joe
+Hackett&rsquo;s shop, the race-course at Epsom, the deck of the
+<i>Saratoga</i>, the cellar near Rotherhithe, and the Thames by
+night.&nbsp; The play seemed a not inappropriate episode in our
+Gypsy jaunt.</p>
+<p>Years afterwards, during one Derby week, I saw Mr.
+Sims&rsquo;s <i>Romany Rye</i> remarkably well played at a South
+London theatre.&nbsp; In connection with this play an amusing
+story is told.&nbsp; The managers of the Princess&rsquo;s Theatre
+in London were anxious that the new drama should be announced in
+the &ldquo;Agony&rdquo; column of <i>The Times</i>.&nbsp; Like
+many another one, the advertisement clerk at <i>The Times</i>
+office could make nothing whatever of the mysterious words
+<i>Romany Rye</i>.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;What the deuce is this <i>Romany Rye</i>?&rdquo; he
+asked the bearer of the strange document.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;If you please, sir,&rdquo; said the messenger, whom the
+manager of the theatre had sworn to secrecy&mdash;&ldquo;if <a
+name="page104"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 104</span>you please,
+sir, I think it&rsquo;s the name of a new liver-pad.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; remarked the official, &ldquo;<i>The
+Times</i> is a great paper and can do without padding.&nbsp; Take
+it away.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>And the advertisement was declined.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>From the door of the canvas theatre it was an easy walk to the
+little town of Newark-on-Trent, at one of whose pleasant
+hostelries we spent the night, our window overlooking the ruined
+castle by the waterside.&nbsp; It had been in our minds to
+continue our walk next morning along the Great North Road, but at
+breakfast a small paragraph in a newspaper brought about a quick
+change in our plans.&nbsp; The item of news ran thus&mdash;</p>
+<blockquote><p style="text-align: center">&ldquo;<i>THE ROMANIES
+AGAIN</i>.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Our friends, the gipsy Greys, are still with us in
+Grimsby, lamented Mr. Councillor E&mdash; last evening, and he
+wanted to know whether something could not be done to get them to
+clear out.&nbsp; The Town Clerk had assisted them somewhat, and
+one or two had gone, but there were still four families encamped
+at the back of T&mdash; Street, New Clee.&nbsp; Inspector
+M&mdash; said he had visited the encampment and he must say that
+the caravans were very clean.&nbsp; They could not be said to
+create a nuisance.&nbsp; &lsquo;It is not the tents that are a
+nuisance,&rsquo; replied the lively representative of the
+H&mdash; Ward, &lsquo;but the parties <a name="page105"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 105</span>themselves, who trespass in the
+backyards of the houses in that neighbourhood.&nbsp; It is no
+uncommon thing on waking up in the morning to find a donkey or a
+goat in your backyard or garden.&rsquo;&nbsp; The Inspector
+stated that Eliza Grey, the owner of the vans, had informed him
+they would all be going away in a few days.&rdquo;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>It was the sight of the Romany family name which altered our
+plans.&nbsp; The East Anglian Grays are a good type of Gypsy not
+to be encountered every day, hence we decided to lose no time in
+taking the train for Grimsby.&nbsp; It was a crawling
+&ldquo;ordinary&rdquo; by which we travelled, and at a little
+wayside station a few miles out of Newark, a lithe, dark fellow
+carrying a pedlar&rsquo;s basket stepped into our compartment,
+and at once I recognized in him my old friend Snakey
+Petulengro.&nbsp; How his face lit up on seeing me, for we had
+not met for years.&nbsp; I was so much struck by his altered
+bearing that I could scarcely believe my eyes.&nbsp; He seemed
+now as gentle in his manner as once he had been wild.&nbsp; The
+sight of him brought back Gypsy Court and all its
+associations.&nbsp; He said he had left the old home, his father
+and mother having passed away.&nbsp; On my inquiring about his
+sister Sibby, he said she had married a Gypsy and, tiring of Old
+England, had gone to &rsquo;Merikay.&nbsp; As Snakey quitted the
+carriage at Lincoln, an observant passenger remarked&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;There goes one of Nature&rsquo;s gentlemen.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>By mid-afternoon the slender hydraulic tower <a
+name="page106"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 106</span>glowed
+rosily in the sunlight above Grimsby Docks; and since the
+fishing-port had no particular charm for us, we proceeded to
+Cleethorpes, preferring the more airy shore and being eager to
+see the Gypsies.&nbsp; As might be expected, the summer-like day
+had brought a goodly number of late holiday-makers to the sands,
+and as we moved in and out among the groups near the pier foot, I
+heard a donkey-boy address someone not far away&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Would the lady like a ride?&rdquo;&nbsp; The
+lad&rsquo;s features, bearing, and tone of voice were distinctly
+Gypsy, and, seeing he was within hail, I looked towards him and
+said&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;<i>Dova s&icirc; kushto maila odoi</i>&rdquo;
+(That&rsquo;s a good donkey there).</p>
+<p>His face beamed with delight, and from his lips sprang the
+question&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;<i>Romano Rai</i>?&rdquo; (Gypsy gentleman?)</p>
+<p>&ldquo;<i>&Acirc;wa</i>; <i>kai shan t&icirc;ro foki
+hatsh</i>in?&rdquo; (Yes; where are your people camping?)</p>
+<p>In gratitude for the explicit directions he gave, I placed a
+sixpence in his hand, and his remark was
+&ldquo;<i>Dova</i>&rsquo;s too <i>kisi</i>, <i>raia</i>&rdquo;
+(That&rsquo;s too much, sir).&nbsp; &ldquo;A <i>hora</i> (penny)
+would have been <i>dosta</i> (enough) for <i>mandi</i>&rdquo;
+(me).&nbsp; This boy was one of the Grays, and, following his
+instructions, we had no difficulty in locating the Romany
+camp.</p>
+<p>It was early evening when we strolled forth upon an expanse of
+grass parcelled into building plots, where in a corner between
+the hedgerows were <a name="page107"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+107</span>drawn up, with the doorways facing south, several
+substantial <i>v&acirc;d&ecirc;</i> (caravans) near which some
+large tents had been erected.&nbsp; The Grays, who were silently
+moving to and fro, revealed by their interested side-glances that
+they had already heard of somebody&rsquo;s inquiries concerning
+themselves, and when we advanced to offer our civil and friendly
+greetings to two women who were washing pots before an outside
+fire, every politeness was shown to us.&nbsp; They rose and
+spread a horse-rug for us upon the ground.&nbsp; &ldquo;<i>Dai ta
+tshai</i>&rdquo; (mother and daughter), thought I; nor was I
+wrong.&nbsp; The older woman, diminutive, lean, and somewhat bent
+with age, informed me that she was Eliza Gray, and the younger
+was her daughter Lena.&nbsp; As we talked by the fire, a goat
+appeared and rubbed its nose affectionately against Eliza&rsquo;s
+knee.&nbsp; Said she: &ldquo;This is an old pet of ours.&nbsp;
+We&rsquo;s had it for years.&nbsp; I picked it up in
+Scotland.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>In late September the sun goes down early, and a chilly wind
+now set in from the North Sea.&nbsp; In the baulk of the old
+lady&rsquo;s tent a coke brazier was glowing invitingly, so we
+all moved under cover, and, seated on a dais of clean straw
+covered with rugs, listened to tales and talk, the
+brazier&rsquo;s crimson gleam being our only light.&nbsp; After
+some discussion of mutual acquaintances, the conversation drifted
+towards <i>duker</i>in (fortune-telling), a subject never very
+far from the thoughts of a Gypsy woman.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;How I&rsquo;ve <i>sal</i>&rsquo;d&rdquo; (laughed),
+said Eliza, &ldquo;at those <i>dinel&ecirc; gawj&ecirc;</i>
+(foolish gentiles) what come to our tent <a
+name="page108"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 108</span>to be
+<i>duker</i>&rsquo;d.&nbsp; One time I put a crystal on a little
+table covered with oilcloth, and I ax&rsquo;d the young lady if
+she couldn&rsquo;t see her sweetheart in it.&nbsp; &lsquo;Yes, I
+can,&rsquo; she says, &lsquo;and it&rsquo;s just like his face,
+but oh, lor, in this glass ball he&rsquo;s got a
+tail.&rsquo;&nbsp; I nearly laughed straight out, for I&rsquo;d
+sort of accidentally put the crystal on top of a monkey
+picture.&nbsp; The oilcloth was covered with all sorts of
+beastses, don&rsquo;t you see?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>A superstitious family, the Grays have a characteristic way of
+recounting their own traditions.&nbsp; Here is one of
+Eliza&rsquo;s tales&mdash;</p>
+<blockquote><p>&ldquo;Once we were stopping by a woodside.&nbsp;
+The back of our tent was nigh agen a dry ditch full of dead
+leaves, and one night we lay abed listening to sounds, a thing I
+can&rsquo;t abide.&nbsp; Well, there was rummy folk about in them
+days, so when we hears a footstep in the wood just t&rsquo;other
+side of that there ditch, I ups wi&rsquo; the kettle-prop and
+peeps outen the tent, and listens, but no, never a sound could I
+catch; all was still as the grave.&nbsp; Till long and by last
+there comes a rustling in the leaves, and the bushes parts like
+something trying to make a way through.&nbsp; Then I lifts up the
+kettle-prop, and I says to myself, if blows are to be struck,
+Liza had better be the first to strike, when there, straight
+afore me, stands a woman waving her poor thin arms about, but
+saying nothing.&nbsp; At that I drops the kettle-prop and
+screams, and my man Perun jumps straight up.&nbsp;
+&lsquo;They&rsquo;re killing my Liza, they are.&rsquo;&nbsp; But
+by that <a name="page109"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+109</span>the <i>muli</i> (ghost) had gone like a flash of
+lightning.&nbsp; Next morning we ax&rsquo;d at the keeper&rsquo;s
+house down the lane, and the missis tell&rsquo;d us as how a
+<i>rawni</i> (lady) was once <i>maw</i>&rsquo;d (murdered) in
+that wood, so it would be her <i>muli</i> as I saw that
+night.&nbsp; Oh, yes, I believe in <i>mul&ecirc;</i>, I
+do.&rdquo;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>During the telling of this tale two of Eliza&rsquo;s sons,
+Yoben and Poley, sauntered up and stood listening behind their
+sister Lena.&nbsp; It was Yoben who now added his contribution of
+ghost-lore.</p>
+<blockquote><p>&ldquo;Why, yes, of course, mother, there&rsquo;s
+<i>mul&ecirc;</i> (ghosts).&nbsp; Don&rsquo;t you remember after
+Dolferus died, his voice used to speak in the tent to
+Delaia?&nbsp; She says it really was his voice as nat&rsquo;ral
+as life, and it made her shiver to hear it.&nbsp; One day she
+went to a parson for advice.&nbsp; He told her the next time it
+spoke, to say: &lsquo;I promise you nothing.&nbsp;
+Begone!&rsquo;&nbsp; Well, sure enough, the voice came again, and
+she remembered to say what the parson had told her, and she never
+heard the voice no more.&nbsp; My Uncle Ike asked Delaia one
+day&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;I say, my gal, did you really hear
+Dolferus&rsquo;s voice?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Yes; it was his and no one
+else&rsquo;s.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Is that the <i>tatshipen</i> (truth), my
+gal?&rsquo;&nbsp; Ike seemed anxious to know the truth of the
+matter.&rdquo;</p>
+</blockquote>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<blockquote><p>&ldquo;Dreams is funny things,&rdquo; put in
+Poley, &ldquo;and I&rsquo;ve had some wery queer &rsquo;uns in my
+time.&nbsp; Once <a name="page110"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+110</span>I dreamt I was walking along a narrow shelf of rock,
+and on one side of me was a stony wall like a cliff, and on the
+other side the edge of the path hung over a terrible steep
+place.&nbsp; Right away below was a river of fiery red stuff
+pouring along.&nbsp; You could smell it.&nbsp; I thought this
+rocky road was the path to heaven, and I was trying to get there,
+but, &rsquo;pon my word, it was no easy matter.&nbsp; Now I
+see&rsquo;d a tiger chained to the rocky wall on my left hand,
+and a bit furder on a big lion was tied up.&nbsp; These here
+critturs was hard to get past.&nbsp; I had to go wery near the
+dangerous edge what looked down on to the burning river.&nbsp;
+What a fright I was in; it made the sweat run off me.&nbsp;
+Sometimes I had to crawl on my hands and knees to get round a big
+rock in the middle of the path.&nbsp; I felt as if I never should
+get where I wanted to.&nbsp; Well, after a lot of scrambling and
+slithering, for my feet gave way sometimes&mdash;I had naily
+boots on&mdash;I got to the top of the path, and in the dazzling
+light, like the sun itself on a summer day, there sat a
+grey-haired, doubled-up man, a wery aged man, with his chin
+resting on his hand.&nbsp; It was the <i>Duvel</i> (God), and
+when he see&rsquo;d me coming, he sat up and held up his hand,
+forbidding me to go any furder.&nbsp; He didn&rsquo;t speak a
+word, but I knew that his uplifted hand meant &lsquo;Go
+back.&rsquo;&nbsp; And just then I woke.&nbsp; That&rsquo;s my
+dream of trying to get to heaven.&rdquo;</p>
+</blockquote>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<blockquote><p>&ldquo;There&rsquo;s a lot about heaven and hell
+in God&rsquo;s <a name="page111"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+111</span>Book, isn&rsquo;t there, <i>rashai</i>?&rdquo; said Old
+Eliza.&nbsp; &ldquo;A <i>rawni</i> (lady) used to read all about
+them places to us on a Sunday, but that were years ago, and I
+used to like to hear her talk about the blessed Saviour riding on
+a <i>maila</i> (donkey) into the big town.&nbsp; She said they
+nailed him to a cross on Good Friday, and when we was young I
+remember we all used to fast on that day.&nbsp; We ate no
+flesh&mdash;nothing with blood in it&mdash;it would be a sin to
+do that.&nbsp; If we took anything to stay our hunger it was
+nothing but dry bread, and our drink was water.&nbsp; We
+didn&rsquo;t <i>tuv</i> (smoke), and we didn&rsquo;t <i>tov</i>
+our <i>koker&ecirc;</i> (wash ourselves) on that day.&nbsp; I
+don&rsquo;t know whether there be such places as heaven and
+hell.&nbsp; I reckons we makes our own destiny.&nbsp; Heaven and
+hell&rsquo;s inside us; that&rsquo;s what I think.&rdquo;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>Lena, however, had her own ideas.&nbsp; &ldquo;This life is
+everything there is, I reckons, and when we&rsquo;re dead,
+that&rsquo;s the end of us.&nbsp; Life is sweet, mind you, and
+we&rsquo;s a right to be as happy as we can.&nbsp; Mother&rsquo;s
+getting old, you see, and has had her fling.&nbsp; I mean to have
+a good time.&nbsp; Why, last Sunday me and Poley was going off to
+get some nuts in the woods, but mother stopped us&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;It&rsquo;s <i>Beng</i>&rsquo;s work getting nuts on the
+dear Lord&rsquo;s day.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; says Yoben; &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve heard our old
+daddy say that the <i>Beng</i> likes nuts, and I&rsquo;d sartinly
+scorn to go getting them onlucky things on a Sunday; I <a
+name="page112"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+112</span>wouldn&rsquo;t like to put myself in the
+<i>Beng</i>&rsquo;s power, like poor Zuba Lovell.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;What about Zuba?&rdquo; asked my wife.</p>
+<p>Then Yoben told a weird tale.</p>
+<p style="text-align: center">
+<a href="images/p112b.jpg">
+<img alt=
+"A Maid of the Tents"
+title=
+"A Maid of the Tents"
+src="images/p112s.jpg" />
+</a></p>
+<blockquote><p>&ldquo;A handsome lass was Zuba, but bad luck
+dogged her like her own shadow.&nbsp; One night she came back to
+the camp, for she lived with her old people, and, throwing down a
+few coppers she had in her hand, she said&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;There, mother, what do you think of that for a
+hard day&rsquo;s work?&rsquo;&nbsp; She had done wery badly, you
+see.&nbsp; Luck never seemed to come her way at all.&nbsp; And
+after supper she wandered out a little way from the camp.&nbsp;
+The moon and stars was shining as she walked round and round an
+old tree, a blasted old stump, black as a gallows-post.&nbsp; As
+she kept on walking round it, she said aloud, &lsquo;This game
+won&rsquo;t do for me.&nbsp; It&rsquo;s money I want and money
+I&rsquo;ll have.&nbsp; I&rsquo;d sell my blood to the <i>Beng</i>
+to have plenty of money in my pocket always.&rsquo;&nbsp; The
+words was hardly out of her mouth when a black thing, like the
+shadow of the tree, rose up from the ground, and, lor, there was
+the wery <i>Beng</i> hisself, and after he&rsquo;d promised her
+what she had wished for, he wanished.&nbsp; And after that no
+more grumbling from Zuba; no more complaints about her bad
+luck.&nbsp; She always had plenty of money now, and she bought
+herself trinkets and fine clothes till everybody was &rsquo;mazed
+at her, and of course she had kept it to herself what took place
+that night by the <a name="page113"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+113</span>old tree.&nbsp; Days and weeks went by, till one night
+Zuba was missing from the camp.&nbsp; Her old folks sat up by the
+fire waiting for her, but no Zuba came.&nbsp; At last her daddy
+set out to look for her, and there by the foot of the tree lay
+Zuba&rsquo;s frock and shawl, and when he took &rsquo;em back to
+his wife&rsquo;s tent, the poor woman screamed and fainted right
+away, and old man Lovell walked up and down all night, saying,
+&lsquo;Oh, my Zuba, my blessed gal, we shall never see you no
+more,&rsquo; and they never did.&nbsp; The <i>Beng</i> had
+fetched her.&nbsp; That&rsquo;s the end of Zuba
+Lovell.&rdquo;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>While listening to these tales in the tent, the flight of the
+hours passed unobserved, till a distant clock boomed out the hour
+of ten.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;You&rsquo;ll <i>wel apopli</i> (come again), my
+dears?&rdquo; said Eliza, as we retired amid the smiles and bows
+of the Gypsy family.</p>
+<p>Next morning found us again in the camp.&nbsp; Already the
+Gypsies had breakfasted, and were making preparations for
+&ldquo;<i>tov</i>in-<i>divus</i>&rdquo; (washing-day).&nbsp; Sun
+and wind promised an ideal day for such a purpose.&nbsp; It was a
+thing to be noticed that the articles about to be dealt with lay
+in two heaps on the grass.</p>
+<p>Among the Gypsies there is a ceremonial rule which holds it to
+be <i>mokadi</i> (unclean) to wash together in the same vessel
+&ldquo;what you eat off with what you wear.&rdquo;&nbsp; This was
+the meaning of the separated articles, and then I observed two
+zinc vessels lying <a name="page114"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+114</span>ready on the ground.&nbsp; Said Old Eliza to Lena,
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll take this lot, and you take that
+lot.&rdquo;&nbsp; To begin with, they both cleansed their hands
+and arms in hot water, and as they did this I remarked how brown
+were Lena&rsquo;s arms, whereupon she replied with a
+laugh&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;<i>&Acirc;wa</i>, <i>raia</i> (Yes, sir), monkey soap
+won&rsquo;t fetch that off&rdquo;&mdash;a modern rendering, I
+take it, of Ferdousi&rsquo;s saying, &ldquo;No washing will turn
+a Gypsy white.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Now as our friends were about to become much occupied, we
+proposed to stroll round the camp and pay calls on the other
+Gypsies in the same field.&nbsp; &ldquo;Stop a bit,&rdquo; said
+Eliza, and, slipping into the tent, she came out with a black
+bottle.&nbsp; &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll take a drop of my elderberry
+wine and a bite o&rsquo; cake,&rdquo; pouring out the
+claret-coloured liquid into two glasses fished out from an inner
+recess.&nbsp; While enjoying this snack on the grass, I took out
+from a breast pocket a white unused handkerchief which I spread
+on my knee.&nbsp; Presently Old Eliza slyly took it by the corner
+and twitched it away, giving me in place thereof a neatly folded
+napkin brought from the tent, and I saw that I had broken a Gypsy
+custom in converting a handkerchief into a crumbcloth.&nbsp; Said
+the old mother, &ldquo;That <i>mol</i> (wine) is old, and should
+be <i>kushto</i> (good).&nbsp; It&rsquo;s some we buried in a
+place till we came round again.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>In another corner of the field were encamped Fennix Boswell
+and his stepson Shanny, and, going forward, we found the pair
+seated at their tent door <a name="page115"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 115</span>handling fishing-rods.&nbsp; On
+seeing us they rose and invited us into the tent, where we sat
+down.&nbsp; Shanny showed us some of his pencil drawings.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;I&rsquo;ve got one of a parrot somewhere; I must find
+it,&rdquo; said he.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;<i>&Acirc;wali</i>, <i>muk man dik o
+roker</i>in-<i>tshiriklo</i>&rdquo; (Yes, let me see the
+talking-bird), I replied, and in a minute or two he handed me a
+really clever sketch.</p>
+<p>These two Gypsies had just come down from Scotland, where they
+had been travelling during the summer months, and we got talking
+about Kirk Yetholm.&nbsp; The Blythes, related to old King
+Charley Faa, were acquaintances of theirs.&nbsp; It appears that
+one of the King&rsquo;s sons named Robert, a rollicking fellow,
+was fond, as Gypsies are, of practical jokes, and some of his
+escapades are still remembered in the Border Country.&nbsp; One
+of Fennix&rsquo;s tales about this fun-loving Faa may well find a
+place here.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>One spring morning Bobbie started off on a foray with some of
+his pals.&nbsp; The air was clear, and a soft wind was blowing
+over the Lammer-moors on whose slopes the lambs were
+gambolling.&nbsp; The Gypsies had walked a few miles, and the
+mountain air had sharpened the edge of their appetites.&nbsp;
+Looking round for a farmhouse or a cottage where they might ask
+for a kettle of boiling water to brew their tea in the
+can&mdash;such as few of the Faas would ever travel
+without&mdash;Bobbie was the first to espy some outbuildings, at
+the back of <a name="page116"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+116</span>which stood a shepherd&rsquo;s cottage, and, taking
+upon himself to be spokesman, he bravely started off for the
+cottage, the men resting meanwhile at the foot of the hill.&nbsp;
+As he approached the door, a fine savoury smell greeted Bobbie,
+making him feel ten times more hungry than before.&nbsp; He
+knocked gently at the door, which stood ajar, but no one came,
+and all was quiet within.&nbsp; He repeated his knock, and,
+taking a step forward, found the kitchen empty.&nbsp; Before the
+fire stood a tempting shepherds-pie of a most extraordinary size,
+and its appetizing steam quite overcame any scruples which
+otherwise might have lurked in the heart of Bobbie Faa.&nbsp; Not
+for one moment did he hesitate, but, nipping up the dish, he
+speedily ran down the hill with the pie under his arm.&nbsp; Not
+knowing how he had come by it, his mates could scarcely believe
+their eyes when he laid the pie on the grass, and they praised
+the gude-wife who had so kindly given them such a feast.&nbsp;
+When the dish was empty, he gave it to a pal, telling him to take
+it back to the gude woman and say how much they had enjoyed the
+pie.&nbsp; It happened to be a sheep-shearing day, and the
+shepherd&rsquo;s wife had gone to call her husband and his
+fellows to their dinner.&nbsp; She had just returned to the
+kitchen when the Gypsy lad arrived with the empty dish, and on
+handing it back to her with smiles and thanks, a torrent of abuse
+was poured forth on the poor boy&rsquo;s head, as the woman now
+grasped the situation and <a name="page117"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 117</span>became aware of the fate of her
+pie.&nbsp; Just then her husband and the other shearers appeared
+round the corner, and, hearing what had befallen their dinner,
+the infuriated men seized the lad and gave him a sound
+drubbing.</p>
+<h2><a name="page118"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+118</span>CHAPTER X<br />
+<span class="GutSmall">PETERBOROUGH FAIR</span></h2>
+<p><span class="smcap">The</span> twentieth century has witnessed
+a remarkable revival of certain old-time pleasures in the form of
+pageants and pastoral plays, folk-songs, and dances, but it
+should not be overlooked that in our midst still linger those
+popular revels, tattered survivals of medieval mirth, called
+pleasure-fairs, held periodically in most of our old country
+towns.&nbsp; It is true, these ancient fairs are not what they
+were, Father Time having laid his hand heavily upon them, with
+the result that not a few of their features which were reckoned
+among our childhood&rsquo;s joys have vanished.</p>
+<p style="text-align: center">
+<a href="images/p118b.jpg">
+<img alt=
+"On the Eve of the Fair.  Photo. Rev. H. H. Malleson"
+title=
+"On the Eve of the Fair.  Photo. Rev. H. H. Malleson"
+src="images/p118s.jpg" />
+</a></p>
+<p>Gone are the marionettes, the wax-works, the
+ghost-shows.&nbsp; Departed, too, are many of the mysterious
+little booths, behind whose canvas walls queer freaks and
+abnormalities were wont to hide.&nbsp; Perhaps, however, when the
+travelling cinema has outworn its vogue, the older
+&ldquo;mystery&rdquo; shows will reappear by the side of the
+Alpine slide, the scenic railway, and the joy wheel.</p>
+<p>Still renowned for their wondrous gaiety are a few of our
+larger fairs, whither huge crowds flock <a
+name="page119"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 119</span>by road and
+rail for a few hours of rollicking carnival.&nbsp; I have in mind
+such events as Barnet September Fair, Birmingham Onion Fair, the
+October merry-makings at Hull, Nottingham Goose Fair, and the
+like, but even these, owing to a variety of reasons, are now of
+shrunken dimensions.</p>
+<p>Fairs of whatever sort are generally occasions of friendly
+reunion, not only for show-people and <i>gawj&ecirc;</i>
+visitors, but also for Gypsies who love to forgather on the
+margins of the fair-ground, or upon an adjacent common, where
+they compare notes and discuss the happenings since their last
+meeting.</p>
+<p>Borne on the crisp October air, the chimes of Peterborough
+floated over the city roofs, reaching even to the fair-grounds,
+where I was one of the large holiday crowd which hustled and
+laughed and tossed confetti in mimic snow-showers.&nbsp; When in
+quest of Gypsies, the first half-hour you spend in wandering
+about a fair is a time of pleasurable excitement.&nbsp; Who can
+tell how many old friends you may meet, or what fresh dark faces
+you are about to encounter?</p>
+<p>As I was saying, the crowd was hilarious, and, having so far
+recognized no Romany countenance up and down the footways between
+the coco-nut shies and shooting-galleries, swing-boats and
+merry-go-rounds, it occurred to me that a little more
+breathing-space might be found upon the open pasture where horses
+were being bought and sold, and, pushing along <a
+name="page120"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 120</span>in that
+direction, I was brought to a standstill at the foot of the steps
+leading down from a gilded show-front.&nbsp; Walking with the
+airs of a fine lady, there came down those steps a young Gypsy
+attired in a yellow gown and tartan blouse, with a blazing red
+scarf thrown over her shoulders upon which her hair fell in black
+curls.&nbsp; It was this coloured vision as much as the block in
+the footway that held me up for the nonce.&nbsp; Another moment,
+and Lena Gray, Old Eliza&rsquo;s daughter, brushed against my
+shoulder, yet, as often happens in a crowd, she failed to see
+me.&nbsp; Therefore, into her ear I dropped a whispered Romany
+phrase at which she started, and, recognizing me,
+exclaimed&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;<i>Dawdi</i>, <i>raia</i>, this <i>is</i> a
+surprise!&rdquo;</p>
+<p>It was but a few steps to the sheltered spot in a field
+opposite the horse-fair where her brother Yoben sat fiddling by
+the side of the living-van.&nbsp; Even before we came up to him,
+something arrested my attention&mdash;the unusual shape of his
+violin, which, as Lena informed me, her brother had made out of a
+cigar-box picked up in a public-house.</p>
+<p>Our field corner had a most agreeable outlook.&nbsp; Beyond a
+stretch of greenest turf, dotted with caravans and bounded by the
+reddening autumn hedgerows, lay the pleasure-fair, a sunlit
+fantasia of colour, from which, like feathery plumes, ascended
+puffs of white steam topping numerous whirling roundabouts.&nbsp;
+Pleasant it was to sit out here in the calm weather chatting with
+the Grays, whom I had <a name="page121"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 121</span>so recently met on the Lincolnshire
+sea-border, and even while we conversed there passed by a little
+party of gaily-dressed Gypsies&mdash;two rather portly women of
+middle age and two slender girls.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Who are those people?&rdquo; I asked.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Some of the <i>gozver&ecirc;</i> (cunning)
+Lovells,&rdquo; replied Lena.&nbsp; Then I remembered that for
+some time past I had carried in my notebook several cuttings
+grown dingy with age, relating to traditional practices
+characteristic of this family.&nbsp; Two paragraphs will suffice
+as specimens.</p>
+<blockquote><p>&ldquo;A domestic servant told a remarkable story
+yesterday before a West London magistrate.&nbsp; She said that a
+gipsy called at the house and asked her to buy some laces.&nbsp;
+She refused, and prisoner then offered to tell her fortune for a
+shilling.&nbsp; Witness agreed, and the woman told her fortune,
+and she (witness) gave her two shillings, and asked her for the
+change.&nbsp; Prisoner said she would tell her young man&rsquo;s
+name by the planet.&nbsp; Witness had a half-sovereign and two
+half-crowns in her purse, and prisoner asked her to let her have
+the coins to cross the palm of her hand with.&nbsp; She handed
+her the coins, and the woman crossed her palm.&nbsp; She then
+asked her to fetch a glass of water, and, on her returning with
+it, told her to drink it.&nbsp; Afterwards she told her to pray,
+and then, apparently putting the 10s. and the two half-crowns in
+her pocket-handkerchief, placed the handkerchief in her bodice,
+<a name="page122"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 122</span>and told
+her not to take it out for twenty minutes.&nbsp; After that the
+woman left.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;The magistrate: &lsquo;Did you take the handkerchief
+out?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Well, I waited for twenty minutes or so, and
+then I took it out, and instead of the 10s. and the two
+half-crowns I found two pennies and a farthing.&rsquo;&nbsp;
+(Laughter.)&rdquo;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>Obviously, the above is a variant of the ancient Gypsy trick
+known as the <i>hokano bawro</i> (big swindle).&nbsp; Something
+equally Gypsy, as we shall see, clings to our second example.</p>
+<blockquote><p>&ldquo;The local police have had their attention
+engaged during the week in connection with an alleged
+extraordinary occurrence whereby a shopgirl became, under
+supposed hypnotic influence, the dupe of two gipsy women.&nbsp;
+From inquiry it appears that on Saturday afternoon two gipsy
+women, having the appearance of mother and daughter, entered a
+baby-linen shop, and seem to have exerted such a remarkable
+influence over the girl that she was induced to hand over to them
+articles of wear amounting in value to between &pound;8 and
+&pound;9.&nbsp; Before they left the shop she recovered her
+self-possession sufficiently to express doubt as to whether they
+would return with the goods or money, and her fears were allayed
+somewhat by receiving from her visitors in the shape of security
+a lady&rsquo;s beautiful gold ring and chain.&nbsp; Subsequently
+the young lady, suspecting the genuineness <a
+name="page123"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 123</span>of the
+pledges, took them to a jeweller, who declared the value of the
+ring and chain to be not more than a couple of shillings.&nbsp;
+The shopgirl is unable to account for her want of self-possession
+in the presence of the gipsies, and states that she felt she
+might have given them anything they asked for.&nbsp; There were a
+good many gipsies located in the district, but on a visit to the
+encampment in company with the police the girl did not recognize
+her two visitors.&nbsp; The remarkable occurrence has given rise
+to much comment in the locality.&rdquo;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>Here is something strangely akin to the Romany mesmerism to
+which allusion is made by &ldquo;The Scholar-Gipsy,&rdquo;
+whose</p>
+<blockquote><p>&ldquo;. . . mates had arts to rule as they
+desir&rsquo;d<br />
+The workings of men&rsquo;s brains;<br />
+And they can bind them to what thoughts they will.&rdquo;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>As is well known, Matthew Arnold&rsquo;s poem is based upon
+the following passage in Joseph Glanvill&rsquo;s <i>Vanity of
+Dogmatizing</i>:&mdash;</p>
+<blockquote><p>&ldquo;That one man should be able to bind the
+thoughts of another, and determine them to their particular
+objects, will be reckoned in the first rank of Impossibles; Yet
+by the power of advanc&rsquo;d Imagination it may very probably
+be effected; and story abounds with Instances.&nbsp; I&rsquo;le
+trouble the Reader but with one; and the hands from which I had
+it, make me secure of the truth on&rsquo;t.&nbsp; There <a
+name="page124"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 124</span>was very
+lately a lad in the University of Oxford, who, being of very
+pregnant and ready parts, and yet wanting the encouragement of
+preferment, was by his poverty forced to leave his studies there,
+and to cast himself upon the wide world for livelyhood.&nbsp;
+Now, his necessities growing daily on him, and wanting the help
+of friends to relieve him; he was at last forced to joyn himself
+to a company of Vagabond Gypsies, whom occasionally he met with,
+and to follow their trade for a maintenance.&nbsp; Among these
+extravagant people, by the insinuating subtility of his carriage,
+he quickly got so much of their love and esteem; that they
+discover&rsquo;d to him their Mystery; in the practice of which,
+by the pregnancy of his wit and partz he soon grew so good a
+proficient, as to out-do his Instructours.&nbsp; After he had
+been a pretty while well exercis&rsquo;d in the Trade; there
+chanc&rsquo;d to ride by a couple of Scholars who had formerly
+bin of his acquaintance.&nbsp; The Scholars had quickly spyed out
+their old friend, among the Gypsies; and their amazement to see
+him among such society, had well-nigh discover&rsquo;d him; but
+by a sign he prevented their owning him before that crew; and
+taking one of them aside privately, desir&rsquo;d him with his
+friend to go to an Inn, not far distant thence, promising there
+to come to them.&nbsp; They accordingly went thither, and he
+follows; after their first salutations, his friends enquire how
+he came to live so odd a life as that was, and to joyn himself
+with such a cheating beggerly company.&nbsp; The <a
+name="page125"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+125</span>Scholar-Gypsy having given them an account of the
+necessity, which drove him to that kind of life; told them, that
+the people he went with were not such Impostours as they were
+taken for, but that they had a traditional kind of learning among
+them, and could do wonders by the power of Imagination, and that
+himself had learned much of their Art, and improved it further
+than themselves could.&nbsp; And to evince the truth of what he
+told them, he said he&rsquo;d remove into another room, leaving
+them to discourse together; and upon his return tell them the sum
+of what they had talked of; which accordingly he perform&rsquo;d,
+giving them a full account of what had pass&rsquo;d between them
+in his absence.&nbsp; The Scholars being amaz&rsquo;d at so
+unexpected a discovery, earnestly desir&rsquo;d him to unriddle
+the mystery.&nbsp; In which he gave them satisfaction, by telling
+them, that what he did was by the power of Imagination, his
+Phancy binding theirs; and that himself had dictated to them the
+discourse they held together, while he was from them: That there
+were warrantable wayes of heightening the Imagination to that
+pitch, as to bind another&rsquo;s; and that when he had
+compass&rsquo;d the whole secret, some parts of which he said he
+was yet ignorant of, he intended to leave their company, and give
+the world an account of what he had learned.&rdquo;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>One sometimes wonders whether the world would have cared one
+jot about the revelations which the <a name="page126"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 126</span>Oxford Scholar here promises, for to
+the majority the &ldquo;Gypsies&rdquo; are almost tabu.</p>
+<p>In a letter which I received from that perfect Scholar-Gypsy
+and Gypsy-Scholar, the late Francis Hindes Groome, he tells how
+he once stumbled upon a typical critic.</p>
+<blockquote><p>&ldquo;Three or four years ago I gave a lecture on
+Gypsies at Greenock, and a well-dressed man came up after it.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;There were some things,&rsquo; he remarked,
+&lsquo;that I quite liked in your lecture, but on a good many
+points <i>you were absolutely wrong</i>.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Of course you&rsquo;ve studied the
+question?&rsquo; I asked him.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Yes,&rsquo; he replied.&nbsp; &lsquo;I looked up
+the article &ldquo;Gypsies&rdquo; in Dr. Brewer&rsquo;s
+<i>Dictionary of Fable</i> just before coming
+along.&rsquo;&rdquo;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>Talking of critics reminds me how I once received something of
+a shock to the nerves during the opening sentences of a lecture
+on &ldquo;Gypsy Customs.&rdquo;&nbsp; Not far from the platform
+where I stood, there sat a well-to-do horse-dealer who, having
+married a pure-bred Gypsy, was presumably in possession of
+&ldquo;inside information.&rdquo;&nbsp; The vision of his face,
+all alertness and curiosity, caused me a momentary
+disturbance.&nbsp; What would this critic make of my
+disclosures?&nbsp; How would he take my revelations?&nbsp;
+Warming to my subject, however, I was made happy <a
+name="page127"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 127</span>by my
+auditor interjecting such remarks as &ldquo;That&rsquo;s
+right.&rdquo;&nbsp; &ldquo;He&rsquo;s got it.&rdquo;&nbsp;
+&ldquo;Where does the man get it all from?&rdquo;&nbsp; Sometimes
+he would punctuate his exclamations by vigorously slapping his
+knee and laughing aloud.&nbsp; Certainly his ejaculations added a
+piquancy to my tales gathered from Gypsy tents.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>But to return to Peterborough Fair.</p>
+<p>About the middle of the afternoon, as I stood on a grassy
+mound overlooking the horses, I spied near a group of animals my
+old friend, Anselo Draper, flourishing a long-handled whip.&nbsp;
+This swart East Anglian roamer wore a dark brown coat of
+Newmarket cut, slouch hat of soft green felt, and crimson
+neckerchief neatly tied at the throat.&nbsp; Along an open space
+between the rows of horses sauntered his two pretty daughters,
+Jemima and Ph&oelig;be, bareheaded and bare-armed, their laughing
+voices ringing out merrily, while at their heels followed two
+little brothers cracking whips as became budding
+horse-dealers.</p>
+<p>Quite a head above the Gaskins and Brinkleys with whom she was
+talking loudly, stood Wythen, Anselo&rsquo;s wife, who, happening
+to look my way, smiled and came towards me, holding out the empty
+bowl of her pipe.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Got a bit of <i>tuvalo</i> (tobacco) about you,
+<i>rashai</i> (parson)?&nbsp; I&rsquo;m dying for a
+smoke.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;<i>So bok ke-divus</i>?&rdquo; (What luck to-day?) I
+inquired, handing over my pouch.</p>
+<p><a name="page128"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+128</span>&ldquo;<i>Bikin</i>&rsquo;d
+<i>tsh&icirc;tsh&icirc;</i>&rdquo; (Sold nothing), she replied,
+jerking her whip towards the ponies, &ldquo;but I&rsquo;ll
+<i>duker</i> (tell fortunes) a bit this evening,&rdquo; adjusting
+her black hat with its large ostrich feathers and gaudy orange
+bow set jauntily at the side.</p>
+<p style="text-align: center">
+<a href="images/p128ab.jpg">
+<img alt=
+"Midland Gypsies.  Photo. Fred Shaw"
+title=
+"Midland Gypsies.  Photo. Fred Shaw"
+src="images/p128as.jpg" />
+</a></p>
+<p>On my pretending to ridicule <i>duker</i>in, she
+said&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Look here, now, what&rsquo;s the difference between a
+Gypsy telling fortunes at a fair and a parson <i>roker</i>in
+(preaching) in church of a Sunday?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;If that&rsquo;s a riddle,&rdquo; said I,
+&ldquo;it&rsquo;s beyond me to answer it.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Well, when folks do bad things, you foretell a bad
+future for them, don&rsquo;t you?&nbsp; And when they do right,
+you promises &rsquo;em a good time?&nbsp; What&rsquo;s the
+difference then between you and me?&nbsp; I&rsquo;m a low-class
+fortune-teller and you&rsquo;s a high-class fortune-teller.&nbsp;
+You&rsquo;s had a deal of eddication.&nbsp; My only school has
+been the fairs, race-courses, and sich-like.&nbsp; But I bet I
+can tell a fortune as well as you any day.&nbsp; Let me tell
+yours.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>And she did.</p>
+<p style="text-align: center">
+<a href="images/p128bb.jpg">
+<img alt=
+"South-Country Gypsies.  Photo. Fred Shaw"
+title=
+"South-Country Gypsies.  Photo. Fred Shaw"
+src="images/p128bs.jpg" />
+</a></p>
+<p>As we stood there and talked, I noticed that the woman looked
+worried about something, and presently I heard her say to Anselo,
+&ldquo;I haven&rsquo;t found it yet.&rdquo;&nbsp; It was a brooch
+that she had lost.&nbsp; Then I told how once I lost and found a
+ring.&nbsp; One Sunday morning just before service, I stood on
+the gravel swinging my arms in physical exercises as a freshener
+before going to church, and suddenly I heard the tinkle of my
+ring on the yellow gravel.&nbsp; <a name="page129"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 129</span>As only a few minutes remained
+before church time, I thought of a child&rsquo;s method of
+finding a thing quickly, and, turning myself round three times, I
+tossed upon the ground a smooth black pebble, and, going,
+forward, lo, there was the ring close to the pebble.</p>
+<p>Eyeing me curiously, Wythen remarked&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Do you know what we says about people as does that sort
+of thing?&nbsp; Well, we reckons they has dealings with the
+<i>Beng</i> (Devil).</p>
+<p>&ldquo;When I was a little &rsquo;un, my old granny would do
+things like that, and she used to say that when you sees a star
+falling you must wish a wish, and if you do it afore the <i>stari
+pogers</i> (the star breaks) your wish will come true.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>It seems that among Gypsies &ldquo;wishing a wish&rdquo;
+sometimes means a curse.&nbsp; It was at Peterborough Fair in
+1872 that Groome saw a blind Gypsy child&mdash;made blind, he was
+told, through the father wishing a wish.&nbsp; Akin to this is
+the belief in the evil eye.&nbsp; A Battersea Gypsy mother would
+not let her baby be seen by its half-witted uncle, for fear his
+looking at it should turn its black hair red.</p>
+<p>After leaving Wythen, I sauntered along, making mental notes
+of Gypsies all around, among whom were local Brinkleys, the
+far-travelled Greens, some Loveridges, and other Midland
+Gypsies.&nbsp; I was about to move away towards the pleasure
+fair, when a dealer standing near some ponies caught my
+eye.&nbsp; I had never seen the man before, but as he looked a
+thorough Gypsy, I drew alongside and accosted <a
+name="page130"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 130</span>him in
+Romany.&nbsp; For a moment he stared at my clerical frock-coat
+and broad-brimmed hat, and then calmly remarked&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;I say, pal, you look born to them things you&rsquo;ve
+got on, you do really.&nbsp; You reckons to attend fairs at these
+here cathedral places, don&rsquo;t you?&nbsp; Didn&rsquo;t I once
+see you at Ely, or was it Chester?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>To this man I was nothing more than a Gypsy
+&ldquo;dragsman&rdquo; disguised in clerical garb.&nbsp;
+Accordingly, he lowered his voice as he said&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;See this here pony?&nbsp; Will you sell it for
+me?&nbsp; You&rsquo;ll do it easy enough with your
+experience.&nbsp; On my honour it ain&rsquo;t a <i>bongo yek</i>
+(wrong &rsquo;un), nor yet a <i>tshordo grai</i>&rdquo; (stolen
+horse).</p>
+<p>&ldquo;What about the price?&rdquo; I asked.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;If you get a tenner for it,&rdquo; he replied,
+&ldquo;there&rsquo;ll be a <i>b&acirc;</i> (sovereign) for
+yourself.&nbsp; What say?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;<i>Saw tatsho</i> (All right).&nbsp; <i>Jaw</i>
+&rsquo;<i>vr&icirc; konaw</i>&rdquo; (Go away now).&nbsp; And in
+less than ten minutes after taking my stand by the little animal,
+I had a bid from a young farmer of the small-holder type.&nbsp;
+His offer was accompanied by some adverse criticism.&nbsp; Who
+ever heard a man praise the horse he intended to buy?</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Examine the pony for yourself,&rdquo; said I.</p>
+<p>He looked at its teeth.&nbsp; He lifted its feet one by
+one.&nbsp; He pinched and punched it all over.&nbsp; The pony was
+next trotted to and fro, and so pleased was the farmer with the
+animal&rsquo;s behaviour that he promptly handed over ten pounds
+and led the pony <a name="page131"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+131</span>away.&nbsp; On seeing that I had completed the
+business, my Gypsy friend, who was just round the corner, came
+up, and on my giving up the money, he put one of the sovereigns
+into my hand.&nbsp; When I got away I had a good laugh to myself,
+and it took me some time to get my face straight.</p>
+<p>Walking back into the heart of the town, I saw a dusty,
+ill-clad party of Gypsies going slowly along with a light dray
+drawn by a young horse with flowing mane and long tail, and when
+they reached the corner where I was standing, I spoke to the
+woman who was at the horse&rsquo;s head.&nbsp; She said she was a
+Smith, and when I pointed to the name Hardy on the dray, she
+remarked, &ldquo;Oh, that&rsquo;s nobbut a travelling
+name.&rdquo;&nbsp; It may be noted that Gypsies are extremely
+careless about their names.</p>
+<p>At a later hour in a field behind the pleasure fair, I found
+the comfortable <i>v&acirc;do</i> of my friend, Anselo Draper,
+and tapped at the van door with the knob of my stick.&nbsp;
+Quickly the door opened, and thrusting out his dark, handsome
+head, Anselo shouted, &ldquo;<i>Av adr&ecirc;</i>,
+<i>baw</i>&rdquo; (Come in, friend).</p>
+<p>What a contrast!&nbsp; Outside: a very babel of blaring
+sounds, a dark sky reflecting the glow of a myriad naphtha
+flares.&nbsp; Within: cosiness and warmth, red curtains,
+glittering mirrors, polished brasses, and a good fire.&nbsp; Over
+the best teacups (taken tenderly from a corner cupboard) Anselo
+and his wife talked of their travels.&nbsp; They had been as far
+north as Glasgow that summer, and had sold a good
+<i>v&acirc;do</i> <a name="page132"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+132</span>(van) to one of the Boswells at Newcastle Fair.&nbsp;
+They had decided to winter at Southend-on-Sea.&nbsp; &ldquo;We
+shall make a tent, a big one, and very jolly it will be with a
+<i>yog</i> (fire) in the baulk.&nbsp; To be sure, there will be
+plenty of mumpers (low-class van-dwellers) around us, but we
+shall not be the only <i>tatshen&ecirc; Romanitshel</i>s (real
+Gypsies) stopping there.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Next, Anselo plunged into an account of a low dealer&rsquo;s
+trick at the horse fair.&nbsp; It seemed that this dealer had
+sold two horses to a farmer for forty pounds.&nbsp; A stranger
+coming up to the farmer offered to buy them at a higher price, so
+into a tavern they retired to talk things over.&nbsp; During
+drinks the stranger continually offered more money for the
+horses, and the farmer remained there a longer time than was good
+for him.&nbsp; At last when the man was hopelessly muddled the
+stranger disappeared.&nbsp; Nor had the horses so far been seen
+again.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;But there&rsquo;s not so much of that done as there
+was.&nbsp; My father knew a Gypsy who died up in Yorkshire, a
+desprit hand at <i>grai-tshor</i>in (horse-stealing), and to this
+day they say, &lsquo;If you shake a bridle over his grave,
+he&rsquo;ll jump up and steal a horse.&rsquo;&rdquo;&nbsp; Both
+Wythen and Anselo laughed merrily as I told a tale I once heard
+of a Gypsy who had been &ldquo;away&rdquo; for a space.&nbsp;
+Coming out of the prison gate, he was met by a fellow who asked
+him what he had been in there for.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;For finding a horse,&rdquo; was the reply.</p>
+<p><a name="page133"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+133</span>&ldquo;But surely they would never jug you for finding
+a horse?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Well, but you see I found this one before his owner had
+lost him.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Anselo admitted that this sort of thing was not at all
+uncommon in the old days, and two of his uncles had to take a
+trip across the water for similar practices.</p>
+<p>When I left my friends and hastened to catch my train, the
+pleasure fair was in full blast, noisy organs, cymbals and drums,
+shrieking whistles, and the dull muffled roar of innumerable
+human voices, sounds which long haunted my ears, and, looking
+back from the moving train, there still floated from the distance
+the din and rattle of the receding fair.</p>
+<h2><a name="page134"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+134</span>CHAPTER XI<br />
+<span class="GutSmall">A FORGOTTEN HIGHWAY&mdash;&ldquo;ON THE
+ROAD&rdquo; WITH JONATHAN&mdash;THE PATRIN&mdash;THE GHOST OF THE
+HAYSTACK</span></h2>
+<p>&ldquo;<span class="smcap">We</span> was all brought up on
+this Old Dyke.&nbsp; We&rsquo;s <i>hatsh</i>&rsquo;d (camped) on
+it in all weathers.&nbsp; I knows every yard of it.&nbsp; Ay, the
+fine <i>kanengr&ecirc;</i> (hares) we&rsquo;s taken from these
+here fields.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>The speaker was my old friend, Jonathan Boswell, who with his
+tilt-cart had overtaken me whilst strolling along the grass-grown
+Roman Ermine Street which traverses the broad Heath stretching
+southward of Lincoln.&nbsp; At the Gypsy&rsquo;s cheery
+invitation, I joined him on his seat under the overarching
+tilt.&nbsp; Behind us were the diminishing towers of the old
+city, and right on ahead the chariot-way of the Imperial legions
+ran, straight as an arrow along the Heath.&nbsp; Not a wild
+expanse, mind you, like your Yorkshire moorland with its wimpling
+burns and leagues of heather, though I daresay our Heath, now so
+admirably tilled, was savage enough in the days when &ldquo;the
+long, lone, level line of the well-kept warpath, marked at
+intervals with high stones or posts as a guiding-line in fog or
+snow, stretched through <a name="page135"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 135</span>a solitude but rarely broken, except
+by the footfall of the legionaries and the plaint of the golden
+plover sounding sweet from off the moorland.&rdquo;&nbsp;
+Turf-covered from hedge to hedge for many a mile, the High Dyke,
+as the old road is now called, may well be described as a
+forgotten highway.&nbsp; Indeed, I have tramped along it mile on
+mile without meeting a soul, unless mayhap it was a sun-tanned
+drover slouching at the heels of half a dozen bullocks, or a
+village lad asleep in a hedge-bottom, with a soft-eyed motherly
+cow or two grazing not far away.</p>
+<p>On this particular morning near the end of April, an unclouded
+sun lit up the verdant cornlands and larch spinneys.&nbsp; It
+shone upon the loins of the sturdy nag between the shafts.&nbsp;
+It touched into a brighter gold the gorse-bloom on the wayside
+bushes, and provoked the green-finches to fling their songs into
+the air from lichened palings and bramble sprays.&nbsp; Onward we
+journeyed, bumping and jolting over the uneven turfy road, and
+occasionally dodging the mounds of earth thrown up by the
+burrowing rabbits.&nbsp; What a picturesque figure my companion
+presented in his faded bottle-green coat adorned with large pearl
+buttons.&nbsp; His close-fitting dogskin cap imparted to his
+swarthy, sharply-cut features a not inappropriate poacher-like
+air, and I fancied the old man&rsquo;s wrinkles had deepened on
+his brow since our last meeting, just after his wife&rsquo;s
+death up in Yorkshire.</p>
+<p>Sitting back under the hood, Jonathan here burst out with a
+pretty little reminiscence.</p>
+<p><a name="page136"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+136</span>&ldquo;D&rsquo;ye know, my pal, what this here bit
+o&rsquo; the Old Dyke brings to my mind?&nbsp; Ay, deary me, it
+takes me back to times as&rsquo;ll never, never come no
+more&mdash;the days when I were a lad along with my people, and
+our delations a-<i>besh</i>in (resting) on this here wery grass
+we&rsquo;s passing over.&nbsp; See, there, under that warm bank
+topped with thick thorns: well, I&rsquo;s slept there times on
+end with my dear mammy and daddy in our tent, and my uncles and
+aunts would be <i>hatsh</i>in (camping) right along this
+sheltered bit.&nbsp; I can see it all while I&rsquo;s talking to
+you&mdash;the carts with their shafts propped up and the smook
+a-going up from the fires afore the tents, and the ponies and
+donkeys grazing under the trees yonder.&nbsp; Ay, my son, them
+were the times for the likes of us.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;There&rsquo;s one thing I minds&rdquo; (this with a
+merry twinkle in his eye).&nbsp; &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll tell you about
+it.&nbsp; It were a fine summer morning, somewheres about six
+o&rsquo;clock.&nbsp; My mammy and daddy was up making a fire to
+boil the kettle.&nbsp; I heard &rsquo;em bustling about, and I
+ought to ha&rsquo; been up to help, but I were lazy-like that
+morning.&nbsp; Then comes my daddy a-talking quick to hisself,
+and I know&rsquo;d summut were the matter.&nbsp; He lifts up the
+<i>tan-kopa</i> (tent-blanket) and hollers at me as I lay
+stretched out upo&rsquo; the straw&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;<i>Hatsh opr&ecirc;</i>, <i>tshavo</i>, <i>k&egrave;r
+sig</i>.&nbsp; <i>De graiaw</i> and <i>mailas saw
+praster</i>&rsquo;d <i>avr&icirc;</i>.&nbsp;
+<i>Jaw</i>&rsquo;<i>vr&icirc;</i> an&rsquo; <i>dik</i> for
+<i>len.</i>&rsquo;&nbsp; (Get up, boy, make haste.&nbsp; The
+horses and donkeys have all run away.&nbsp; Go forth and look for
+them.)</p>
+<p>&ldquo;I were out and off in a jiffey.&nbsp; I never stopped
+to <a name="page137"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 137</span>get
+dressed.&nbsp; What&rsquo;s more, me not thinking what I was
+a-doing, I throws away the only thing I had on my back&mdash;my
+shirt&mdash;just as you toss off your coat when you&rsquo;s in a
+hurry, and away I goes down the long road to find the
+animals.&nbsp; Whilst I were away, all the family, my big
+brothers and sisters, and them delations as I spoke of, had
+gathered round the fires for <i>sawla-hawben</i> (breakfast),
+an&rsquo; they hadn&rsquo;t finished when I got back with the
+hosses and donkeys.&nbsp; I&rsquo;d clean forgot how I were
+fixed, an&rsquo;, my gom, didn&rsquo;t they laff when they set
+eyes on me; an&rsquo; my blessed mammy, she shouts&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;<i>Kai s&icirc; t&icirc;ro gad</i>, <i>m&rsquo;o
+rinkeno tshavo</i>?&rsquo; (Where&rsquo;s your shirt, my pretty
+boy?)&nbsp; Into the tent I dived, an&rsquo; I weren&rsquo;t long
+dressing, for I wanted to be gitting my share o&rsquo; the
+<i>balovas</i> an&rsquo; <i>yora</i>s (ham and eggs).&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Occasionally the spinneys skirting the deserted road obscured
+the view of the far-off Wolds, but one could forgive these
+temporary interventions, for the sprays of larch and beech
+hanging out from the little woods were delicate in their new
+spring garb, and as the breezes caught them they rose and sank
+with a beautiful feathery droop.&nbsp; Now across the fields on
+our left hand there came into view a familiar landmark, Dunston
+Pillar, concerning which I once heard a story from the lips of
+Bishop Edward Trollope, a whilom neighbour of mine.</p>
+<p>At one time Lincoln Heath was a vast unenclosed rabbit warren
+dotted over with fir woods and quarries, and at times travellers
+lost their way upon it.&nbsp; So <a name="page138"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 138</span>Dunston Pillar was erected, and a
+lantern was placed on top to guide benighted wayfarers over the
+Heath.&nbsp; Doubtless the old lighthouse served its purpose
+well, yet it did not always enable people to reach their own
+homes in safety, for the locality was infested with robbers on
+the look out for travelling gentry.&nbsp; Not far from the Pillar
+stood an old coaching inn, the &ldquo;Green Man,&rdquo; and one
+night, after assisting their driver to his box, two gentlemen who
+had been carousing there thought it prudent to remind their man
+thus: &ldquo;John, be sure you keep the Pillar light upon your
+right, and then we shall reach Lincoln safely.&rdquo;&nbsp;
+However, when the two awoke at daybreak and found themselves
+still near the Pillar, one of them called out, &ldquo;Why, John,
+where are we?&rdquo;&nbsp; Upon which, John replied drowsily from
+the box, &ldquo;Oh, it&rsquo;s a&rsquo; roight, sir, the
+Pillar&rsquo;s on our roight.&rdquo;&nbsp; And so it was, for he
+had been driving round it all night.</p>
+<p>As we jogged along, Jonathan would occasionally jerk his whip
+towards a rich pasture, and with a sly wink would say,
+&ldquo;We&rsquo;s <i>puv</i>&rsquo;d <i>our graiaw</i> in that
+field more than once.&rdquo;&nbsp; Let me explain.&nbsp; In order
+to give their horses a good feed, the Gypsies when camping on the
+High Dyke would turn their animals overnight into a nice fat
+pasture, taking care, of course, to remove them early in the
+morning.</p>
+<p>At this point we drew rein, and took a meal under the lee of a
+plantation in whose boughs thrushes fluted and willow-wrens made
+fairy music.&nbsp; Not far away, couch-grass fires sent their
+smoke <a name="page139"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+139</span>across the level surface of a loamy field, making the
+air of the lane pungent with the scent of burning stalks.&nbsp;
+Seated there under the spreading trees, my Gypsy companion
+related a poaching incident with some gusto, for it is next to
+impossible to dispossess the Gypsy of the notion that the wild
+rabbits frisking about the moors and commons are as free to him
+as to the owner of the lands on which they happen to be
+playing.</p>
+<p style="text-align: center">
+<a href="images/p139ab.jpg">
+<img alt=
+"Netting Rabbits.  Photo. F. R. Hinkins"
+title=
+"Netting Rabbits.  Photo. F. R. Hinkins"
+src="images/p139as.jpg" />
+</a></p>
+<blockquote><p>&ldquo;One time when our folks was camping on the
+Dyke a keeper comes up to the fire.&nbsp; It was evening, and we
+was having some stew, and the keeper joined us.&nbsp; He were a
+pleasant, good-company fellow, wery different from keepers
+nowadays, and after the meal was over, my old mammy says to him,
+&lsquo;There&rsquo;s two things that&rsquo;s wery good&mdash;a
+drop of brandy to warm the cockles o&rsquo; your heart, and a bit
+o&rsquo; black &rsquo;bacca to warm your snitch-end.&rsquo;&nbsp;
+And the keeper agreed.&nbsp; Then my daddy brings out a black
+bottle and mixes him a drink in a teacup, and us boys come
+peeping into the tent to listen to the tales what daddy and the
+keeper got a-telling.&nbsp; I can see &rsquo;em all a-sitting
+there now, my old mam a-puffing her <i>sw&ecirc;gler</i> (pipe)
+and the keeper and daddy blowing a big cloud till you
+couldn&rsquo;t hardlins see across the tent for smook.&nbsp; But
+mam never gave us boys nothink from the bottle, and when the
+keeper began to get jolly, my dad tipped us a wink, and off goes
+three of us wi&rsquo; the dogs, and we had a good time in the big
+woods.&nbsp; Nobody came near us, and we didn&rsquo;t <a
+name="page140"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 140</span>carry the
+game home that night lest we might meet a <i>gawjo</i>.&nbsp; We
+know&rsquo;d a thing better than that.&nbsp; We hid the game in a
+leafy hollow, and sent some of the big gells in the morning with
+sacks, and they brought all home safe.&rdquo;</p>
+<p style="text-align: center">
+<a href="images/p139bb.jpg">
+<img alt=
+"&rsquo;Neath the Hedgerow.  Photo. Fred Shaw"
+title=
+"&rsquo;Neath the Hedgerow.  Photo. Fred Shaw"
+src="images/p139bs.jpg" />
+</a></p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>Two miles onward we stopped a few minutes at Byard&rsquo;s
+Leap to look at the large iron horseshoes embedded in the
+turf.&nbsp; It is these shoes that help to perpetuate the local
+legend which gives the hamlet its name.&nbsp; Here is the Gypsy
+version of the tradition.</p>
+<blockquote><p>&ldquo;Hundreds and hundreds of years ago, there
+was a wicked witch what lived in a stone-pit wi&rsquo; big dark
+trees hanging over it.&nbsp; This woman did a lot of mischief on
+the farms all round, witching the stock in the fields, and she
+cast sickness on people young and old.&nbsp; They say the witch
+was once a beautiful girl who sold her blood to the <i>Beng</i>
+(Devil), and that&rsquo;s how she got her powers.&nbsp; At last
+she grew wery ugly, and still went on working great harm.&nbsp;
+One day the folks of that neighbourhood met together and tossed
+up to see who was to kill the witch.&nbsp; It was a shepherd who
+had to do it, though it went against his mind, as he had often
+played with the witch when she was a beautiful girl.&nbsp;
+However, he promised to put an end to her, and set off to choose
+a horse to ride on.&nbsp; All the horses on the farm were driven
+down to a pond.&nbsp; One of them was a blind one, an old
+favourite of the farmer&rsquo;s, which he wouldn&rsquo;t allow to
+be killed.&nbsp; Now, while the horses were drinking, the
+shepherd <a name="page141"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+141</span>was to <i>wuser</i> a <i>b&acirc;</i> (throw a stone)
+over the horses&rsquo; backs into the water, and the one that
+looked up first was the one he was to ride.&nbsp; Well, if the
+poor old blind horse didn&rsquo;t lift up its head, so he saddled
+it and bridled it and rode off to the stone-pit.&nbsp; When he
+got there he shouted, &lsquo;Come out, my lass, I want to speak
+to you.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;I&rsquo;m suckling my cubs;&rsquo;&mdash;she had
+two bairns, and the shepherd was said to be their
+father&mdash;&lsquo;wait till I&rsquo;ve tied my shoe-strings,
+and then I&rsquo;ll come.&rsquo;&nbsp; Soon she came out, and,
+springing on to the horse&rsquo;s back behind the shepherd, she
+dug her claws into the animal&rsquo;s flesh, while the shepherd
+rode poor blind Bayard&mdash;that was the horse&rsquo;s
+name&mdash;towards the cross-roads, and on the way there the
+<i>grai</i> (horse) gave a tremendous jump&mdash;sixty
+feet&mdash;and both the riders were thrown off; the witch was
+killed on the spot, the shepherd was lamed for life, and the
+blind horse fell down dead.&rdquo;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>Starting from the first set of four horseshoes in the turf, I
+measured the distance in strides to the next set of four, and,
+roughly speaking, found it to be sixty feet.</p>
+<p>Here our roads diverged, Jonathan going westward towards the
+&ldquo;Cliff,&rdquo; while I took the turn for Sleaford.</p>
+<p>Within three weeks from this meeting with Jonathan on the High
+Dyke, I had business calling me to the town of Newark-on-Trent,
+where, as luck had it, the May horse-fair was in full swing, and
+under <a name="page142"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+142</span>the shadow of the Castle by the waterside I met my
+Gypsy friend once more.&nbsp; In a corner of the fairground,
+which was crowded with horses, I found Jonathan in company with
+one of the Smiths, and the two men were drinking ale out of big
+horn tumblers rimmed with silver.&nbsp; Petulengro had a nice
+<i>v&acirc;do</i>, and, going up to it, I read the name
+&ldquo;Bailey, Warrington.&rdquo;&nbsp; He explained that he was
+breaking new ground, and therefore had taken a change of
+name.&nbsp; Like most Gypsies, he had some pets&mdash;two dogs, a
+bantam cock and hen, a jackdaw, and a canary.&nbsp; As Jonathan
+had absorbing business on hand, I did not see him again until
+evening, when I joined him in his tilt-cart, and we set off
+towards Ollerton.&nbsp; Underneath the vehicle were slung several
+tent rods, notched, or numbered, in order to facilitate the
+erection of the tent.&nbsp; Said he, &ldquo;I&rsquo;m expecting
+my nephew to join us to-morrow&mdash;that&rsquo;s
+Charley&mdash;he&rsquo;s promised to come after us, so I must lay
+the <i>patrin</i>s (signs) for him.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Let us see how this is done.</p>
+<p>At a crossing of two highways, a few miles out of the town,
+Jonathan went to the hedge-bottom and plucked a bunch of long
+grass, then upon a clearing among the tussocks on the wayside he
+divided the bunch into three portions, carefully placing these
+with their tips pointing in the direction which we were about to
+take.</p>
+<p style="text-align: center">
+<a href="images/p142b.jpg">
+<img alt=
+"The Gypsy&rsquo;s Parson on the Road.  Photo. Fred Shaw"
+title=
+"The Gypsy&rsquo;s Parson on the Road.  Photo. Fred Shaw"
+src="images/p142s.jpg" />
+</a></p>
+<p>&ldquo;There now,&rdquo; said the old man, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve
+got to do this at every cross-road, for there&rsquo;s no telling
+exactly <a name="page143"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+143</span>where we shall stop to-night.&nbsp; But Charley is
+bound to find us, for he&rsquo;ll <i>dik avr&icirc;</i> for
+<i>mandi</i>&rsquo;s <i>patrin</i>&rdquo; (look out for my
+sign).</p>
+<p>There are many varieties in the form of the <i>patrin</i>, for
+no two families use exactly the same sign.&nbsp; I have heard
+Gypsies who were about to separate into parties, discussing the
+particular form of <i>patrin</i> to be used by the advance guard,
+so that those who were following would know exactly what to look
+for, and whereabouts on the roadside they might expect to find
+it.</p>
+<p>A Suffolk friend, whilst sitting unobserved on a fence in the
+twilight, watched some Gypsies laying a <i>patrin</i> formed of
+small elm twigs, their tips indicating the direction taken.&nbsp;
+A peculiar form of <i>patrin</i> I once saw was a wisp of grass
+tied round a sapling in the hedgerow.</p>
+<p>For myself, I never see a <i>patrin</i> on the roadside
+without recalling Ursula&rsquo;s pathetic story in <i>The Romany
+Rye</i>.&nbsp; Readers who know their Borrow will remember how
+the woman followed her husband for a great many miles by means of
+his signs left on the wayside.</p>
+<p>Between Kneesall and Wellow a halt was made, and, having lit a
+fire of sticks under the shadow of a wood, we warmed some stew in
+a black pot.&nbsp; As we sprawled on the grass, a fox dashed
+across the road with a rabbit dangling from its jaws, and
+Jonathan shouted in the hope of making Reynard drop the bunny,
+but in vain.&nbsp; Then I told him how once I <a
+name="page144"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 144</span>saw a fox
+capture and kill a rabbit on the slope of a warren.&nbsp; He was
+about to trot off with his prey when I gave a lusty shout which
+made him halt and look round at me for a moment.&nbsp; Seeing
+that I was quite a hundred yards away, Reynard dropped the
+rabbit, scratched a hole, and buried his capture, carefully
+spreading the loose earth and stones over the place with his
+sharp nose.&nbsp; Then he made for the woods.&nbsp; Now, though I
+searched diligently for that buried rabbit, I could not for the
+life of me discover it, the entire surface of the warren-slope
+being so dotted over with recent rabbit-scratchings strewn with
+small stones.</p>
+<p>While Jonathan was making some small repair of the harness, I
+drew from my pocket a few newspaper cuttings and letters, in one
+of which was a dialogue between two Gypsies, a tiny boy and an
+aged man, who had met upon the road&mdash;</p>
+<blockquote><p>&ldquo;<span class="smcap">Boy</span>.&nbsp;
+<i>S&acirc; shan</i>, <i>baw</i>, has <i>tuti dik</i>&rsquo;d
+<i>mi dadus ke-divus</i>?</p>
+<p><span class="smcap">Man</span>.&nbsp; <i>Keka</i>, <i>mi
+tshavo</i>, <i>mandi keka jin</i>s <i>tuti</i>&rsquo;s
+<i>dadus</i>.&nbsp; <i>S&icirc; yov</i> a <i>bawro mush</i> wiv
+<i>kawlo bal</i>?</p>
+<p><span class="smcap">Boy</span>.&nbsp; <i>&Acirc;wali</i>,
+<i>dova s&icirc; mi dadus</i>, <i>tatsho</i>.</p>
+<p><span class="smcap">Man</span>.&nbsp; Has <i>yov</i> a pair
+o&rsquo; check <i>rokamiaw</i>?</p>
+<p><span class="smcap">Boy</span>.&nbsp; <i>&Acirc;wa</i>,
+<i>dova</i>&rsquo;s <i>mi dadus</i>.</p>
+<p><span class="smcap">Man</span>.&nbsp; Has <i>yov</i> a <i>loli
+baiengri</i> wiv <i>bawr&ecirc; krafn&ecirc;</i>?</p>
+<p><span class="smcap">Boy</span>.&nbsp; <i>&Acirc;wa</i>,
+dat&rsquo;s <i>mi dadus</i>, feth.</p>
+<p><a name="page145"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 145</span><span
+class="smcap">Man</span>.&nbsp; <i>Dawdi</i>, <i>mandi
+dik</i>&rsquo;d <i>lesti t&#259;l&ecirc; o drom odoi</i>
+a-<i>mong</i>in a <i>puri</i> pair o&rsquo; <i>tshokaw</i> to
+<i>tshiv opr&ecirc; lesti</i>&rsquo;s <i>nong&ecirc;
+p&icirc;r&ecirc;</i>.</p>
+<p><span class="smcap">Boy</span>.&nbsp; <i>Dova s&icirc; keka mi
+dadus</i>, at all.&rdquo;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p><i>Translation</i>.</p>
+<blockquote><p>&ldquo;<span class="smcap">Boy</span>.&nbsp; How
+do, mate.&nbsp; Have you seen my father to-day?</p>
+<p><span class="smcap">Man</span>.&nbsp; No, my boy, I
+don&rsquo;t know your father.&nbsp; Is he a big man with black
+hair?</p>
+<p><span class="smcap">Boy</span>.&nbsp; Yes, that&rsquo;s my
+father, sure.</p>
+<p><span class="smcap">Man</span>.&nbsp; Has he a pair of check
+trousers?</p>
+<p><span class="smcap">Boy</span>.&nbsp; Yes, that&rsquo;s my
+father.</p>
+<p><span class="smcap">Man</span>.&nbsp; Has he a red waistcoat
+with big buttons?</p>
+<p><span class="smcap">Boy</span>.&nbsp; Yes, that&rsquo;s my
+father, faith.</p>
+<p><span class="smcap">Man</span>.&nbsp; Lor, I saw him down the
+road there a-begging an old pair of boots to put on his bare
+feet.</p>
+<p><span class="smcap">Boy</span>.&nbsp; That&rsquo;s not my
+father at all.&rdquo;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>&ldquo;A bit o&rsquo; the old style, I call that,&rdquo; was
+my companion&rsquo;s comment.</p>
+<p>After we had yoked in and were about to start off, my old
+Gypsy pulled out his handkerchief to catch a sneeze on the
+wing.&nbsp; He was successful, and, unnoticed by him, a little
+wooden animal fell to the grass.&nbsp; On picking it up, I handed
+back to him a dog with a tail broken off and one foot missing,
+and he grabbed at it excitedly, saying&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;I wouldn&rsquo;t <i>nasher</i> (lose) that for a
+deal.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>This little fetish I remembered to have seen on a <a
+name="page146"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 146</span>former
+occasion.&nbsp; Jonathan had put it on the top of a gatepost and
+was talking to it, as he puffed a cloud of tobacco smoke.&nbsp;
+For some reason, he was never willing to discuss the subject.</p>
+<p style="text-align: center">
+<a href="images/p146ab.jpg">
+<img alt=
+"Comrades"
+title=
+"Comrades"
+src="images/p146as.jpg" />
+</a></p>
+<p>Pursuing our journey, we came to the little town of Ollerton,
+and after a halt at one of the inns we travelled onward through
+Edwinstowe until we reached a tract of ferny, heathery country,
+where we drew up, unyoked and unharnessed the horse, and in
+wonderfully quick time had our little tent erected.&nbsp; You
+have sometimes heard people say, &ldquo;Poor Gypsies,&rdquo; yet
+if you had travelled with them, as I have, you would hear it
+said, &ldquo;Poor <i>gawj&ecirc;</i> (gentiles), we feels sorry
+for &rsquo;em, cooped up in their stuffy houses.&rdquo;</p>
+<p style="text-align: center">
+<a href="images/p146bb.jpg">
+<img alt=
+"Gypsies at Home.  Photo. Fred Shaw"
+title=
+"Gypsies at Home.  Photo. Fred Shaw"
+src="images/p146bs.jpg" />
+</a></p>
+<p>There is nothing so healthy as a tent under the open sky, with
+the wind blowing freely around you and the birds singing their
+canticles in the woods hard by.&nbsp; I speak from experience in
+regard to tent life, for under Jonathan&rsquo;s tuition I learned
+long ago how to construct a Gypsy&rsquo;s tent of ash or hazel
+rods thrust into the ground and their tapering ends bent and
+fixed into a ridge-pole, the whole being covered with coarse
+brown blankets pinned on with stout 3-inch pins.&nbsp; (The
+Gypsies use the long thorns of the wild sloe, or thin elder
+skewers.)&nbsp; In such a tent I have slept nightly for many
+months in succession.&nbsp; It is grand to sit at your tent door,
+building castles in the air, which at any rate cost very little
+in upkeep.</p>
+<p>Bosky Sherwood with its oaks and birches and uncurling bracken
+stretched away towards the west, <a name="page147"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 147</span>and, strolling along the unfenced
+road, lo, an old woman with her apron full of sticks was seen
+coming down a glade.&nbsp; She turned out to be Rachel Shaw, whom
+we accompanied to where, round a corner, the camp of the Gypsy
+Shaws lay within a secluded alcove.&nbsp; This was a pleasant
+surprise.&nbsp; Here, by the fire, sat Tiger Shaw and his three
+grown-up daughters, fine strapping girls.&nbsp; I had often heard
+of &ldquo;Fiddling&rdquo; Tiger, whose children were said to be
+excellent dancers.&nbsp; It was said of their father that he
+could play tunes by thumping with his fists upon his bare
+chest.&nbsp; We sat chatting with them till the moon rose, a full
+golden disk, over the woods.&nbsp; The night air was sweet with
+forest smells exhaling from bursting oak-buds and sheets of wood
+hyacinths.&nbsp; A rare place for owls is Sherwood, and more than
+once as we sat there, a broad-winged bird came out of the black
+shadows and flew away hooting down the road.</p>
+<p>Old Tiger, who hails from the Low Country between Lynn and St.
+Ives, remembers when the &ldquo;Jack o&rsquo; Lantern&rdquo; used
+to flicker by night in those parts in the days of his childhood,
+and of ghost tales he has a rich store.&nbsp; One of his best
+tales is the ghost of the haystack, which I give in my own
+words.</p>
+<blockquote><p>&ldquo;One night a Gypsy and his wife went to take
+some hay from a stack at the back of a mansion.&nbsp; As they
+were getting it, they looked up and saw on the top of the stack a
+wizened old man wearing a three-cornered hat, a cut-away coat
+with silver buttons, <a name="page148"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 148</span>knee-breeches, silk stockings,
+buckled shoes, and by his side hung a curious sword.&nbsp; At
+this sight they stood amazed, then, gathering courage, the Gypsy
+woman looked up and said&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;If this is your hay, sir, may we take a handful
+for our pony?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;The figure on the stack never spoke, but nodded his
+head, so they took a lot, and, departing, left a trail of hay
+reaching from the stack to the camp.&nbsp; Next morning the
+squire of the mansion came along.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;You rascally vagabonds, you thieving rogues, how
+dare you steal my hay?&nbsp; If you had asked me, I&rsquo;d have
+given you some.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;But we <i>did</i> get leave.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;How so?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Then they described the gentleman on the stack, giving
+the details as already told.&nbsp; At this the squire turned
+deathly pale, and laid hold of a fence to steady himself.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Why, you&rsquo;ve seen my old grandfather who
+has been dead years and years, and if he gave you leave, you can
+get as much of that hay as you please.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;And you may be sure they did.&rdquo;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>The first grey light of dawn was creeping down the road and
+waking the life of the woods, when we were called from our
+slumbers by a cheery &ldquo;Hello,&rdquo; and Jonathan sprang up
+to receive his nephew, who had already drawn his
+<i>v&acirc;do</i> upon the grass; indeed, before we had dressed,
+Charley had gathered sticks <a name="page149"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 149</span>for the breakfast fire, and by the
+time that our meal was finished, the sun was gilding the
+tree-tops.&nbsp; Now we were ready for the departure, and, moving
+along the road, we found the Shaws also taking the <i>drom</i>
+(road).&nbsp; By the side of the <i>v&acirc;do</i> walked
+Tiger&rsquo;s girls, their loosened hair blowing in the wind, and
+going along they gathered the yellow cowslips.</p>
+<p>Onward through the gorsy lanes we travelled together as far as
+Mansfield, where our merry party became divided, the Boswells
+taking the highway leading through North Derbyshire to Sheffield,
+the Shaws going westward towards Matlock, and myself setting off
+in a southerly direction.</p>
+<p>Just where Robin Hood&rsquo;s Hills begin to rise beyond the
+red-stemmed pines of the Thieves&rsquo; Wood, I came upon a
+resplendent caravan of the Pulman type drawn up on the wayside
+turf a long way from any village.&nbsp; Near by sat two persons,
+a man past middle age, wearing a kilt and tam-o&rsquo;-shanter,
+who had for companion a pretty lass in her teens, with long brown
+hair.&nbsp; On the ground between them stood a big crystal jar,
+and with long forks the two were spearing cubes of preserved
+ginger.&nbsp; Their backs being turned towards me, they gave a
+little start of surprise as I went up, and, raising my hat,
+inquired, &ldquo;Dr. Gordon Stables?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;That&rsquo;s my name,&rdquo; said he, and, inviting me
+to join them on the grass, he dispatched the girl for another
+fork, with which very soon I, too, was spearing for ginger.</p>
+<p><a name="page150"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 150</span>Here
+before me was the &ldquo;Gentleman Gypsy,&rdquo; whose writings
+had been familiar to me since boyhood.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;You&rsquo;ll think it strange,&rdquo; said he,
+&ldquo;when I tell you that I have no memory for faces, but I
+rarely fail to remember the look of any tree I have once seen by
+the roadside.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>When Gypsies were mentioned, the good doctor had grateful
+reminiscences of them.&nbsp; During many years of road-travel he
+had often come upon the wandering folk, and he liked them.&nbsp;
+They were cheerful people who never forgot a kindness.&nbsp; They
+were most obliging withal, and readily lent their horses to pull
+his somewhat heavy &ldquo;house on wheels&rdquo; up the stiff
+inclines.&nbsp; Altogether, he had a very good word for the
+Gypsies.</p>
+<p>By mid-afternoon I was standing in the churchyard at Selston,
+where lay the fragments of the headstone of a Romany chief, Dan
+Boswell.&nbsp; An irreverent bull was declared to have been
+responsible for the shattered condition of the stone upon which a
+quaint epitaph was now faintly visible.&nbsp; It ran as
+follows:&mdash;</p>
+<blockquote><p>&ldquo;I&rsquo;ve lodged in many a town,<br />
+&nbsp;&nbsp; I&rsquo;ve travelled many a year,<br />
+But death at length hath brought me down<br />
+&nbsp;&nbsp; To my last lodging here.&rdquo;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>My late father-in-law, formerly a curate of Selston,
+remembered how Gypsies paid visits to this grave and <a
+name="page151"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 151</span>poured
+libations of ale upon it.&nbsp; The adjacent common, long since
+enclosed, was once much frequented by the nomad tribes.</p>
+<p>My resting-place that evening was the pleasant Midland town of
+Nottingham, and right soundly I slept after my long day on the
+road.</p>
+<h2><a name="page152"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+152</span>CHAPTER XII<br />
+<span class="GutSmall">THE GYPSY OF THE TOWN</span></h2>
+<p><span class="smcap">In</span> the sunny forenoon I was walking
+in one of the airy suburbs of Nottingham, and, passing by the
+entrance to some livery stables, I noticed on a sign-board in
+prominent yellow letters on a black ground the surname of
+Boss.&nbsp; This it was that brought me to a standstill in front
+of the large doors in a high wall.&nbsp; &ldquo;A Romany
+name,&rdquo; I said to myself.&nbsp; &ldquo;I ought to find a
+Gypsy here;&rdquo; and, pushing open one of the doors, I saw
+before me an office with masses of brown wallflower abloom
+beneath a wide-open window.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Come in,&rdquo; said a mellow voice, in response to my
+knock at the little door in the porch, and, entering, I was
+confronted by a handsome man of fifty, evidently the master of
+the establishment, neatly dressed, well groomed, and unmistakably
+Romany.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Mr. Boss?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;That&rsquo;s so.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;<i>Romanitshel tu shan</i>?&rdquo; (You are a
+Gypsy?)</p>
+<p>&ldquo;<i>&Acirc;vali</i>, <i>baw</i>.&nbsp; <i>Av ta besh
+t&#259;l&ecirc;</i>&rdquo; (Yes, mate.&nbsp; Come and sit
+down.)&nbsp; The words were accompanied <a
+name="page153"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 153</span>by a low,
+musical laugh that was pleasant to hear.&nbsp; He then conducted
+me to a garden seat where we sat and talked in the May
+sunshine.&nbsp; Generally my companion would use the inflected
+dialect of the old-time Gypsies, but at intervals he dropped into
+the <i>pogado tshib</i>, the &ldquo;broken language,&rdquo; as
+spoken by the average English Gypsy of to-day.&nbsp; For which
+lapses he apologized: &ldquo;I wonder what my old dad would say
+to hear me <i>roker</i>in like a <i>posh-rat</i>?&rdquo; (talking
+like a half-breed).&nbsp; &ldquo;One of the old roots was my
+daddy, who could talk for hours in nothing but
+&lsquo;double-words&rsquo;&rdquo; (<i>i.e.</i> inflected
+Romany).&nbsp; &ldquo;There were the &lsquo;double-words&rsquo;
+and the other way&mdash;the broken language.&nbsp; Some of us
+young upstarts never picked up all the &lsquo;double-words&rsquo;
+our parents used, and now the poor old language is fast going to
+pieces.&nbsp; What with these Gypsy novels and their bits of
+Romany talk&mdash;my girl reads them to me&mdash;why, everybody
+is getting to know it.&nbsp; I once heard a gentleman say that
+our language was a made-up gibberish.&nbsp; But he was
+wrong.&nbsp; It&rsquo;s a real language, and an old one at
+that.&nbsp; But, as I was saying, it&rsquo;s getting blown very
+much nowadays.&nbsp; Why, down in Kent, Surrey, and Sussex there
+are whole villages where you can hear Romany talked on all sides
+of you.&nbsp; The little shopkeepers know it.&nbsp; The publicans
+can <i>roker</i> (talk Gypsy) a bit.&nbsp; The stable-boys throw
+it at one another.&nbsp; And you can&rsquo;t stir in the lanes
+without meeting a kiddie <a name="page154"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 154</span>with the eyes and hair of a
+Gypsy&mdash;blest if you can.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Noticing my flow of the <i>kawlo tshib</i> (black language,
+<i>i.e.</i> Romany), Boss tapped me familiarly on the knee:
+&ldquo;I can&rsquo;t reckon you up at all, <i>rashai</i>
+(parson).&nbsp; How have you picked it all up?&nbsp; Have you
+been sweet on a Gypsy girl, or have you <i>romer</i>&rsquo;d
+<i>yek</i>?&rdquo; (married one).</p>
+<p>Then with all a Gypsy&rsquo;s restlessness, he sprang up and
+led me to his villa residence over the way, where, apologizing
+for the absence of his wife, he introduced me to his daughter, a
+tall girl of twenty or more, gentle, refined-looking, with
+fathomless Gypsy eyes and an olive tint in her cheeks.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;I&rsquo;m going to take the <i>rashai</i> for a
+drive,&rdquo; said he.&nbsp; &ldquo;We&rsquo;ll be back for
+tea.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>In the tastefully ordered drawing-room I chatted with Miss
+Boss, whose Romany rippled melodiously.&nbsp; A piece of
+classical music stood open on the piano, and several recent
+novels lay scattered about.&nbsp; On her father&rsquo;s return
+within a few moments, I caught the sound of a horse pawing
+impatiently outside, and presently I was seated with Jack Boss in
+a smart yellow gig behind a slim &ldquo;blood&rdquo;
+animal.&nbsp; As we drove through the town my companion pointed
+to a carriage-horse in passing: &ldquo;<i>Wafodu grai s&icirc;
+dova</i>&rdquo; (a trashy horse is that), and when I translated
+his words he chuckled merrily.&nbsp; &ldquo;To think that you
+know <i>that</i>, and you don&rsquo;t look a bit like a
+Gypsy.&nbsp; Not a drop of the blood in you, <a
+name="page155"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 155</span>I should
+think.&nbsp; You puzzle me, you really do.&nbsp; Perhaps
+you&rsquo;ve got it from books.&nbsp; I&rsquo;ve heard of such
+works, but have never seen them.&nbsp; I suppose you priests can
+find it all in Latin somewhere?&nbsp; Now, to look at me
+you&rsquo;d never think&mdash;would you?&mdash;that I&rsquo;d
+been born in a little tent&rdquo; (he bent his fingers in
+semblance of curved rods) &ldquo;and had travelled on the
+roads.&nbsp; But that&rsquo;s years ago, yet I like to think of
+those days.&nbsp; If they were rough times, we had plenty of
+fun.&nbsp; Don&rsquo;t I remember going with my old dad to visit
+the Grays and Herons, Lovells and Stanleys, in their
+tents&mdash;real Gypsies if you like.&nbsp; You don&rsquo;t often
+<i>dik</i> a <i>tatsheno Romanitshel konaw</i>&rdquo; (see a true
+Gypsy nowadays).&nbsp; &ldquo;It gave me a deal of pleasure the
+other day to meet Ike Heron in his low-crowned topper and
+Newmarket coat.&nbsp; One of the old standards is Ike.&nbsp;
+Perhaps you know him?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>By this time we were speeding between green hedgerows in the
+open country, and when at last we pulled up at a wayside
+hostelry, nothing would do but I must drink my Gypsy&rsquo;s
+health.&nbsp; Then the horse&rsquo;s head was turned for
+home.&nbsp; Romany topics being still to the fore, and having
+recently heard of the passing of George Smith of Coalville, I
+asked my companion if he had ever met the parent of the first
+&ldquo;Moveable Dwellings&rsquo; Bill.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;I can&rsquo;t say that I ever crossed his path, and I
+don&rsquo;t know that I particularly wanted to.&nbsp; His <a
+name="page156"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 156</span>letters in
+the papers used to <i>rile my people terribly</i>.&nbsp; We
+weren&rsquo;t quite so bad as he painted us.&nbsp; It was plain
+enough that he knew nothing of the real Romanies, nothing
+whatever.&nbsp; Why, his &ldquo;gipsies&rdquo; were nothing but
+the very poorest hedge-crawlers, with never a drop of our blood
+in their bodies.&nbsp; The man meant all right, very likely, but
+as for his methods&mdash;well, the less said about them the
+better.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>As we parted after tea at his garden gate, I wished my Gypsy
+<i>kushto bok</i> (good luck).</p>
+<p>&ldquo;A good thing <i>that</i>, Mr. Hall, and may we both
+have more of it.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>I retain very pleasant memories of that afternoon spent in the
+genial company of Mr. Jack Boss, whom I have since met several
+times at horse-fairs in different parts of the country.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>It has fallen to my lot to know a number of Gypsies who have
+made their homes in our cities, and who, though moving in
+respectable circles, still retain the old secret tongue of the
+roads, as well as a marked spirit of detachment from most of the
+ideas of the people among whom they live.&nbsp; Pride of race
+remains.&nbsp; No matter how high he may climb, the pure Gypsy is
+proud of his birth and secretly despises all who are not of his
+blood.&nbsp; When talking of breezy commons, green woodsides,
+rabbits, pheasants, and the like, I have seen the eyes of a
+house-dwelling Gypsy grow wistful as he sighed at the visions and
+memories arising within him.</p>
+<p><a name="page157"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 157</span>The
+sedentary Gypsies are now largely in the preponderance.&nbsp; Not
+that the tendency to settle is entirely a thing of our
+times.&nbsp; Fifty years ago, the Gypsy colony hard by my
+childhood&rsquo;s home told of a movement not then by any means
+new.&nbsp; Twenty years earlier, did not Ambrose (Jasper) Smith
+say to Lavengro?&mdash;&ldquo;There is no living for the poor
+people, the <i>chokengris</i> (police) pursue us from place to
+place, and the gorgios are becoming either so poor or miserly
+that they grudge our cattle a bite of grass by the wayside, and
+ourselves a yard of ground to light a fire upon.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Many years prior to this complaint, the wholesale enclosing of
+the commons, the harassing attentions of the press-gang, the
+flooding of our roads by Irish vagrants, the barbaric
+administration of &ldquo;justice,&rdquo; and the pressure of the
+times generally, had caused many a Gypsy to adopt a sedentary
+life.&nbsp; Numbers of old-fashioned Romany families, finding
+life no longer tolerable in England, were allured to the colonies
+by glowing accounts received from migrated friends of the freedom
+and manifold opportunities for making a living across the
+sea.&nbsp; All along since those times it may be said that no
+year has passed without witnessing the settlement of many
+Gypsies.</p>
+<p>Some of my happiest &ldquo;finds&rdquo; in the way of
+house-dwelling Gypsies were several aged members of the great
+Boswell clan, living in the town of Derby, and to them I owe many
+reminiscences of Gypsy life <a name="page158"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 158</span>in bygone days.&nbsp; It was from
+Lincolnshire <i>Romanitshel</i>s of the same clan-name that I had
+first learned of the Derby colony whose Gypsy denizens were so
+entertaining that if ever I found myself within a few miles of
+their Midland town I could in no way resist going to see
+them.&nbsp; It must have been many years since first they settled
+there, and yet they would talk of Lincolnshire as though they had
+quitted its highways and byways but yesterday.&nbsp; Moreover,
+these Boswells were related to some of Borrow&rsquo;s originals,
+a fact which in my eyes lent no small glamour to these folk.</p>
+<p>One cool spring evening I stood in a cramped yard in Derby,
+and, tapping at a cottage door, I heard a tremulous voice
+inviting me to enter.&nbsp; Within that little room my aged
+friend, Coralina Boswell, was warming her thin hands at a few
+glowing coals in the grate.&nbsp; A flickering candle on the
+chimney-piece cast a fitful yellow gleam on the old lady seated
+on the hearthrug not far from a truckle bed.&nbsp; Wrapped about
+her shawl-wise was a portion of a scarlet blanket throwing up her
+features, swarthy and deeply seamed, into strong relief.&nbsp;
+She begged me to take the only chair, which I drew up to the
+fire.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;I am glad to see you, my son.&nbsp; I&rsquo;m a lonely
+old woman.&nbsp; My <i>tsh&#259;v&ecirc;</i> (children) are all
+far away.&rdquo;&nbsp; Here she picked up a black pipe which she
+had laid down on my entering, and went on chatting about her
+family, mentioning a daughter named Froniga.</p>
+<p><a name="page159"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+159</span>&ldquo;That sounds like Veronica.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Yes, we name&rsquo;t her after the one that wiped the
+dear Lord&rsquo;s face wiv a <i>diklo</i>&rdquo;
+(handkerchief).</p>
+<p>This set her thoughts a-wandering, and she went on to tell how
+last night she saw strange things.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;I was in a <i>wesh</i> (wood), thick and green, and I
+went on and on, and I felt wild beasts rubbing agen me, but they
+never hurted me, &rsquo;cos my blessed Saviour was a-sitting wiv
+His angels among the clouds just above the roundy tops o&rsquo;
+the big trees.&nbsp; It was beautiful to see Him there.&nbsp; And
+sometimes, as I sits here, I sees Him come into this room, as
+real as when you came in yourself.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;What made you come so far to see the likes o&rsquo;
+me?&nbsp; It&rsquo;s wery kind o&rsquo; you.&nbsp; I&rsquo;s
+travelled all through your country, and a nice part it is.&nbsp;
+I remembers the green fields all lying in the sun by the
+riverside.&rdquo;&nbsp; (Clearly she was thinking of the
+Trentside haunts of her clan.)</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Now, my son, will you <i>tshiv</i> some <i>kosht</i> on
+the <i>yog</i> (put some wood on the fire) and light that
+<i>v&acirc;va mumeli</i> (other candle) on the
+chimbly-shelf?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>On the walls of the room were several black-framed funeral
+cards, in the midst of which was a blurred enlargement of a
+Romany <i>v&acirc;do</i> (cart), and, seeing my eyes wandering
+towards this picture, Coralina broke out again&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Ah, that&rsquo;s my <i>rom</i>&rsquo;s (husband) wagon
+there, as <a name="page160"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+160</span>we&rsquo;s travelled in many a year, and there he is on
+the steps a-looking at me so loving-like.&nbsp; I <i>roker</i>s
+(talk) to him sometimes, forgetting he&rsquo;s been gone this
+many a year.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Mine&rsquo;s a lonely life, and what would become of me
+I don&rsquo;t know, if I hadn&rsquo;t some kind delations living
+in this <i>gav</i>&rdquo; (town).</p>
+<p>As I stepped out into the narrow yard, a bright moon silvered
+the battered door and the little crisscross window of Old
+Coralina&rsquo;s abode, and, walking along a crooked street, I
+thought of the strange life of the woman I had just left, an
+existence in which dreams and visions passed for realities.</p>
+<p style="text-align: center">
+<a href="images/p160b.jpg">
+<img alt=
+"A Mother in Egypt.  Photo. Fred Shaw"
+title=
+"A Mother in Egypt.  Photo. Fred Shaw"
+src="images/p160s.jpg" />
+</a></p>
+<p>In the same town lived another aged Gypsy, Eldi Boswell, whose
+days were chiefly spent on a couch-bed smoking and
+dreaming.&nbsp; Too decrepit to leave her cottage, she loved to
+bask in the glow of the fire, and I recall no more picturesque
+Gypsy figure than Old Eldi, with her furrowed face and her long,
+dark ringlets straggling out from beneath a once gorgeous
+<i>diklo</i>.&nbsp; It was easy to see that she had been a beauty
+in her time, and in confidential moments she would say that in
+her young days she had often been taken for her cousin,
+Sanspirela Heron (the lovely wife of Ambrose Smith), whose
+forename was (in <i>Lavengro</i>) changed by Borrow to
+Pakomovna.&nbsp; Certainly one could not help being struck by Old
+Eldi&rsquo;s large eyes.&nbsp; Much has been written about the
+peculiarity of the Gypsy eye, Borrow and Leland in particular
+having enlarged upon this topic.&nbsp; Not of a soft, steady <a
+name="page161"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 161</span>hue like
+that of a pool in the moorland peat, it is a changeful eye of
+glittering black endowed with a strange penetrative quality.</p>
+<p>Born about the year 1820 at Susworth, a hamlet on the
+Lincolnshire bank of the Trent, Eldi remembered not only the
+names, but a host of tales in which bygone Gypsies played a
+part.</p>
+<p>My father, a schoolmate of Thomas Miller at Gainsborough on
+the Trent, used to speak of the riverside Gypsies whom Miller
+presents in his writings: <i>e.g.</i> in <i>Gideon Giles the
+Roper</i> he gives pictures of the Boswells, who were probably
+some of Old Eldi&rsquo;s folk.</p>
+<p>For instance, if I had been reading in Borrow&rsquo;s <i>Gypsy
+Word-Book</i> about that famous old rascal, Ryley Boswell, I
+would say to Eldi&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Did you ever know Old Ryley?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Sartinly, I minds him well enough.&nbsp;
+&lsquo;Gentleman&rsquo; Ryley, they used to call him.&nbsp; He
+was a tinker, like the rest of our <i>mushaw</i> (men), but he
+wouldn&rsquo;t carry his creel (grinding-outfit) on his back like
+other people.&nbsp; He must have it on a little cart, and a pony
+to draw it.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Is it true that he had more than one wife living with
+him at the same time?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Well, yes, he had three wives.&nbsp; There was Yoki
+Shuri.&nbsp; You&rsquo;s heard tell of her, sure-ly&mdash;a wery
+clever woman she was at getting money.&nbsp; Then there was Lucy
+Boswell, Old Tyso&rsquo;s gell, a nicer woman never breathed, but
+Ryley was rough with <a name="page162"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 162</span>her and made her sleep in a little
+tent with his dogs Musho and Ponto.&nbsp; Nobody blamed her when
+she left him and went to &rsquo;Merikay with her six
+children.&nbsp; Then there was Charlotte Hammond as went away and
+took on with Zacky Lee.&nbsp; A lot of those Lees round London
+sprang from them.&nbsp; In his best days Ryley had heaps of money
+and travelled all over the country.&nbsp; He had a fine black
+mare, Bess Beldam, and he rode on her a-hunting with the gentry
+up in Yorkshire.&nbsp; He was partic&rsquo;lar fond o&rsquo; that
+country, was Ryley.&nbsp; I minds how fine he looked on his
+splendid mare as had silver shoes, and him in a coat with golden
+guineas for buttons.&nbsp; I&rsquo;s heard of him riding
+slap-dash through a camp, springing over the tents and scutching
+the <i>nong&ecirc; tshav&ecirc;</i> (naked children) with his
+<i>tshupni</i> (whip): &lsquo;I&rsquo;ll let &rsquo;em know who I
+am&mdash;Ryley Boswell, King of the Gypsies.&rsquo;&nbsp; But at
+last his luck left him, and he took hisself off to London with
+his Yoki Shuri.&nbsp; Even to her as stuck to him through all, he
+was unkind.&nbsp; One day he tied her to a cart-wheel and
+leathered her, &rsquo;cos she told him of his ill-doings.&nbsp;
+At London, they lived in the Potteries, but he never did no good
+in the big city.&nbsp; One day, as he was skinning a rabbit, he
+scratched his hand and got blood-poisoning, and died in a little
+house underneath the railway arches.&nbsp; They buried him in
+Brompton Churchyard.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Thus she would spin on at great length about Ryley
+Boswell.</p>
+<p>Another time she would talk about the Herons.&nbsp; <a
+name="page163"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 163</span>She was old
+enough to remember Niabai and Crowy (the parents of my aged
+friend, Ike Heron), as well as &ldquo;handsome&rdquo; William,
+&ldquo;lame&rdquo; Robert, Miller, Lusha, and other members of
+the same family.&nbsp; According to her account, these fellows
+were a tall, dark, big-boned, rough set.</p>
+<p>Asked if she had ever known any Gypsy called Reynolds, Eldi
+replied&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;To be sure, there was Reynolds Heron as married my Aunt
+Peggy.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Then I understood how Ambrose Smith (<i>alias</i> Reynolds)
+came in his last years to adopt for his own travelling surname
+the Christian name of his wife Sanspirela&rsquo;s father,
+Reynolds Heron, concerning whom it is recorded that he used to
+fast on the five Fridays next after the season of Lent, in memory
+of the five wounds of the Saviour.</p>
+<p>I used to like to hear Eldi talk of the days when artists,
+squires, and their ladies would pay visits to the camp.&nbsp;
+&ldquo;There was my husband&rsquo;s Aunt
+&lsquo;Norna&rsquo;&mdash;her proper name was Lucretia
+Boswell&mdash;she was a beautiful woman, and Mr. Oakley painted a
+picture of her wearing an orange shawl about her shoulders.&nbsp;
+She never married, and always travelled with her sister
+Deloraifi, who never married neither.&nbsp; Ay, when I was a
+barefooted gell with the wind a-blowing my hair about, the
+painting-gentlemen would get me to sit for my picture; and
+squires would stop us in the lanes and try to pick up our
+words.&rdquo;</p>
+<p><a name="page164"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+164</span>Rascalities of which modern Gypsydom knows nothing
+would creep into Eldi&rsquo;s memory-pictures.&nbsp; I mean the
+wayside robberies, the bloody fights, the sheep and horse
+stealing of the rough old days of her girlhood.&nbsp; She would
+get so rapt away in the past that she would speak of people dead
+and gone as though they were living still, and, awaking to the
+present, would remark with a deep-drawn sigh&mdash;&ldquo;But,
+there, I&rsquo;s seen none of &rsquo;em for a wery long
+time.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Under the heading of &ldquo;A Modern Enchantress,&rdquo; the
+following note, describing my Gypsy friend, was communicated by
+an Irish clergyman to <i>The Journal of the Gypsy Lore
+Society</i> of the year 1890:&mdash;</p>
+<blockquote><p>&ldquo;A short time since, a clergyman stopping at
+my house told me that some time ago, when he was assisting in the
+work of All Saints&rsquo; Parish, Derby, he had residing in the
+parish a Gypsy family named Boswell.&nbsp; One of the family was
+sick, and he found the greatest difficulty in getting into the
+house; and when he did get in, the sick man told him that the
+sooner he cleared out of the house the better&mdash;if he came to
+talk about religion.&nbsp; In fact, it was only by most judicious
+management, and by promises not to speak about religion till the
+sick man spoke of it first, that he was able to establish a
+footing in the house.&nbsp; But after a little time he got on
+quite friendly terms with the family.&nbsp; He then discovered
+that when any of the family were sick an old aunt came into the
+room and seemed to perform <a name="page165"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 165</span>a kind of incantation over
+them.&nbsp; His description of her performance was very like what
+we read about Eastern Dervishes.&nbsp; She gradually worked
+herself up into a species of frenzy, flinging her arms about and
+muttering a kind of incantation or prayer, until her voice
+ascended into a wild scream and descended again into a whisper as
+the frenzy passed away, and she was left lying exhausted and
+apparently in fainting condition on the floor.&nbsp; When she
+arrived at this state she was immediately carried out of the
+sick-room by her relatives.&rdquo;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>A grey morning with a lowering sky and splashes of rain had
+given place in the early forenoon to a brilliant day, and
+sunbeams lit up the Humber&rsquo;s wharves and shipping as I
+stepped from the steam ferry upon the Corporation Pier at
+Hull.&nbsp; Often before had I visited this busy seaport on Gypsy
+errands, and the cause of my present visit was to seek out the
+whereabouts of the descendants of Ryley Boswell, renowned in
+Gypsy history.&nbsp; From Borrow&rsquo;s <i>Romany Word-Book</i>
+I had gathered that Ryley hailed from Yorkshire, and Eldi Boswell
+of Derby, and the London relatives of Yoki Shuri had informed me
+that Hull was a likely place to locate some of Ryley&rsquo;s
+offspring.&nbsp; A few inquiries brought me the information that
+a Gypsy and his wife kept a little grocery store in a back
+street, which I had no difficulty in finding, though,
+reconnoitring outside the shop, I saw in its exterior nothing
+suggestive of the <a name="page166"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+166</span>Romany.&nbsp; Going inside, I rapped with my foot on
+the floor, and a middle-aged woman, only distantly resembling a
+Gypsy, responded to my summons.&nbsp; Pointing to a barrel of
+ruddy Canadians, I made request in Romany for two apples, and
+immediately a change came over her face.&nbsp; The sound of the
+Gypsy language produced a beaming smile where solemnity had
+sat.&nbsp; After making a further purchase, I was invited into
+the living-room, where I had no sooner sat down than the
+woman&rsquo;s husband, looking still less like a Gypsy, entered,
+but on my giving him a <i>s&acirc; shan</i> (how do?) he laughed
+outright, and we had some fun.&nbsp; It tickled me not a little
+to hear the pair discussing my physiognomy.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Why, he&rsquo;s got Newty&rsquo;s <i>nok</i> (nose),
+that he has now.&rdquo;&nbsp; And the wife asked me if I had
+brought news of a fortune left to them by their Uncle Newty in
+Australia.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Newty&mdash;well, I <i>have</i> heard of him.&nbsp;
+Wasn&rsquo;t he <i>bitshado pawdel</i> (transported) to Hobart
+Town for horse-stealing?&nbsp; But for whom do you take
+me?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;One of Newty&rsquo;s sons, for sure.&nbsp; And
+here&rsquo;s your father&rsquo;s photograph&rdquo; (handing me a
+daguerreotype in velvet-lined case).&nbsp; &ldquo;Now look at
+yourself in the glass.&nbsp; Why, you&rsquo;re the wery spit of
+Uncle Newton.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>So I found myself taken for a grandson of Old Ryley and Yoki
+Shuri, and my shopkeeping friends were themselves actual
+grandchildren of those Gypsies of renown.&nbsp; Here was a lucky
+find, and since I was <a name="page167"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 167</span>out upon a genealogical errand, I
+availed myself of the present opportunity to scoop in a goodly
+store of facts for my increasing collection of Romany
+pedigrees.</p>
+<p>A few years after this visit to Hull, a correspondent in
+Australia imparted to me a number of facts relating to
+transported Gypsies.&nbsp; Here are a few of his personal
+recollections of Newton Boswell (or Boss), whom he had known as a
+travelling knife-grinder at Launceston in Tasmania.</p>
+<blockquote><p>&ldquo;Newton, familiarly known as
+&lsquo;Newty,&rsquo; seemed a nice quiet fellow, tall and spare,
+with the remains of good looks.&nbsp; Polite and well-spoken, he
+was not particularly Gypsy-looking, except for his walk and
+build&mdash;not particularly dark.&nbsp; At the same time he
+<i>did</i> look like a Gypsy.&nbsp; His eyes were of a mild
+brown.&nbsp; He wore a big felt hat and a coloured
+handkerchief.&nbsp; He told me that he had been popular with
+ladies, that one lady who had a large house (in New South Wales,
+I think), and with whom he worked as a servant or driver, took a
+particular fancy to him, but he left that situation because he
+wanted to be on the move.&nbsp; He said he did not like remaining
+long in one place.&nbsp; Newton confirmed Borrow&rsquo;s
+description of Ryley, in regard to his wearing gold coins as
+buttons on his clothes, and other details.&nbsp; When I read him
+parts of Borrow&rsquo;s books, he was astonished to find in print
+many facts familiar to himself.&nbsp; He once brought round his
+fiddle for me <a name="page168"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+168</span>to hear him play, which he did in the energetic,
+spirited style peculiar to the race.&nbsp; He told me that he had
+travelled all over Australia.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Once, many years ago, there came up to Newton&rsquo;s
+grinding-barrow in Sydney a handsome, dark, beautifully dressed,
+young lady who, looking him fixedly in the eyes, said&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;There&rsquo;s a Romany look about
+you.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;I beg your pardon, madam?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;There&rsquo;s a Romany look about
+you.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Why, madam, do I look any different from anybody
+else?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Well, you are wearing a yellow handkerchief
+round your neck.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Can&rsquo;t anybody wear a coloured
+handkerchief, madam?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Yes, they can, but they don&rsquo;t.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Well, madam, I <i>am</i> a Gypsy&mdash;a
+pure-bred one too&mdash;my name is Boswell.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;And so am I a Gypsy&mdash;my name is
+Lovell.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;She gave Newton a sovereign and invited him to call at
+her house.&nbsp; He subsequently learned that she had married
+some well-to-do man (a non-Gypsy) in England, who had brought her
+out to Australia, and that on his returning suddenly from a trip
+to the Old Country, he shot her in a passion of jealousy, and
+then shot himself.&rdquo;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>Some weeks later I was again exploring Hull for <a
+name="page169"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+169</span>Gypsies.&nbsp; To me few things are more agreeable than
+to hear Romany spoken unexpectedly.&nbsp; Walking along a city
+street, if suddenly amid the din of the traffic I hear a Gypsy
+greeting, I experience a very pleasant emotion.</p>
+<p>In passing along the Anlaby Road, I heard from behind me,
+&ldquo;<i>S&acirc; shan</i>, <i>rashaia</i>?&rdquo; (How do,
+parson?) and, looking round, I saw Mireli Heron&rsquo;s son, a
+jovial, harum-scarum fellow who has found a permanent home in
+Hull.&nbsp; I remember him as a travelling Gypsy, and his garb
+was then characteristic and becoming, but he had now adopted a
+coat, collar, and tie of the prevailing fashion.&nbsp; The Gypsy
+of the town, I find, has no desire to attract attention to
+himself; hence he becomes subdued in appearance, more&rsquo;s the
+pity.&nbsp; Having settled, he becomes &ldquo;respectable,&rdquo;
+drab-coloured, unpicturesque.</p>
+<p>At my request young Heron walked across with me to the Spring
+Bank, and on the way thither he pulled up at a photographers shop
+window, and, pointing to a picture, asked&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;What would you call that in <i>Romanes</i>?&rdquo;
+(Gypsy).</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Why, a <i>kuskti-dik</i>in <i>rakli</i> (a good-looking
+girl), to be sure.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;<i>Keka</i>, <i>keka</i> (no, no), I don&rsquo;t mean
+that.&nbsp; What&rsquo;s our word for
+&lsquo;picture&rsquo;?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;<i>Dikamengri</i>.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;<i>Keka</i>, that&rsquo;s the word for a
+looking-glass.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Well, what would <i>you</i> say?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;<i>Stor-dui</i>-graph&rdquo;
+(<i>Four</i>(4)-<i>two</i>(2)-graph, hence photograph).</p>
+<p><a name="page170"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 170</span>The
+Romany tongue is plastic, and a Gypsy will playfully coin new
+words in this fashion.&nbsp; As a Gypsy once said,
+&ldquo;There&rsquo;s always a way of saying a thing in
+<i>Romanes</i>, if you can find it out.&rdquo;&nbsp; Certain it
+is, if a Gypsy has no old word for a thing, he will not be long
+in coining a new one.</p>
+<p>Entering the Spring Bank Cemetery together, my companion
+pointed out the grave of Yoki Shuri, the faithful consort of
+Ryley Boswell (or Boss), and upon the neat stone I read this
+inscription, &ldquo;In memory of Shorensey Boss, who died Jan.
+18, 1868, aged 65 years.&rdquo;&nbsp; From a bush planted on the
+grave I plucked a sweet white rose.</p>
+<p>Further, I learned from my companion that Old Ryley&rsquo;s
+son Isaac, commonly called &ldquo;Haggi,&rdquo; had died in Hull
+only a few years previously.&nbsp; Like his brother Newton, he
+too had visited Australia, and, returning to this country, had
+settled in Hull, and was daily seen in the streets with a
+grinding-barrow.&nbsp; A girl whom Haggi brought with him from
+Australia told me (this was a few years later) that when as a
+child she was naughty, Haggi would frighten her by saying,
+&ldquo;If you&rsquo;re not good, Old Ryley will get you, and
+he&rsquo;ll <i>maw tut</i>&rdquo; (kill you).</p>
+<p>One summer, when holidaying with my family at the breezy
+Yorkshire coast-town of Bridlington, I heard that there were
+Romanies living in a house at a little inland town, and, cycling
+over the hills, I spent a pleasant hour in the home of a Gypsy,
+who in a sweet voice sang the following ballad:&mdash;</p>
+<blockquote><p><a name="page171"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+171</span>&ldquo;There were seven Gypsies all in a row,<br />
+And they sang blithe and bonny, O!<br />
+They sang until at last they came<br />
+Unto the yellow castle&rsquo;s hall, O!</p>
+<p>The yellow castle&rsquo;s lady, she came out,<br />
+And gave to them some siller, O!<br />
+She gave to them a far better thing,<br />
+&rsquo;Twas the gold ring from her finger, O!</p>
+<p>At ten o&rsquo;clock o&rsquo; night her lord came home,<br />
+Enquiring for his lady, O!<br />
+The waiting-maid gave this reply,<br />
+She&rsquo;s gone with the roving Gypsies, O!</p>
+<p>Come saddle me my milk-white steed,<br />
+Come saddle for me my pony, O!<br />
+That I may go by the green-wood side,<br />
+Until I find my lady, O!</p>
+<p>So all through the dark o&rsquo; night he rode,<br />
+Until the next day&rsquo;s dawning, O!<br />
+He rode along the green-wood side,<br />
+And there he found his lady, O!</p>
+<p>Last night you laid on a good feather bed,<br />
+Beside your own married lord, O!<br />
+To-night in the cold open fields you lie,<br />
+Along with the roving Gypsies, O!</p>
+<p>What made you leave your home and your lands?<br />
+What made you leave your money, O!<br />
+What made you leave your own married lord,<br />
+To go with the roving Gypsies, O!</p>
+<p>What cares I for my home and my lands,<br />
+What cares I for my money, O!<br />
+What cares I for my own married lord,<br />
+I&rsquo;ll go with the roving Gypsies, O!&rdquo;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>On leaving, I placed a silver coin in the singer&rsquo;s tawny
+palm, whereupon she sprang from her stool by the fire and gave me
+a resounding kiss on the cheek.</p>
+<h2><a name="page172"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+172</span>CHAPTER XIII<br />
+<span class="GutSmall">WITH THE YORKSHIRE GYPSIES</span></h2>
+<p><span class="smcap">As</span> I have said, Gypsies settled in
+houses now greatly outnumber their roving brethren.&nbsp; Hence
+it has come to pass that nearly every town in the land possesses
+a Bohemian quarter where you are met by dark faces and sidelong
+glances speaking of Gypsy blood.&nbsp; Nor can the student of
+Gypsy life and manners afford to neglect these haunts despite
+their dinginess, for as often as not they contain aged Gypsies
+whose memories are well worth ransacking for lore and legend, and
+in &ldquo;working&rdquo; these queer alleys, one has often picked
+up choice reminiscences of bygone Gypsy life.</p>
+<p style="text-align: center">
+<a href="images/p172b.jpg">
+<img alt=
+"House-Dwelling Gypsies.  Photo. Fred Shaw"
+title=
+"House-Dwelling Gypsies.  Photo. Fred Shaw"
+src="images/p172s.jpg" />
+</a></p>
+<p>One morning I was walking under the grey walls of Scarborough
+Castle, and, coming out upon the sparkling North Bay, I ran into
+the arms of a <i>mush-fakir</i> (umbrella-mender), who looked as
+if there rolled in his veins a blend of Scottish and Irish blood,
+but I was mistaken, for he told me he was Welsh and bore the name
+of Evans.&nbsp; Far-travelled, his peregrinations had ranged from
+Aberdeen to Penzance, and seldom have I met a man of his class so
+overflowing with varied knowledge.&nbsp; He asked me if I <a
+name="page173"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 173</span>knew
+William Street in Scarborough, but as a newcomer I admitted that
+I had not so much as heard of the locality, and made request for
+further information.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;I reckon William Street &rsquo;ll just suit you,&rdquo;
+he declared.&nbsp; &ldquo;It&rsquo;s full o&rsquo; tinkers and
+grinders, Gypsies and sweeps, and the like.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;A regular Whitechapel,&rdquo; I suggested.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Now you&rsquo;ve hit it,&rdquo; said he laughingly.</p>
+<p>I asked him where he was residing in that street.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;At the Model, to be sure, and if you ax for Long
+Ambrose, you&rsquo;ll find they all know me.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>I further inquired of him as to the Gypsy inhabitants of that
+quarter, and he gave me a list of the &ldquo;travellers&rdquo;
+who had settled there.&nbsp; These I called upon leisurely during
+a holiday extending over three weeks.&nbsp; One day I would look
+up one or two of them, and a few days later I renewed my
+visitation by dropping in upon several others, and so on until
+this little gold-mine was exhausted.</p>
+<p>From the sea-front it was a change scarcely Aladdin-like to
+find oneself in smoky William Street, a byway shut in by dingy
+walls, which in the deepening dusk took on an air of
+mystery.&nbsp; A little way down the street, I knocked at the
+door of Inji Morrison, but as there was no response I lifted the
+latch, and, putting my head inside the room, I spake aloud,
+&ldquo;<i>Putsh man te av adr&ecirc;</i>&rdquo; (Ask me to come
+inside).&nbsp; A sound of shuffling feet was heard, with tripping
+steps in the rear, and an old crone tottered forward, along with
+her granddaughter, dark-eyed <a name="page174"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 174</span>and twenty-five.&nbsp; Following
+them into the kitchen, I saw the floor scattered with willow pegs
+in various stages of manufacture.&nbsp; The pair accorded me a
+genial welcome, though they scanned me curiously as if wondering
+what sort of Gypsy I might be.&nbsp; When I mentioned some black
+foreign <i>Romanitshel</i>s whom I had seen, the old mother
+remarked&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;I shouldn&rsquo;t like to <i>dik lendi</i> (see them);
+they would make me think of the <i>Beng</i>.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Then, as the old lady was dull of hearing, her granddaughter
+(in an aside) said&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;You mustn&rsquo;t mind, <i>rai</i>, what granny says;
+she&rsquo;s getting old.&nbsp; As for the <i>Beng</i>, there
+ain&rsquo;t no sich pusson, I don&rsquo;t think.&nbsp;
+There&rsquo;s nothing bad comes from below.&nbsp; There&rsquo;s
+the springs we drink from, and the dearie little flowers we love
+to gather.&nbsp; And there&rsquo;s nothing but good comes from
+above; the blessed sunshine and the light o&rsquo; moon and the
+rain that falls&mdash;why, all of &rsquo;em&rsquo;s good things,
+ain&rsquo;t they?&nbsp; The badness is on&rsquo;y what people
+makes.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Now through the open door leading to a cramped backyard came a
+hairy terrier, followed by a small boy with saucy eyes and long,
+black curls falling upon the shoulders of his ill-fitting
+coat.&nbsp; A great-grandson from a few doors lower down was this
+quicksilver pixy, who sat himself at our feet and cuddled the
+terrier near a few red embers in the grate.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Mend the fire, my gal,&rdquo; said Old Inji.&nbsp; And
+when the wood blazed and lit up the room, granny <a
+name="page175"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 175</span>filled her
+pipe from shavings cut from a cake of black tobacco.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll never go to Seamer Fair no more now my
+man&rsquo;s dead.&nbsp; &rsquo;Tain&rsquo;t likely as I
+could.&nbsp; &rsquo;Twouldn&rsquo;t be the same, would
+it?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Seamer Fair, when is that?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Why, next week.&nbsp; There&rsquo;ll be <i>dosta
+Romanitshel</i>s <i>odoi</i> (many Gypsies there) and music and
+dancing.&nbsp; Ay, and fighting too.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Then she fell to rambling about her former life on the
+road.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>Another day I sat with Vashti Boswell in her cottage down one
+of the numerous yards branching out of William Street.&nbsp;
+Handing me a rude stool, the work of some Gypsy carpenter, she
+sat herself on the fender.&nbsp; On her forehead was a deep
+indentation which she said was made by a blow from a poker at the
+hand of a mad relative.&nbsp; In vivid words she described the
+occasion of that blow, and one pictured the desperate struggle
+between the two women, till Vashti, fainting from loss of blood,
+fell in a heap on to the floor, but not before Izaria, a stalwart
+fellow, attracted by his mother&rsquo;s screams, had rushed into
+the house and snatched the weapon from the mad woman&rsquo;s
+hand.</p>
+<p>A little higher up the street lived this same son and
+Vashti&rsquo;s nephew, Joel Boswell, who were sent for, a
+neighbour&rsquo;s child acting as messenger.&nbsp; I have often
+noticed that Gypsies will call in their <a
+name="page176"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 176</span>kinsfolk
+who live near to share in the pleasure and excitement, likewise
+in the &ldquo;grist,&rdquo; implied by a <i>rai</i>&rsquo;s
+visit.&nbsp; Much to my surprise Vashti knew all about Gypsy
+Court at Lincoln, and little wonder when she presently told me
+that her husband was a half-brother of my old friend, Jumping
+Jack.</p>
+<p>Talking of the past, Vashti declared that very few Gypsies in
+her day went to church for marriage.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;My man and me jumped the besom, we did.&nbsp;
+That&rsquo;s how we was married.&nbsp; Like many more, we
+didn&rsquo;t get <i>parson&rsquo;d</i>, but we thought our old
+way just as binding as if we&rsquo;d been to church.&nbsp; My man
+were a good &rsquo;un as long as he lived, and weren&rsquo;t that
+enough for the likes o&rsquo; me?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Then you remember Jumping Jack?&rdquo; I asked.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;<i>&Acirc;wa</i> (yes), and he could jump too.&nbsp; He
+once cleared the backs of three horses standing side by side, and
+I&rsquo;s seen him jump the common gate times and agen.&nbsp;
+When my husband was living, we used to travel Lincolnshire, and
+now lots of us are living in houses scattered all over the
+<i>tem</i>&rdquo; (country).</p>
+<p>At this juncture, Joel disappeared for a few moments, and on
+his return bore a large jug of foaming brown ale, which was his
+way of welcoming the <i>rai</i>, and pipes were soon in full
+blast.</p>
+<p>It was from Joel&rsquo;s lips that I heard about Mordecai
+Boswell, who died at Retford many years ago.&nbsp; Mordecai was a
+fine-looking man, his hair falling in long curls.&nbsp; He wore a
+dark green coat with big pearl buttons and a broad collar, while
+his <a name="page177"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+177</span>low-crowned hat might well have been a family
+heirloom.&nbsp; He had a dancing booth at fairs, and would
+fiddle, while his sister Matilda danced and played the
+tambourine.&nbsp; Frampton Boswell used to join him at the St.
+Leger and other big races, and they didn&rsquo;t do badly with
+the dancing booth.</p>
+<p>One day a <i>gawjo</i> was chatting with Mordecai, and the
+talk turned upon <i>hotshiwitshi</i> (hedgehog).</p>
+<p>&ldquo;I couldn&rsquo;t fancy eating that creature,&rdquo;
+said the <i>gawjo</i>.&nbsp; &ldquo;It makes me feel queer to
+think of it.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Look here,&rdquo; said Mordecai, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll bet
+you a half-crown that before many days are past you&rsquo;ll have
+had some.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>The <i>gawjo</i> grinned and shrugged his shoulders.&nbsp;
+Time went on, and the <i>gawjo</i> one day came upon Mordecai and
+his family having dinner on the roadside.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Won&rsquo;t you have a bite with us?&rdquo; said
+Mordecai.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;What&rsquo;s that on the dish?&rdquo; asked the
+<i>gawjo</i>.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Duck,&rdquo; replied the Gypsy, with a grave
+face.&nbsp; The <i>gawjo</i> sat down and was soon enjoying what
+looked remarkably like a duck&rsquo;s leg.&nbsp; When the meal
+was over and pipes were brought out, Mordecai got a-talking.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Well, my pal, where have you been since I saw you last,
+and how have you been faring?&nbsp; Has any Gypsy got you to
+swallow a bit o&rsquo; <i>hotshiwitshi</i>?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;No, not likely.&nbsp; Didn&rsquo;t I tell you that that
+nasty creature should never touch my lips?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Then you&rsquo;ve done it to-day.&nbsp; You&rsquo;ve
+had <i>hotshi</i> <a name="page178"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+178</span>for dinner, and you seemed to enjoy one of the legs
+finely.&nbsp; You smacked your lips over it anyway.&nbsp; Hand up
+that half-crown.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>He did so, and, turning pale, walked away.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;I say, <i>rai</i>,&rdquo; remarked Izaria, &ldquo;did
+you know there&rsquo;s some of the black Herrens (Herons)
+stopping at Robin Hood&rsquo;s Bay, not far from here?&nbsp; I
+seen &rsquo;em at Scarborough a little while back, and I
+shouldn&rsquo;t wonder if some of &rsquo;em&rsquo;s at Seamer
+Fair next week.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Making a mental note of these two places, I resolved to visit
+them.&nbsp; Then, happening to mention the <i>mush-fakir</i> whom
+I had encountered near the Castle, Joel said, &ldquo;I once had
+an uncle as was very fond of this here town, I mean Elisha
+Blewitt, as married Mordecai&rsquo;s sister Sybarina; my uncle
+was a <i>mush-fakir</i>, but he&rsquo;s been dead for
+years.&nbsp; As for that there man you spoke of, I believe
+there&rsquo;s a long-legged <i>g&egrave;ro</i> (man) in the same
+line o&rsquo; business living at the Model.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Next day in the same quarter I waylaid Fennix Smith in company
+with a Gypsy named Swales, who were about to set forth in a
+two-wheeled cart drawn by a thin-legged pony, their destination
+being Malton.&nbsp; On their way home they would call at
+&ldquo;No Man&rsquo;s Land,&rdquo; where they expected to find
+some of their travelling friends drawing up for Seamer
+Fair.&nbsp; Between their legs I noticed a lurcher curled up,
+and, pointing to it, I said, &ldquo;I see you mean to have some
+sport on the way.&rdquo;</p>
+<p><a name="page179"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+179</span>&ldquo;Yes, and we shan&rsquo;t forget to bring you
+some-think, pass&rsquo;n, if we has good luck.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>After the pony-cart had rattled out of the street, I turned
+into the yard of the Model, where several grinding-barrows stood
+under a lean-to, but I failed to recognize Long Ambrose&rsquo;s
+property among them, and, entering the house, I learned that my
+<i>mush-fakir</i> might be expected home at any time.&nbsp;
+Walking up the street, I came upon a stalwart Gypsy woman
+standing at her open door.&nbsp; Her husband, I gathered, was a
+tinker, and not a prosperous one at that, judging by his
+wife&rsquo;s tattered gown and woebegone air.&nbsp; During our
+talk about her relations who travelled Lincolnshire, two pretty
+little children continually tugged at her gown.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;If you go to Seamer Fair, <i>rai</i>, you&rsquo;ll be
+sure to find some of my folks, the Smiths, along with the Herrens
+and Youngs.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Just then I heard a man whistling, and round the corner
+appeared Long Ambrose pushing his barrow.&nbsp; In the yard of
+the Model we conversed, and on his referring to Gloucester, I
+asked if he knew any of the Carews, horse-dealers of that
+city.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Oh yes, there was one of them sold a dyed horse to
+match a black carriage-<i>grai</i>, and a wery &lsquo;fly&rsquo;
+cove he was, but he got found out, and had to do
+&lsquo;time&rsquo; for that affair.&rdquo;&nbsp; My <i>mush-fakir
+seemed</i> to have travelled everywhere.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>Mindful of the intimation let fall by Izaria Boswell <a
+name="page180"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 180</span>that there
+were black Herons to be found at Robin Hood&rsquo;s Bay, I made
+my way thither afoot one brilliant July morning.&nbsp; A cool air
+from the sea tempered the sun&rsquo;s powerful rays, and it was
+good to inhale the sweetness of the summer meadows where the
+haymakers were busy.&nbsp; Overhead the bent-winged silvery gulls
+passed to and fro, and among the wayside bushes yellow-hammers
+trilled their song which in childhood we translated by the words,
+&ldquo;a little bit of bread and no cheese.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Perched on the top of a lofty cliff overlooking the North Sea,
+the village of Robin Hood&rsquo;s Bay seems almost to overhang a
+precipice, and on stormy nights the wind roaring up the cliff
+flings the salt spray far inland.&nbsp; The whole of the coast
+hereabouts is a delicious panorama of rock-bound bays and
+coves.</p>
+<p>On arriving at the village I had no difficulty in locating my
+Gypsies.&nbsp; A fisherman, sun-tanned and jovial, pointed a
+stubby finger towards a grassy plot whereon stood three caravans,
+and it was with a thrill of pleasure that I drew near.&nbsp; Yes,
+there on the short turf sat one-armed Josh and Nettie, his
+wife.&nbsp; Our greetings were hearty, and as we talked, up came
+one of the Youngs.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;You are just the man I want to see,
+<i>rashai</i>,&rdquo; and, taking out a crumpled newspaper, he
+said, &ldquo;There&rsquo;s something in here about stopping the
+Gypsies from camping at Scarborough.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>After a hunt through the paper, I came upon a <a
+name="page181"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 181</span>report of a
+meeting of the wiseacres of the town, and read their speeches
+about the &ldquo;nuisances&rdquo; said to be created by the
+Gypsies.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;But there ain&rsquo;t any Gypsies there now
+<i>we&rsquo;s</i> come away,&rdquo; said Young.&nbsp; &ldquo;The
+people stopping there are only poor <i>didakai</i>s (half-breeds)
+and <i>mumpari</i>.&nbsp; We don&rsquo;t call <i>them</i>
+Gypsies.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>The speaker was one of the purest-bred English Gypsies I have
+ever met.</p>
+<p>Pure Gypsies draw a marked line between dirty, low-class
+van-dwellers and themselves; but unfortunately the world at large
+makes no such distinction, immensely to the detriment of the true
+<i>Romanitshel</i>.</p>
+<p>East Yorkshire is a favourite country with the Herons and
+Youngs.&nbsp; Both Josh and Nettie love it well, as did also some
+of their forelders.&nbsp; It was at Robin Hood&rsquo;s Bay that
+Nettie&rsquo;s Aunt Whipney died long years ago.&nbsp; I well
+remember a little tale about this old Gypsy.&nbsp; Tinker Ned,
+her husband, had &ldquo;found&rdquo; a <i>kani</i> (hen) for the
+pot.&nbsp; It was a small one, and Whipney cooked it.&nbsp; When
+the tinker came home at a later hour than he had promised, he
+asked&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Where&rsquo;s that <i>kani</i>?&nbsp; Have you cooked
+it?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>His wife answered by putting two fingers into her mouth,
+meaning, that she had consumed the little fowl.&nbsp; Thereupon
+Tinker Ned picked up a loose tent rod and gave her a good
+thrashing.</p>
+<p>Close by sat Nettie&rsquo;s daughter-in-law, Isabel, and her
+children, bonny bairns, tumbled happily on the grass.&nbsp; As I
+looked at these Gypsies, all of them <a name="page182"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 182</span>pictures of blooming
+health&mdash;clear-eyed, clean-limbed, bare-headed in sun and
+breeze&mdash;I reflected not without sadness on the fact that the
+tendency of modern legislation is to curtail and render more
+difficult the free, roving life of these children of Nature.</p>
+<p>It was now late in the afternoon, and over tea we talked of
+other times and old Gypsy ways.&nbsp; Nettie told of her own
+mischievous tricks when she was a child, how she used to hide her
+mammy&rsquo;s pipe in a tuft of grass near the tent, and then
+watch her hunt up and down for it; her sister Linda and she would
+have a good laugh to themselves over the trick, and then what
+tales their old mother would tell them by the fire o&rsquo;
+nights.&nbsp; One of these stories related to a horse belonging
+to some Irish Gypsies, the O&rsquo;Neils.</p>
+<p>He was an aged animal and a favourite of the family.&nbsp; One
+day he fell down and broke his back.&nbsp; Quite still he lay,
+and, taking him for dead, they removed his skin, but in the
+morning he came and kicked at the <i>v&acirc;do</i>.&nbsp; He was
+a sight awful to behold.&nbsp; Now it happened that near at hand
+lay a pile of sheepskins, so they hurriedly clapped some of these
+on the poor horse and bound them round and round with willow
+withies.&nbsp; In a little while the animal recovered, and the
+O&rsquo;Neils used to clip a crop of wool off him every
+year.&nbsp; And since the willow sticks took root and grew, the
+Gypsies were able to cut materials sufficient to make many
+baskets.</p>
+<p>Folk-stories of this character are classified by lorists as
+&ldquo;lying tales,&rdquo; and in a subsequent chapter <a
+name="page183"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 183</span>I shall
+give a sheaf of such stories familiar to all our Boswells and
+Herons, wherever you may light upon them.</p>
+<p>It was Nettie&rsquo;s daughter-in-law who, after listening to
+a ghost tale from me, protested&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;<i>Mulos</i> (ghosts)&mdash;I&rsquo;ll tell you what I
+thinks about &rsquo;em.&nbsp; Folks who die and go to the good
+place won&rsquo;t never want to leave it, and as for people what
+go to the bad place, I reckons they&rsquo;ll have to stop
+there.&nbsp; &rsquo;Tain&rsquo;t likely they&rsquo;ll ever have a
+chance to come back.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Looking up the footpath leading to the camp, I saw
+Isabel&rsquo;s little boy dragging a dead bough behind him.&nbsp;
+Said Josh, waving his stump of an arm towards the approaching
+child&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;The worst thing we Gypsies does nowadays is to pick up
+a dead stick or two for the fire, and if we goes into a
+<i>wesh</i> (wood) for a little <i>shushi</i> (rabbit) for the
+pot, well, I reckon there&rsquo;s plenty left for them as has a
+deal too many.&nbsp; If we sets a snare, it ain&rsquo;t so cruel
+as the keeper&rsquo;s teethy traps, and the lord and lady as
+employs the keeper talks in the Town Hall agen cruelty to
+animals&mdash;so I hear.&nbsp; Oh dear, it makes me
+larf!&rdquo;</p>
+<p>As I turned to take a farewell look at the group, I saw the
+Gypsies stretched at full length, puffing their pipes, while away
+beyond them lay the deep blue sea, and the rugged coast trending
+north and south in exquisite bays.&nbsp; It was a sight to
+cherish in the memory.</p>
+<p><a name="page184"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 184</span>A
+cool rain in the early hours had given place to a hot July
+morning, as I entered the village of Seamer already astir with
+its horse-fair.&nbsp; Making my way between knots of colts and
+droves of ponies at whose heels Gypsy boys were waving pink
+glazed calico flags, I went to where one of the North-Country
+Smiths stood gesticulating before a group of prospective buyers
+of colts, and discovered in him Elias Petulengro&rsquo;s son,
+Vanlo, whom I had known at Lincoln.&nbsp; Presently he walked
+across to me and held out a hand of friendship.&nbsp; All around
+us were Yorkshire travelling folk, and while chatting with Vanlo
+I witnessed a curious thing.&nbsp; Three policemen stood talking
+together, and one of them had his hands behind his back.&nbsp; A
+Gypsy, sidling up, slipped a half-crown into this
+policeman&rsquo;s hand.&nbsp; I saw his fingers close over the
+coin, yet he never by the slightest sign betrayed this act of the
+Gypsy, which passed unobserved by the other constables.&nbsp;
+Petulengro, who witnessed it, explained that this sort of thing
+is not uncommon.&nbsp; It obtains little privileges.&nbsp;
+&ldquo;The <i>muskro</i>&rdquo; (policeman), said he, &ldquo;will
+turn a blind eye to that Gypsy&rsquo;s fire on some wayside
+to-night.&rdquo;</p>
+<p style="text-align: center">
+<a href="images/p184b.jpg">
+<img alt=
+"A Gypsy Lad.  Photo. Fred Shaw"
+title=
+"A Gypsy Lad.  Photo. Fred Shaw"
+src="images/p184s.jpg" />
+</a></p>
+<p>Strolling through the fair, I spied old Clara Smith smoking a
+black clay under a stone wall, and by her side sat her daughter
+Tiena and one of her male relations, whom I had once met on a
+bleak fell in North-West Yorkshire.&nbsp; It was he who told me
+the following tale as he sat making pegs among the
+ling:&mdash;</p>
+<p><a name="page185"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+185</span>&ldquo;When I was a boy, I was taking <i>puvengri</i>s
+(potatoes) from a field, and I looked up, and there stood a tall
+man staring at me over the hedge.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;You come along with me,&rsquo; he shouted, and,
+taking him for a policeman in plain clothes, I obeyed, and went
+with him to a big building which I thought was the Sessions
+House.&nbsp; There were many people inside, and a gentleman was
+talking to them.&nbsp; At last he looked hard at me, and said,
+&lsquo;Thou art the man.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;So I jumped up and said, &lsquo;Yes, I know I am, but I
+didn&rsquo;t mean to do it.&nbsp; It was my uncle as made me
+go.&nbsp; I&rsquo;ll never steal potatoes no more.&rsquo;&nbsp;
+And because I would keep on talking like a Philadelphia lawyer,
+they turned me out without passing sentence on me.&nbsp; Next day
+I was walking with my uncle, and the tall man as took me off to
+the place, passed by.&nbsp; &lsquo;That&rsquo;s the policeman as
+arrested me,&rsquo; says I.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Why, you silly boy,&rsquo; said my uncle,
+&lsquo;that there man is the evangelist, and he took you to his
+chapel, he did.&rsquo;&rdquo;</p>
+<h2><a name="page186"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+186</span>CHAPTER XIV<br />
+<span class="GutSmall">A NIGHT WITH THE GYPSIES&mdash;THE SWEEP
+OF LYNN&mdash;LONDON GYPSIES&mdash;ON EPSOM DOWNS</span></h2>
+<p>&ldquo;<span class="smcap">It</span> ain&rsquo;t fit to turn a
+dog out o&rsquo; doors, that it ain&rsquo;t, so you&rsquo;d
+better make up your mind to stop all night.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Saying this, Gypsy Ladin closed the porch door, but not
+without difficulty, for a gale was battering upon the wayside
+bungalow.&nbsp; Half an hour ago, as I hurried along the
+willow-fringed &ldquo;ramper&rdquo; on my way to see this old
+Romany pal, black rain-clouds, bulging low over the fenland
+wapentake, had foretold an approaching storm; and now with the
+descent of the May night the tempest had burst in full fury upon
+the land.&nbsp; Torrential rain, swift swelling rushes of wind,
+and brilliant flashes of lightning made me glad to be housed with
+my friend in his fire-lit room.</p>
+<p>Hidden by a dense hedge from the highway, this Gypsy abode
+stood back amid a cluster of apple trees, and a daylight view of
+the place would have revealed to you an entirely nondescript
+habitation, with here a home-made porch, and there a
+creeper-grown extension sheltering a green caravan in which Ladin
+and his wife Juli have travelled many a mile over the smooth
+causeways of the far-reaching flats.</p>
+<p><a name="page187"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 187</span>Let
+me picture for you the tiny apartment where we now sat happily
+blowing clouds of tobacco smoke.&nbsp; Over the wide fireplace,
+which occupied one side of the room, rose a high mantelpiece
+surrounded by coloured prints of Derby winners, divided one from
+another by glistening horse-bits and brass-bound whips.&nbsp;
+Opposite the fireplace a small casement looked out upon a
+bulb-garden aglow by day with hyacinths, tulips, and
+narcissi&mdash;a common sight in the Fens.&nbsp; The side walls
+were adorned with portraits of Gypsy relatives deceased and
+living, and the brazen ornaments on parts of a van-horse&rsquo;s
+harness gleamed in the rays of the pendant lamp.&nbsp; Before the
+fire sat my friend and his wife, a tall, striking woman of the
+old-fashioned Draper clan, and along with us were two youthful
+sons of the house, Rinki and Zegul, smart, quick-eyed fellows,
+who occupied a home-made bench opposite my seat of honour in the
+chimney corner.&nbsp; At our feet lay a dark lurcher, a type of
+dog whose peculiar qualities are well appreciated by Gypsies.</p>
+<p>I have already spoken of my friend as &ldquo;Gypsy&rdquo;
+Ladin, but his ruddy complexion and grey eyes are scarcely
+suggestive of the pure Romany.&nbsp; About the good &ldquo;black
+blood&rdquo; of his wife, however, there can be no manner of
+doubt.&nbsp; Probably my friend would agree with the roving
+<i>gawjo</i>, who, having married a pure Gypsy, declared that the
+mingling of gentile and Romany crafts was a desirable blending of
+qualities.&nbsp; Did not Lazzy Smith, renowned in Gypsydom, once
+say&mdash;</p>
+<blockquote><p><a name="page188"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+188</span>&ldquo;Ain&rsquo;t it in the Bible that God&rsquo;s
+people should multiply and be as one?&nbsp; It ain&rsquo;t no
+sort o&rsquo; use at all a-goin&rsquo; agen the dear blessed
+Lord&rsquo;s words.&nbsp; Why, a cross is good, even if it be
+only in wheat, ain&rsquo;t it, now?&rdquo;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>Belonging to East Anglia, Ladin&rsquo;s forelders have mingled
+a good deal with the Herons who formerly travelled the counties
+bordering upon the North Sea.&nbsp; Himself akin to the Chilcots
+and Smiths, Ladin has inherited not a few traditions of these
+families.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Do you remember Yoki Shuri Smith?&rdquo; I asked.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;You mean Old Ryley&rsquo;s wife?&nbsp; Ay, I mind her
+well, but Ryley I don&rsquo;t remember.&nbsp;
+Shuri&rdquo;&mdash;Ladin shivered as he uttered the
+name&mdash;&ldquo;was looked upon as a <i>tshovihawni</i> (witch)
+by our folks.&nbsp; We allus thought it unlucky to meet her on
+the road of a morning.&nbsp; I&rsquo;ve known my folks turn back,
+saying, &lsquo;It ain&rsquo;t no use going out
+to-day.&rsquo;&rdquo;</p>
+<p>After a discussion of Shuri&rsquo;s &ldquo;powers,&rdquo; I
+ventured upon a tale of my own experience of a witch who lived in
+a parish of which I was formerly curate-in-charge.</p>
+<p>About a fortnight after my arrival at the Rectory, our aged
+gardener took me into his confidence.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Excuse me askin&rsquo; if you&rsquo;ve seen Old Betty
+what lives agin the well at the bottom of the lane?&nbsp; You
+must mind you don&rsquo;t never get across wi&rsquo; that woman,
+or she&rsquo;ll sartinly mek things awk&rsquo;ard for
+you.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>The man&rsquo;s meaning was that Betty had &ldquo;peculiar
+powers.&rdquo;&nbsp; A widow of sixty or more, she attended <a
+name="page189"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 189</span>no place of
+worship, and rarely covered her grey head with anything more than
+a shawl.&nbsp; Besides her allowance from the parish, she managed
+to make a little money by selling ointments for wounds and sores,
+and many a cure has been wrought by means of her home-made
+compounds.&nbsp; My first meeting with her was on the Feast of
+St. Thomas, called in those parts &ldquo;Mumping
+Day.&rdquo;&nbsp; At my door stood Old Betty asking for a bit of
+silver, and a few yards behind her came several other
+widows.&nbsp; Hesitatingly I stood just over the threshold, when
+suddenly, before I could step aside, a lot of soft snow slid from
+the house-roof with a splash upon my bare head, while Old Betty
+and her companions laughed loud and long.&nbsp; The village
+gossips duly spread it abroad that Betty had, by her
+&ldquo;peculiar powers,&rdquo; brought down the snow upon the
+parson&rsquo;s head.&nbsp; Anyway, I resolved for the future to
+be more prompt in the exercise of that unfailing charm against
+Betty&rsquo;s witchcraft&mdash;a silver shilling.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>&ldquo;Did you ever see my Aunt Sarah at Blackpool?&rdquo;
+said Juli.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Yes, I once had tea in her tent on the South
+Shore.&nbsp; Did she and her <i>rom</i> (husband), Edward, ever
+travel on this side of England?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Sartinly, they did.&nbsp; Ned&rsquo;s daddy, Tyso, lies
+buried in your country.&nbsp; Poor old man, many&rsquo;s the time
+I&rsquo;ve heard the tale about him and the shepherd
+boy.&rdquo;</p>
+<p><a name="page190"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+190</span>&ldquo;What was that?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>&ldquo;Well, Tyso was once <i>hatsh</i>in (camping) on a
+Norfolk common and got a-talking with a boy tending sheep.&nbsp;
+Says the boy to Tyso&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;I can tell you where there&rsquo;s a buried box
+full o&rsquo; money.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Show me the place,&rsquo; says Tyso.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;The boy took him to a little low, green hill, and then
+they fetches a spade and digs into it.&nbsp; Sure enough they
+bared the lid of an old iron chest with a ring on top, and both
+of &rsquo;em tugged hard at the ring, but the box wouldn&rsquo;t
+budge an inch.&nbsp; Just then Tyso swore, and the ring slipped
+outen their hands, and down went the box and they never
+see&rsquo;d it no more.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>&ldquo;One time the Herrens (Herons) used to come about here a
+good deal.&nbsp; There was handsome William, a wery notified man
+he were.&nbsp; Then there was Old Niabai and Crowy.&nbsp; Their
+son Isaac had a boy born at Lynn close by here&mdash;that was
+&Icirc;za.&nbsp; You&rsquo;ll know him sure-ly.&nbsp; I&rsquo;ve
+often met Ike&rsquo;s half-brother Manful in Lynn.&nbsp; I can
+see him now, a little doubled-up old man.&nbsp; I &rsquo;spects
+you&rsquo;s heard tell of Manful&rsquo;s diamond?&nbsp; One day
+in a public, he catch&rsquo;d sight of something shining among
+the sand&mdash;they sanded the slab floors in them
+days&mdash;and, whatever the thing was, it shone like a bit of
+cut-glass, and at first he thought it wasn&rsquo;t worth stooping
+for, but when the taproom was empty he picked it up, and <a
+name="page191"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+191</span><i>dawdi</i>! if it wasn&rsquo;t a diamond as big as a
+cobnut.&nbsp; So away he takes it to a pawnbroker&rsquo;s shop,
+and the head man told him it were worth hundreds of pounds.&nbsp;
+My dear old dad once saw it with his own eyes.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>While the black trees shuddered outside in the tempest, Ladin
+next told a story I shall never forget.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>&ldquo;When my uncle, Alfred Herren, and his wife Becky was
+a-travelling in Shropshire, they draw&rsquo;d their wagon one
+night into a by-lane&mdash;so they thought&mdash;just outside the
+village, but daylight show&rsquo;d &rsquo;em it were a
+gentleman&rsquo;s drive leading up to a red mansion among the
+trees.&nbsp; Did my uncle pull out when he found he&rsquo;d made
+a mistake?&nbsp; No, for a wery good reason he stopped where he
+was.&nbsp; His missis had been took ill in the night, and a
+little gell were born.&nbsp; The doctor gave no hopes at all for
+the wife, and just when things looked blackest, a groom on
+horseback came up from the mansion, and, slamming on the
+wagon-side with his whipstock, shouted&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Clear out of here, you rascally Gypsies, afore
+my master sees you.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Uncle Alfred put his head outen the door, and
+said&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Stop it, my man.&nbsp; There&rsquo;s a woman
+a-dying in here.&nbsp; I&rsquo;d take it kind of you to go to the
+big house yonder and ask the good lady to come and pray by a
+dying Gypsy.&rsquo;</p>
+<p><a name="page192"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+192</span>&ldquo;Off goes the groom with the message, and soon
+the squire&rsquo;s lady come along carrying a basket of good
+things, and did all she could for Becky, but the poor thing
+died.&nbsp; After that the parson came to christen the baby.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;What name?&rsquo; he asks.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Flower o&rsquo; May,&rsquo; says my uncle.&nbsp;
+The wagon stood under a may-tree, and the flowers were dropping
+on the grass like snow.&nbsp; Now, the squire and his lady come
+along.&nbsp; Says he&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;The Almighty has never given us the blessing of
+a child, so we would like to adopt this little girl of yours and
+bring her up as our own.&nbsp; Here&rsquo; (holding up a bag)
+&lsquo;are one hundred sovereigns.&nbsp; Take them, my good man,
+and let us have the baby.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Nay,&rsquo; says my uncle, &lsquo;you may keep
+your bag of gold.&nbsp; I can&rsquo;t never part wi&rsquo; my
+little gell.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Years went by, and at last my uncle fell ill and
+died.&nbsp; Then my own parents took care of the little gell, and
+they changed her name to Rodi, for they couldn&rsquo;t abide to
+hear the name Flower o&rsquo; May no more; it reminded &rsquo;em
+too sadly of them as had gone.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>On arising from my couch next morning, it was a pleasure to
+find that the air was moderately quiet, and patches of blue were
+showing between the rolling clouds.&nbsp; Breakfast over, my
+friends showed me round their garden gay with flowering
+bulbs.&nbsp; Gypsy-like, they had numerous pets&mdash;a pair of
+long-eared owls, <a name="page193"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+193</span>a jackdaw, a goldfinch, some dainty bantams, and two or
+three pheasants in a wired poultry-run.&nbsp; Now the Gypsies
+came as far as the highway to see me off.&nbsp; Tender leaves and
+twigs strewed the road, as I mounted my bicycle, and after
+pedalling through several villages, the roofs of King&rsquo;s
+Lynn began to appear ahead.&nbsp; A turn in the road at last
+brought me to a bridge spanning the broad river Ouse discoloured
+by flood-water.&nbsp; In a yard of the tavern just across the
+river, the chimneys of several Gypsy vans were to be seen.&nbsp;
+I therefore dismounted to make inquiries.&nbsp; Sunning himself
+on a bench outside the inn, sat a tall Gypsy man emptying a mug
+of Norfolk ale.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;<i>S&acirc; shan</i>, <i>baw</i>?&rdquo; (How do,
+mate?) said I, sitting down beside him.&nbsp; He turned out to be
+one of the Kilthorpes, and his pals in the yard were Coopers from
+London.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>An hour or two later, as I was loitering at a street corner in
+Lynn, I observed not far away a two-wheeled hooded cart drawn by
+a tired horse.&nbsp; From under a dark archway they emerged, and,
+coming into the light, I noticed an old woman under the hood
+smoking a pipe, and just then, from behind the cart stepped a
+sweep, who disappeared into a coal-yard, carrying a sack in his
+hand.&nbsp; Following him, I heard him say&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Half a hundred-weight, missis.&rdquo;&nbsp; A burly
+woman, having weighed out the coal, poured it into the
+sack&mdash;<a name="page194"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+194</span>a bottomless receptacle&mdash;and the black lumps were
+scattered about the floor.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;<i>Muk man peser</i>&rdquo; (Let me pay), said I, from
+behind the sweep.&nbsp; Whereupon the grimy old fellow looked
+round with an amazed stare.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;<i>Pariko tuti</i>, <i>rai</i>&rdquo; (Thank you, sir),
+he stammered out, and, producing a piece of string, he tied the
+sack bottom securely, and the two of us picked up the littered
+coal.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Where are you living?&rdquo; I asked.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;<i>Pawdel</i> the <i>p&acirc;ni</i>&rdquo; (Across the
+water) &ldquo;in West Lynn.&nbsp; We&rsquo;ve been away for three
+months, and we&rsquo;re going round to our house now.&nbsp; Come
+across to-night.&nbsp; Anybody will tell you where Old Stivven
+lives.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>When the yellow street-lamps were twinkling in the dusk, I
+groped my way down a long dark passage, and at the foot of a
+flight of slippery wet steps, found a black coble moored.&nbsp;
+For ten minutes or so I waited till a man in a jersey appeared
+and rowed me across the broad, rolling Ouse.&nbsp; At the
+&ldquo;White Swan&rdquo; inn I made inquiry for my sweep, and was
+given an address, and discovered a sweep, but, alas, he
+wasn&rsquo;t my man at all, and I began to think Old Stephen had
+tricked me.&nbsp; But now I was given another address, where I
+found my man and his wife in their living-room, amid a spread of
+blankets and bedding airing in front of a bright fire.&nbsp; For
+a while we talked, and then at the sweep&rsquo;s suggestion we
+moved across to the &ldquo;White Swan.&rdquo;</p>
+<p><a name="page195"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+195</span>Stephen had formerly travelled with Barney Mace, an
+uncle of Jem, the world-famed pugilist, who had a boxing booth
+which he took to country fairs up and down the land, and in order
+to <i>t&acirc;der</i> the <i>gawj&ecirc;</i> (draw the gentiles),
+Stephen and Poley (Barney&rsquo;s son) would engage in a few
+rounds just outside the booth.</p>
+<p>The sweep had known Old &#332;seri Gray, commonly called
+&ldquo;Sore-eyed Horsery,&rdquo; who died some years ago at
+King&rsquo;s Lynn.&nbsp; He was a renowned Gypsy fiddler.&nbsp;
+If he heard a band play a tune, he would go home and reproduce
+the air on his violin, putting in such variations, grace-notes,
+shakes, and runs, that none of his fellows could compare with
+him.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>Among the sweep&rsquo;s reminiscences was a curious story
+about an eccentric Gypsy who had a fancy for carrying his coffin
+in his travelling van.&nbsp; The man had a daughter, a grown
+woman, who went about with him, his wife having died some years
+before.&nbsp; One afternoon while she was away with her basket in
+the village, her father took out the coffin and was busy
+repainting it when a thunderstorm descended.&nbsp; The Gypsy took
+shelter in his <i>v&acirc;do</i>, which was drawn up near an elm
+tree on a bit of a common.&nbsp; Picture the grief and dismay of
+his daughter on returning to find her father a corpse, for a
+flash of lightning had struck the tree and the van and killed the
+old Romany.&nbsp; On the day of the Gypsy&rsquo;s funeral, the
+vicar of the parish had the flag flying half-mast high <a
+name="page196"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 196</span>on the
+church tower, which everybody said was a kindly feeling to show
+for one who was only a wandering Gypsy.</p>
+<p>On asking my sweep about the house-dwelling Gypsies of Lynn,
+he directed me to the abode of the aged widow of Louis Boss (son
+of the famous Ryley Boswell or Boss), and a charming reception
+she gave me in her spotless cottage in a retired court.&nbsp; The
+sweep had told me of this old lady&rsquo;s liking for snuff, and
+a visit to a <i>tuvalo budika</i> (tobacco shop) enabled me to
+give her a little pleasure.&nbsp; By the fireside she refilled
+her shiny metal box, and, having offered me a trial of the
+pungent dust, herself took deep, loving pinches, with the air of
+a connoisseur.&nbsp; Indeed, the snuff cemented our friendship
+forthwith.&nbsp; Here I am reminded of a story telling how Dr.
+Manning (of the Religious Tract Society) once employed snuff in a
+very different fashion.&nbsp; When visiting Granada in Spain, he
+was beset by a begging crew of swarthy men, women, and children,
+and as he stood in the middle of the clamouring horde, he took
+out his snuff-box.&nbsp; Immediately all the Gypsies wanted a
+pinch.&nbsp; He obliged them, so long as the snuff lasted, taking
+care to keep a tight hold of his silver box.&nbsp; Soon the
+Gypsies were all sneezing and laughing immoderately, and amid the
+commotion the good doctor managed to make his escape.</p>
+<p>The road from King&rsquo;s Lynn to East Dereham led me through
+villages astir with Whitsuntide festivities.&nbsp; At one point I
+turned down a by-lane, <a name="page197"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 197</span>and, resting at the foot of a tree
+within view of Borrow&rsquo;s birthplace at Dumpling Green, I
+observed a party of donkey-folk trudging along with their animals
+towards Dereham.&nbsp; Local mumpers were these people, a
+draggle-tailed lot, and I could not help reflecting upon the
+difference between the poor wanderers who now pass for Gypsies
+and the Petulengros and Herons of Borrow&rsquo;s time.</p>
+<p>In the church of East Dereham, one&rsquo;s fancy pictured the
+boy Borrow in the corner of a pew fixing his eyes upon the
+dignified rector and parish clerk &ldquo;from whose lips would
+roll many a portentous word descriptive of the wondrous works of
+the Most High.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>It was like living in <i>Lavengro</i> to wander about the
+alleys and lanes of old Norwich and through the ling and fern on
+breezy Mousehold above the town.&nbsp; Up there amid the camping
+sites and the fighting-pits, it was not without sadness that I
+read on a notice-board&mdash;&ldquo;No Gypsy, squatter, or
+vagrant shall frequent, or resort to, or remain upon the
+Heath.&rdquo;&nbsp; O shades of Jasper Petulengro and Tawno
+Chikno, changed indeed are the times since the days when ye loved
+and fought and trafficked within the precincts of beautiful old
+Norwich!</p>
+<p>Concerning my trip by boat from Yarmouth to London, which was
+entirely lacking in Gypsy interest, nothing need be said
+here.</p>
+<p>London is in parts strongly tinctured with Gypsy <a
+name="page198"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+198</span>blood.&nbsp; Let anyone walk along the streets which
+have been built upon the sites of the old metropolitan Gypsyries,
+and he will surely see dark faces and black eyes telling how the
+Gypsies still cling to these localities.&nbsp; All around Latimer
+Road Station, which stands upon the Potteries, Gypsies are to be
+found living in narrow courts and dingy lanes.</p>
+<p>On my way to Epsom on the eve of the Derby, I passed a few
+happy moments with my aged pal, Robert Petulengro, in whose back
+room at Notting Hill I have often been regaled with racy stories
+and touching reminiscences of old-time Romany life.&nbsp; There
+is something suggestive of the cleric in Bob&rsquo;s demeanour,
+and a stranger would never suspect that my placid-looking friend
+had led a wild, roving life.&nbsp; It is when he loses himself in
+a tale that his mild ministerial air gives place to a vivacity
+characteristically Gypsy.</p>
+<p>To the Gypsyry on the Potteries came nomads named Heron and
+Leatherlund in the year 1854.&nbsp; (Some of their descendants
+still reside at the backs of the mews in Notting Hill.)&nbsp;
+They were the survivors of a sad disaster which in the previous
+year had befallen a party of hop-pickers at Hadlow in Kent.&nbsp;
+Through the kindness of a Gypsy woman who was &ldquo;saved from
+the flood,&rdquo; I am able to reprint a portion of an old tract
+giving the Rev. R. Shindler&rsquo;s version of &ldquo;The Medway
+Disaster.&rdquo;</p>
+<blockquote><p>&ldquo;In Kent you may still be told of a sad <a
+name="page199"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 199</span>catastrophe
+which befel a party of hop-pickers, in the year 1853, as they
+were returning to their temporary habitations after a day&rsquo;s
+work.&nbsp; The scene of the alarming event was in the parish of
+Hadlow, near Tunbridge, Kent.&nbsp; It is well known that
+thousands of poor people flock down into Kent for the
+hopping.&nbsp; Some of these are Gypsies; some may be described
+as house-cart people, who travel from place to place for the
+greater part of the year, selling their wares&mdash;brushes and
+brooms, tin-ware, earthen-ware, and such-like; but by far the
+larger part emerge from the lanes and alleys and courts of
+London.&nbsp; To the last especially, but to the others also, the
+hopping proves, when the weather is fine and the hops good, a
+pleasant recreation as well as a profitable employment.&nbsp; A
+number of people of Gypsy character and habits were employed by a
+farmer who resided in the parish of Tudely, and who had hop
+gardens also in Hadlow parish.&nbsp; It is a good rule among the
+hop-farmers, that when their gardens are any considerable
+distance from the homes of the natives or the encampments of the
+strangers, the pickers should be conveyed in wagons to and from
+the gardens.&nbsp; In this case, the river Medway had to be
+crossed in going to and from the gardens, and the only means of
+crossing was a wooden bridge of considerable span, and high above
+the current.&nbsp; The bridge was considered dangerous,
+especially for spirited horses, who were alarmed at the noise <a
+name="page200"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 200</span>made by
+their own feet.&nbsp; The bridge was rendered even more dangerous
+by reason of the rather frail open wooden rails which flanked it
+right and left.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;On the morning of the day on which the catastrophe
+occurred, several parties passed over the bridge in safety, and
+in the evening parties of natives, or
+&lsquo;home-dwellers,&rsquo; had returned without any mishap; but
+as a party of Gypsies and suchlike were being conveyed back, the
+horses suddenly took fright, ran the wagon against the side of
+the bridge, which gave way, and wagon, horses, and people were
+precipitated into the strong current below, and no less than
+thirty were drowned.&nbsp; I was then pastor in a neighbouring
+parish, and had taken a deep interest in the religious condition
+of the hoppers, preaching in fields and stackyards and elsewhere
+near their encampments, and distributing tracts and New
+Testaments.&nbsp; The sad event mentioned above stirred my heart
+a great deal, and I felt impelled to write a short tract.&nbsp;
+The thirty hop-pickers were buried in Hadlow churchyard in a
+common grave, the spot being marked by a monument recording the
+names of those who perished in the waters of the
+Medway.&rdquo;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>There are in Battersea numerous &ldquo;yards&rdquo; under
+railway arches, where living-vans of &ldquo;travellers&rdquo;
+used to be seen all the year round.&nbsp; Very much diluted is
+the Gypsy blood to be found nowadays in these
+&ldquo;yards.&rdquo;&nbsp; It is these degenerates, mostly <a
+name="page201"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 201</span>Londoners
+bred and born, who at times give so much trouble to the local
+authorities in Surrey.</p>
+<p>Upon Hampstead Heath, and at Wormwood Scrubbs, a sprinkling of
+Gypsy faces may be seen among the show-folk on a Bank Holiday,
+and at Edmonton, Mitcham, and near Southend-on-Sea, I have met
+Gypsies all the year round.</p>
+<p>If the Yorkshireman goes to see the St. Leger because he has
+an instinctive love of horse-flesh, the Cockney resorts to Epsom
+Downs on the Derby Day to smell the scent of green turf and to
+take part in the most stupendous picnic in the world.</p>
+<p>Not merely to see a crowd of nearly a million human beings,
+but to sample Epsom&rsquo;s Gypsies, was the object of my visit
+to the Downs one unforgettable June day.&nbsp; London&rsquo;s
+unyielding pavements mean for me, after a day or two of them, an
+unpleasant foot-soreness, hence it was a relief to step forth
+upon the springy sward outside the Downs Station.&nbsp; Like
+children let loose from school, my fellow-travellers from town
+laughed and joked, whistled and sang, as briskly they moved
+towards the course.</p>
+<p>It was among the gorse bushes on the sunlit hilltop that I
+caught my first glimpse of the Gypsies, and to one acquainted
+with the swart <i>Romanitshel</i>s of East Anglia and the
+Northern Counties, the folk of the ramshackle carts and tiny
+tents were distinctly disappointing.&nbsp; Ruddy, fair-haired,
+and poorly-clad, were many of them; what a falling off <a
+name="page202"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 202</span>from the
+horde of dark Gypsies assembled at some of our North-Country
+fairs!</p>
+<p>While I was chatting with a metropolitan policeman, up came a
+tall Gypsy girl vending what purported to be tiny squares of
+cedar wood, though the specimen I purchased for threepence
+smelled a good deal more like the innermost layer of the red bark
+abounding in the strips of pine forest around Tunbridge
+Wells.&nbsp; When I inquired of the damsel as to what Gypsies
+were present on the Downs, she replied, with a low laugh,
+&ldquo;You&rsquo;s never got to go far in these parts for to
+catch an Ayre.&nbsp; My dad&rsquo;s an Ayre, but my <i>dai</i>
+(mother) was a Stevens.&nbsp; Over there&rdquo; (pointing to a
+town of Gypsy caravans and a country fair combined opposite the
+Grand Stand) &ldquo;you&rsquo;ll find some of the Matthews,
+Penfolds, and maybe a few of the Bucklands.&rdquo;</p>
+<p style="text-align: center">
+<a href="images/p202b.jpg">
+<img alt=
+"On the Racecourse.  Photo. Valentine"
+title=
+"On the Racecourse.  Photo. Valentine"
+src="images/p202s.jpg" />
+</a></p>
+<p>Crossing the course, I made my way to the part of the Downs
+indicated by Cinderella Ayre, and though I rubbed shoulders with
+a good many sunburnt travellers in corduroys, and show-women in
+gowns of red and green, the first real Gypsy it was my good
+fortune to meet was Davy Lee, the ancient vagabond who
+&ldquo;planted&rdquo; the <i>duker</i>in-<i>mokto</i>
+(fortune-telling box) upon George Smith of Coalville.&nbsp;
+Although nearly blind, Davy managed to dodge in and out of the
+crowd, and, taking me up to his wagon, found time to chat about
+his father, the renowned Zacky Lee.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;My daddy was stopping one night in a field, and before
+going to bed, he looked out and there <a name="page203"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 203</span>was his white donkey&mdash;leastways
+so he fancied.&nbsp; It was roaming about, and he set off to
+catch and tether it, so as he shouldn&rsquo;t lose it.&nbsp; But
+do whatever he would, he could never get up to the animal.&nbsp;
+The nearer he tried to come at it, the furder off it allus was,
+till at last he know&rsquo;d that what he&rsquo;d been chasing
+all night was not his donkey at all, but the Devil.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Lounging on the grass, I noticed that the great event of the
+afternoon had arrived.&nbsp; Sleek, lean horses cantered along
+the course and passed out of sight.&nbsp; Amid a confused hubbub
+of voices, several moments went by.&nbsp; Now the glasses were
+levelled, and a profound silence settled on the crowd.&nbsp; All
+eyes were turned upon a little knot of horses appearing round
+Tattenham Corner.&nbsp; Then the sound of many voices swelled
+into a roar and died down again when the numbers went up.</p>
+<p>Prominent at these races in days gone by was Matthias Cooper,
+a Gypsy to whom the late King Edward, when Prince of Wales, would
+toss a golden sovereign.&nbsp; A well-known figure was Matty,
+attired in white hat, yellow waistcoat, black cut-away coat, and
+white trousers.&nbsp; Hovering about this old Gypsy was an air of
+the Courts and the Wilderness, for had he not mingled with
+royalty nearly all his life, this old &ldquo;Windsor
+Froggie&rdquo;?&nbsp; It was from him that Charles G. Leland
+obtained most of the materials that went to make his work
+entitled <i>The English Gipsies and their Language</i>.&nbsp;
+Matty is now no more, but his <a name="page204"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 204</span>sons, Anselo and Wacker, still
+attend the Epsom races year by year.</p>
+<p>The great carnival was at last subsiding when I found myself
+in the tent of Anselo Cooper and his wife, with whom I took
+tea.&nbsp; I am not likely to forget my ride from the course to
+Epsom Town.&nbsp; As the Coopers were not leaving till the end of
+the week, they begged a lift for me from some friends of theirs
+who were going to the town.&nbsp; Our &ldquo;carriage,&rdquo; a
+two-wheeled affair, was drawn by a gaunt, long-legged horse, and
+along with some strange dark Gypsies I sat upon a pile of smoky
+tent-covers.&nbsp; We sped along the Down-land in a fashion which
+rocked us terribly.&nbsp; The very policemen laughed as we went
+by, but we reached the town in safety.</p>
+<h2><a name="page205"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+205</span>CHAPTER XV<br />
+<span class="GutSmall">TINKERS AND GRINDERS</span></h2>
+<p>A <span class="GutSmall">PLAGUE</span> of an incline to joints
+stiffened by age, the Steep Hill at Lincoln is for me aureoled by
+all the fair colours of youth.&nbsp; Have I not more than once
+rent my nether garments in gliding down the adjacent
+hand-rail?&nbsp; Likewise in the time of snow have I not, defiant
+of police-notices, made slides where the gradient is
+sharpest?</p>
+<p>Now it happened one day that under the shadow of the ancient,
+timbered houses just below the crown of the hill there stood at
+his workshop on wheels a Gypsy tinker whose wizened figure and
+general air of queerness would have charmed a Teniers, and I, a
+town boy with no small capacity for prying, hovered at his elbow,
+studying his operations.&nbsp; Suz-z-z-z-z went the
+tinker&rsquo;s wheel, as the sparks scattered in a rosy shower
+from the edge of a deftly handled blade.&nbsp; Then of a sudden
+something happened, causing me to jump as one who had been
+shot.&nbsp; There was a dull thud of a falling body, followed
+immediately by a shrill cry issuing from the throat of a
+sprawling pedlar&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Stop my leg, stop my leg!&rdquo;</p>
+<p><a name="page206"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 206</span>A
+glance at the poor fellow revealed the whole story.&nbsp; His
+wooden leg, having become detached from its moorings, was rolling
+down the paved incline.&nbsp; Several persons were passing at the
+time, and more than one made a dash to recover the defaulting
+limb, but, youth&rsquo;s suppleness favouring me, I managed to
+capture the elusive treasure, and up the hill I bore it in
+triumph.&nbsp; With admirable agility the tinker reattached the
+limb, and the pedlar went on his way rejoicing.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Gimme yer knife, boy,&rdquo; said the tinker.</p>
+<p>I had one resembling a saw, which he whisked from my hand and
+duly restored with a nice edge.&nbsp; He then resumed his work as
+though nothing worthy of remark had happened to stay the song of
+his wheel.</p>
+<p>A craft of hoary antiquity is that of the nomad
+metal-worker.&nbsp; An Austrian ecclesiastic, in the year 1200,
+describes the &ldquo;calderari,&rdquo; or tinkers, of that time:
+&ldquo;They have no home or country.&nbsp; Everywhere they are
+found alike.&nbsp; They travel through the world abusing mankind
+with their knavery.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Four hundred years later, an Italian writer gives an account
+of the tinker who enchants the knives of the peasants by
+magnetizing them so as to pick up needles, and for this he
+accepts payment in the shape of a fowl or a pie.&nbsp; To this
+day in Eastern Europe, the smith, usually a Gypsy, is regarded as
+a semi-conjurer who has dealings with the Devil.</p>
+<p>In Scotland you will find numberless &ldquo;Creenies, <a
+name="page207"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 207</span>crinks, and
+tinklers&rdquo; who roam in primitive Gypsy fashion, with
+donkeys, ramshackle carts, tents, and a tinker&rsquo;s
+equipment.&nbsp; If you have dropped into the shepherd&rsquo;s
+cottage in the heathery glen, or the lone farmhouse on the
+Lowland fell, you will have noticed the horn spoons and ladles,
+or the rude smoothing-irons.&nbsp; These are the handiwork of the
+tinklers of a bygone generation.</p>
+<p>Two or three generations ago most of our English Gypsies were
+wandering tinkers carrying their outfits on their backs.</p>
+<p>For my own part, I have everywhere found the caste of tinkers
+a cheerful, happy-go-lucky fellowship, and in talks with them I
+have observed that they generally know a few Gypsy words, even
+when it is clear that they do not belong to the dark race.</p>
+<p>Shakespeare&rsquo;s Prince Hal, in <i>Henry </i><span
+class="GutSmall"><i>IV</i></span>. (First Part, Act 2, Scene 4),
+is made to say, &ldquo;I can drink with any tinker in his own
+language.&rdquo;&nbsp; This language, or jargon, known as
+<i>Shelta</i>, <a name="citation207"></a><a href="#footnote207"
+class="citation">[207]</a> has been the subject of much learned
+writing.</p>
+<p>My first lesson in Shelta was taken near the Shire Bridge,
+where the Great North Road, approaching Newark-on-Trent from the
+south, quits Lincolnshire <a name="page208"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 208</span>for the county of Nottingham.&nbsp;
+A favourite halting-place is this for wayfaring folk of all
+sorts.&nbsp; Seated on Mother Earth&rsquo;s green carpet, a
+tinker and his wife were taking tea, and at their invitation I
+sat beside them for a chat.&nbsp; Presently I showed two bright
+new pennies to the tinker, saying&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;If you&rsquo;ll tell me what these are in
+<i>Shelta</i>, they&rsquo;re yours.&rdquo;</p>
+<p style="text-align: center">
+<a href="images/p208ab.jpg">
+<img alt=
+"A Tinker of the Olden Times.  By permission of Mrs. Johnson"
+title=
+"A Tinker of the Olden Times.  By permission of Mrs. Johnson"
+src="images/p208as.jpg" />
+</a></p>
+<p>In a moment he replied, &ldquo;<i>Od nyok</i>&rdquo; (two
+heads), and I handed over the coins.&nbsp; With a comic gesture
+he queried&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Yer wouldn&rsquo;t like to larn a bit more o&rsquo;
+thet langwidge, would yer?&rdquo;</p>
+<p style="text-align: center">
+<a href="images/p208bb.jpg">
+<img alt=
+"A Welsh Gypsy Tinker.  Photo. Fred Shaw"
+title=
+"A Welsh Gypsy Tinker.  Photo. Fred Shaw"
+src="images/p208bs.jpg" />
+</a></p>
+<p>&ldquo;Rat-tat-tat&rdquo; went the old brass knocker one
+morning at the side-door of my house, and on being informed that
+a tinker was inquiring for me, I hastened to see what manner of
+man he was.&nbsp; Before me stood a battered specimen of the
+Romany of the roads, and with a view to testing his depth, I
+asked&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Do you ever <i>dik</i> any <i>Romanitshel</i>s on the
+<i>drom</i>?&rdquo; (see any Gypsies on the road).</p>
+<p>&ldquo;You &rsquo;ave me there, mister,&rdquo; said he.&nbsp;
+&ldquo;Upon my soul, I dunno what you&rsquo;re talkin&rsquo;
+about.&rdquo;</p>
+<p><a name="page209"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 209</span>The
+man&rsquo;s face was a study in innocence.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;You know right enough what I&rsquo;m saying,&rdquo; I
+continued in Romany.</p>
+<p>My man could endure it no longer, and, exploding with mirth,
+he turned and shouted to his brother, who stood near a
+grinding-barrow on the road.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;<i>Av akai</i>, Bill, &rsquo;ere&rsquo;s a <i>rashai
+roker</i>in <i>Romanes</i> as fast as we can&rdquo; (Come here,
+Bill, here&rsquo;s a parson talking Gypsy).&nbsp; &ldquo;Bring
+that <i>shushi</i> (rabbit) out o&rsquo; the <i>guno</i>&rdquo;
+(sack).</p>
+<p>With unaffected goodwill, the two Gypsies insisted on my
+accepting the rabbit as a token of friendship.&nbsp; This I did
+gladly, asking no questions as to how they had come by a
+newly-killed rabbit.&nbsp; After grinding my garden axe, they
+both set off whistling down the road.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>One day a Gypsy tinker, whom I had met a few times, took me
+aside, saying&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;My sister lives in the next street&rdquo; (he told me
+the number).&nbsp; &ldquo;She has a pony, a poor, scraggy thing,
+which she wants to get rid of badly.&nbsp; Go you and say to
+her&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;I hear you have a nice little cob to
+sell.&rsquo;&nbsp; And when she brings it round for you to look
+at, say&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Bless my soul, do you think I&rsquo;d buy a
+hoppy <i>grai</i> like <i>dova</i>?&rsquo;&rdquo; (a lame horse
+like that).</p>
+<p>Presently, at that sister&rsquo;s threshold, I waited for the
+pony to be brought round, which on arriving proved to be a
+miserable-looking animal indeed.&nbsp; The <a
+name="page210"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 210</span>woman
+looked first at me, then at the pony, which limped badly, while
+its bones showed through its skin.</p>
+<p>Said I, &ldquo;Well, really, I didn&rsquo;t expect to see
+quite such a <i>wafodu kova</i>&rdquo; (wretched thing).</p>
+<p>Readily entering into the joke, she laughed heartily.&nbsp;
+She had taken me for a <i>dinelo gawjo</i> (gentile simpleton),
+and to her astonishment I had turned out to be a Gypsy of a
+higher sort.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>At one time I used to have frequent visits from a travelling
+tinker, and when his grinding-barrow was standing in my yard, I
+would chat with him while he was doing some little job.&nbsp; He
+was an interesting fellow who had seen something of the
+world.&nbsp; He had a remarkable knowledge of the medicinal
+properties of wild herbs, and would spend hours by the chalk
+stream in our valley, grubbing up liverwort of which he would
+make decoctions.&nbsp; One morning he was in the tale-telling
+mood.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;It was this very barrer what you&rsquo;re looking at
+now.&nbsp; You notice there&rsquo;s lots of bits of brass nailed
+on it for to catch the sunshine.&nbsp; I likes my barrer to look
+cheerful.&nbsp; Well, there was a fellow came to me with summut
+wrapped up in brown paper, a flat thing it was, and he says,
+&lsquo;I want you to buy this here off me.&rsquo;&nbsp; Says I,
+&lsquo;Let&rsquo;s have a look at it,&rsquo; and when he opened
+it out, it was a fine bit of copper-plate with summut engraved on
+it.&nbsp; I asked him what the engraving was about, for you know
+I can&rsquo;t read.&nbsp; He says, &lsquo;It&rsquo;s an architex
+business plate, that&rsquo;s <a name="page211"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 211</span>all, and you can have it for a
+shilling.&rsquo;&nbsp; So I bought it and nailed it on to my
+barrer among the other bits of brass and things.&nbsp; Well,
+happens that a parson was a-talking to me one day, and I noticed
+his eye lighted on this here copper-plate.&nbsp; Says he, looking
+wery serious, &lsquo;I&rsquo;m afraid this will get you into
+trouble, if a policeman sees it.&rsquo;&nbsp; &lsquo;How&rsquo;s
+that?&rsquo; I asked.&nbsp; &lsquo;What&rsquo;s wrong with the
+copper-plate?&rsquo;&nbsp; &lsquo;Well,&rsquo; says he,
+&lsquo;it&rsquo;s a plate for printing &pound;5 notes.&nbsp;
+Where did you get it from?&rsquo;&nbsp; And I told him.&nbsp; You
+may be sure I soon had that plate off my barrer, and, turning to
+the parson, I says, &lsquo;Perhaps you&rsquo;ll buy it off me,
+for a sort of nicknack?&rsquo;&nbsp; And he gave me half-a-crown
+for it.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Looking slyly at me, the tinker remarked&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;When that parson got home, being a man of eddication,
+he would know where to get the right sort of paper, and then he
+would make &pound;5 notes cheap, you bet.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>For several Christmas Eves past, this tinker&rsquo;s boy and a
+little pal have walked some miles from a neighbouring town to
+sing carols at my Rectory door.&nbsp; They possess good voices
+and sing very tunefully some of the old carols, &ldquo;God rest
+you, merry gentlemen,&rdquo; and the like.</p>
+<p>One summer afternoon, in the market-place at Hull, I met two
+grinders coming out of a tavern, near which stood a
+tinker&rsquo;s barrow belonging to one of them, Golias Gray, a
+Gypsy, whom I had seen <a name="page212"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 212</span>before at fair-times in the seaport
+town.&nbsp; &ldquo;Black as the ace of spades&rdquo; is Golias,
+and he was, as usual, sporting a yellow shirt.&nbsp; His
+pale-faced companion, a stranger to me, after a little talk,
+waxed communicative, and, whilst his Gypsy pal resumed his
+grinding of knives, he gave me a short list of words in
+<i>Shelta</i> (Tinker&rsquo;s Talk).</p>
+<table>
+<tr>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">Shelta</span>.</p>
+</td>
+<td><p><span class="smcap">English</span>.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Binni</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Little.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Bog</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>To get.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Buer</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Woman, wife.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Cam</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Son.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Gap</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>To kiss.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Gosh</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>To sit.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Granni</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>To know.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Hin</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>One.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Ken</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>House.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Minkler</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Tinker.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Mizzle</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>To go.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Monkeri</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Country.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Mush</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Umbrella.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Nyok</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Head.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Od</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Two.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Sonni</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>To see.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Stammer</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>To spit.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Stimmer</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Pipe.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Sweebli</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Boy.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Thari</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>To speak.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Tober</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Road.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+<h2><a name="page213"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+213</span>CHAPTER XVI<br />
+<span class="GutSmall">THE INN ON THE RIDGEWAY&mdash;TALES BY THE
+FIRESIDE</span></h2>
+<p><span class="smcap">At</span> one time I had a great liking
+for long jaunts in search of fossils&mdash;cross-country rambles
+extending over two or three days.&nbsp; Thus I came to know many
+a deserted quarry and unfrequented byway of our county, as well
+as the bedchambers of sundry remote wayside
+inns&mdash;&ldquo;hedge-taverns,&rdquo; perhaps some would have
+described these lonely little houses of call.&nbsp; Occasionally,
+however, I lighted upon an inn which had seen better days, a
+sleepy old house with mullioned casements, a worn mounting-block
+of stone, and a rude iron ring still fixed in the wall near the
+deep porch before which an unfenced stretch of sward dipped
+towards the roadway.</p>
+<p>Let me recall one of my geologizing expeditions on an early
+March day.&nbsp; I had been successful in my quest, and my
+knapsack, laden with stony spoils, was not very light.&nbsp; But
+what matter?&nbsp; It was fine to be striding along a ridgeway
+with a roaring gale behind, and every wayside tree whistling like
+a ships rigging in a storm.&nbsp; Going along that road, <a
+name="page214"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 214</span>I stretched
+out my limbs, and in so doing the very thews and sinews of the
+mind became more elastic.&nbsp; Straight from the reddening west
+blew the wild whirling wind, which, like some old giant,
+frolicsome yet kind, spread out its open palms upon my back,
+fairly shoving me along.&nbsp; This was living&mdash;this fine
+exaltation, this surging up of joyous emotions; and from a
+gnarled ash tree a storm-thrush with throbbing speckled throat
+told the same tale of a heart set free from every care.&nbsp;
+Such was my mood when at a turn of the road a red-shawled figure,
+surely a Gypsy, appeared for a moment and as suddenly was lost to
+sight down a gloomy yew-fringed drive leading to the rear of a
+low grey mansion.&nbsp; She&rsquo;ll be out again presently,
+thought I; so I resolved to await the woman&rsquo;s
+reappearance.</p>
+<p>Meanwhile, like a spreading forest fire, the sunset flung its
+flaming crimson far over the land.&nbsp; Tree boughs and boles
+caught the glow, and underfoot the very grasses burnt by winter
+frosts seemed dyed with blood.&nbsp; Across a riot of sundown
+colours, black rooks were heading for their resting-place in the
+upland woods rugged against a castle-phantasy of lurid cloud
+piled up in the east.</p>
+<p>Loitering there, methought of the wandering Gypsies who in
+other days had passed along this desolate road.&nbsp; I seemed
+again to behold a gang of slouching Herons, swarthy, black-eyed,
+secretive, accompanied by their pack-ponies and donkeys carrying
+tent-rods, pots, and pans.&nbsp; Who shall say what <a
+name="page215"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 215</span>processions
+of old Romany souls, long departed, here visit the glimpses of
+the moon?</p>
+<p>The moments flew by, but no Gypsy came.&nbsp; A little longer
+I waited, pacing sharply up and down the roadway, then as the red
+shawl had not put in an appearance, visions of a cosy meal by the
+fire of a certain inn began to beckon alluringly, so I started on
+my way again.&nbsp; Soon I forgot all about the Gypsy, who by
+this time had probably done a good stroke in the <i>duker</i>in
+line among the servants of the mansion.&nbsp; However, a rutted,
+grassy lane turning off to the left drew one&rsquo;s eye towards
+a gorsy corner where the chimney of a Gypsy van flung a drooping
+trail of smoke over the tangles, and, going forward, I shouted in
+the doorway, &ldquo;Anybody at home?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>A man&rsquo;s scared face looked out.&nbsp; Perhaps he had
+expected a command to quit his corner and draw out into the windy
+night.&nbsp; A moment later in a tone of relief, he
+said&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Now I know who you are.&nbsp; You&rsquo;ll be the
+<i>rashai</i> I met wi&rsquo; Jonathan Boswell by the
+watermill.&nbsp; Don&rsquo;t you remember I moved away when you
+began to <i>roker</i> (talk)?&nbsp; My pal Boswell wanted to have
+you to himself.&nbsp; That&rsquo;s why I took my hook.&nbsp; But
+come inside a bit.&nbsp; This wind&rsquo;s enough to blow your
+wery <i>bal avr&icirc;</i>&rdquo; (hair off).</p>
+<p>How strange it is that if a Gypsy has seen you anywhere for a
+few moments, he is able to identify your very shadow for ever
+after.</p>
+<p><a name="page216"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+216</span>Gladly I joined Old Frank in his cheery
+<i>v&acirc;do</i>, which certainly suggested comfort and gaiety
+to this traveller on the wild March evening.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;You gave me a bit of a shock,&rdquo; said Frank.&nbsp;
+&ldquo;At first I took you for a <i>muskro</i> (constable), but
+as soon as the light of my lamp fell on your face I reckernized
+you in a minute.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>We talked awhile of Old Jonathan, whose faithful consort Fazzy
+had passed away up in Yorkshire.&nbsp; This brought to mind the
+red-shawled woman whom I had seen down the road.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;That&rsquo;ll be my <i>monushni</i> (wife).&nbsp; I
+expect her home di-rectly.&nbsp; When she comes, you pretend to
+be a <i>muskro</i>&rdquo;&mdash;this with a broad grin.&nbsp;
+&ldquo;Say roughish-like, &lsquo;Wasn&rsquo;t your name Liddy
+West afore you was married?&rsquo;&nbsp; Then draw out a bit of
+paper, a letter folded long or anythink like that&rsquo;ll do,
+and say, &lsquo;I&rsquo;ve come to take you for
+fortune-telling.&rsquo;&rdquo;</p>
+<p>No one understands the whole art and mystery of practical
+joking better than the Gypsy, and he dearly loves to play pranks
+even upon his fellows.&nbsp; It is part and parcel of the
+Gypsy&rsquo;s innate spirit of mischief, examples of which I have
+seen not a few in my time.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>Having acquiesced in the joke, our talk presently ran on
+<i>muskro</i>s.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;<i>Muskro</i>s <i>s&icirc; jukel</i>s&rdquo; (policemen
+are dogs), said the Gypsy.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;There was a pal of mine who was up to card <a
+name="page217"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 217</span>games
+[sharping?], and at Doncaster Races he happened to drop a word or
+two in <i>Romanes</i> (Gypsy tongue) to a mate.&nbsp; A
+<i>muskro</i> was standing near, and bless me if he didn&rsquo;t
+<i>jin</i> the <i>tshib</i> (know the language), and of course my
+pal and his mate was <i>lel</i>&rsquo;d <i>opr&ecirc;</i> (taken
+up).&nbsp; &rsquo;Pend upon it, <i>muskro</i>s is
+<i>jukel</i>s.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>A good step farther along the road stood the tavern, the
+&ldquo;Black Boy,&rdquo; whose swinging sign of an Ethiopian
+countenance I was eager to see, since I was to spend the night
+there in order to resume my fossil-hunting on the morrow.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Come and see me a little later at the <i>kitshima</i>
+(inn) down the road, and mind you bring the missis and your
+fiddle.&rdquo;&nbsp; As I rose to go, I noticed Frank gave a
+sidelong glance at my bulging knapsack, and in order to satisfy
+his curiosity, I took out a fossil, a fine <i>gryphea
+incurva</i>, on seeing which he drew back, holding up his hands
+in real or mock horror, I could scarcely say which.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;<i>D&acirc;bla</i>, that be one of the Devil&rsquo;s
+toe-nails, wery onlucky stuff to carry about you!&nbsp; Wherever
+did you get it from?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Off the <i>Beng</i>&rsquo;s <i>p&icirc;ro</i>
+(Devil&rsquo;s foot), to be sure,&rdquo; I said, with a laugh,
+and renewed my invitation pressingly.&nbsp; He promised to
+come.</p>
+<p>What a relief to stretch your limbs before a glowing fire
+inside an old-fashioned inn, when boisterous winds are shaking
+the window-panes and driving the loose straw from the cobbled
+yard into the hedge bottoms.&nbsp; No stranger at this house on
+<a name="page218"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 218</span>the
+ridgeway, I know every nook of the room.&nbsp; There is the old
+gun still reared up in yonder corner.&nbsp; From nails in the
+cross-beams hang flitches of bacon and bulky hams.&nbsp; Plates
+and dishes arranged on racks glitter in the firelight.&nbsp; The
+pewter mugs on the dresser and the bright copper warming-pan
+hanging on the wall reflect the glow of the ruddy flames darting
+up the wide chimney.&nbsp; Here and there hang modern oleographs
+whose crude tints have been softened by smoke.</p>
+<p>Tea is set on a table over which a lamp hanging from a hook in
+the ceiling casts a pleasant radiance.&nbsp; During my meal the
+landlord, ruddy of countenance, looks in and greets me in a
+friendly way.&nbsp; From his talk with his wife, a slight,
+frail-looking woman of seventy who sits darning by the fire, I
+gather that a horse is very ill in the stable, and any moment the
+veterinary surgeon is expected.&nbsp; Presently, the barking of a
+dog in the front of the inn announces his arrival in a gig, and
+the landlord hurries out with a storm-lantern in his hand.&nbsp;
+In a few minutes, the two men enter, and before the fire the
+burly vet rubs his hands, talks in clear, sharp tones, then,
+tossing off a &ldquo;scotch&rdquo; smoking hot, he wishes us
+good-night.&nbsp; Whereupon the innkeeper goes off to the
+stable.</p>
+<p>Tea over, a small maid with chestnut hair and spotless
+pinafore clears the table, and I move to the high-backed settle
+opposite the landlady.&nbsp; In the fire-grate a huge chunk of
+wood burns brightly, <a name="page219"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 219</span>and every now and then a puff of
+wood-smoke comes out into the room.</p>
+<p>Addressing the old lady, I inform her that I am expecting some
+visitors to see me to-night, and they are stopping in a little
+lane down the road.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Why, we had those Gypsies up here this morning.&nbsp;
+Their faces are well known round here, though we don&rsquo;t have
+them so much as we used to do.&nbsp; You take an interest in
+Gypsies, don&rsquo;t you, sir?&nbsp; At least I&rsquo;ve heard it
+said that you do.&nbsp; They don&rsquo;t often set foot inside
+your church, I should think?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Sometimes they do, and their reverent behaviour would
+certainly put to shame some of the more regular attenders.&nbsp;
+If their unfamiliarity with print leads them to hold a borrowed
+book upside down, they do at anyrate kneel upon their knees
+instead of squatting upon the benches, and I have never once
+known them to go to sleep during sermon-time.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Speaking about Gypsies and churches, I am reminded of a funny
+experience I once had all through a Gypsy cabman&rsquo;s
+mistake.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>I had promised to take an afternoon service at a village
+church miles away in the country, and the road to it was
+unfamiliar to me.&nbsp; On my naming the place, the driver said
+that he knew every inch of the road, and, trusting myself in his
+hands, we bowled along for several miles, and at <a
+name="page220"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 220</span>last struck
+off into a tangle of green lanes.&nbsp; A few minutes before the
+hour of service&mdash;three o&rsquo;clock&mdash;my driver put me
+down at an old grey stone church, saying, &ldquo;Here we are,
+sir.&rdquo;&nbsp; Entering the church, I found a congregation
+assembled, and, going into the belfry, I asked for the vestry
+wherein to robe.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;We ain&rsquo;t got one here.&nbsp; Our pass&rsquo;n
+dresses hisself in his house and comes in at that little
+door.&rdquo;&nbsp; The sexton then conducted me to a
+chantry-chapel full of dusty figures of knights and their ladies
+lying side by side with their feet resting upon their
+hounds.&nbsp; There I robed and awaited the ceasing of the
+bells.&nbsp; When they stopped, I stepped towards the prayer
+desk, when, to my astonishment, there appeared through the small
+door in the chancel a fully-robed parson, white-headed and bowed
+with age.&nbsp; We met and exchanged astonished glances.</p>
+<p>Said I, &ldquo;I&rsquo;m afraid there is some
+mistake.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>He shook his head.&nbsp; &ldquo;I&rsquo;m deaf, and
+can&rsquo;t hear a word you say.&rdquo;&nbsp; He then went to his
+desk, and knelt before commencing evensong.</p>
+<p>It was an uncomfortable five minutes for me.&nbsp; I could
+hear the congregation tittering and the mixed choir
+giggling.&nbsp; In despair I went to the lady organist, and asked
+for the name of the church.&nbsp; Her reply made it clear that I
+had come to the wrong village, and, rushing out by the chancel
+door, I sought my cabby, whom I rated soundly for his
+blunder.&nbsp; Fortunately <a name="page221"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 221</span>my destination was no more than a
+mile and a half farther on.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>In a little while, the tavern door opened noisily, admitting a
+rush of wind.&nbsp; There was a sound of naily boots on the
+threshold, and Gypsy Frank and his wife entered.&nbsp; In a few
+moments they were happy enough on the black settle with mugs of
+good Newark brew in front of them.</p>
+<p>Just before the Gypsies had arrived, I had been studying a
+pocket-map of the locality, and once again I had an old
+impression confirmed that many out-of-the-way country districts
+are dotted over with place-names bearing witness to the
+prevalence of Gypsy encampments in the past.&nbsp; I mean such
+names as &ldquo;Gypsy Lane,&rdquo; &ldquo;Gypsy Nook,&rdquo;
+&ldquo;Gypsy Dale,&rdquo; and the like.&nbsp; On the map I had
+noted a &ldquo;Gypsy Corner,&rdquo; &ldquo;Gypsy Bridge,&rdquo;
+and &ldquo;Gypsy Ford.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>It was about &ldquo;Gypsy Ford&rdquo; that I put a question to
+Old Frank sitting by my side, and he described the shallow
+crossing at a bend in the river over which before now I had
+passed by a narrow plank-bridge.&nbsp; According to my Gypsy, one
+night many years ago a quarrel arose in the Romany tents encamped
+near the ford, and in the course of a fight between two kinsmen,
+one of them was slain.&nbsp; Speedily a grave was dug, and, the
+corpse having been covered up, the Gypsies fled the spot.&nbsp;
+This affair became widely known, and little wonder that a legend
+arose about a &ldquo;something&rdquo; having been seen in the
+neighbourhood of the ford.</p>
+<p><a name="page222"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+222</span>&ldquo;You&rsquo;s mebbe heard,&rdquo; said Frank,
+&ldquo;about Gypsy Jack&rsquo;s wife, &lsquo;Flash&rsquo;
+Rosabel, who was drownded at the ford on just such a wild night
+as this.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Let&rsquo;s camp in the lane on this side of the
+water,&rsquo; says Jack&rsquo;s wife.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;<i>Keka</i>&rsquo; (No), says he, &lsquo;not in
+this <i>drom</i> (road) where the <i>mulo</i> (ghost)
+walks.&nbsp; With a bright moon like this, our <i>grai</i>
+(horse) will see to pull us through the river all right, never
+fear.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Anyway, he whipped up the horse and steered straight
+into the ford.&nbsp; And then a sad thing happened.&nbsp; There
+had been a deal o&rsquo; rain and the stream was bigger and
+stronger than Jack had any idea of.&nbsp; Somewheres about the
+middle of the river, the hoss was swept off its feet, the wagon
+tumbled over on to its side, and poor old &lsquo;Flash&rsquo;
+Rosabel was carried away and drownded.&nbsp; Jack allus said that
+the <i>grai</i> must have <i>dik</i>&rsquo;d the
+<i>mulo</i>&rdquo; (the horse must have seen the ghost).&nbsp;
+&ldquo;That&rsquo;s a tale what&rsquo;s been told by many a
+traveller&rsquo;s fire.&rdquo;</p>
+<p style="text-align: center">
+<a href="images/p222b.jpg">
+<img alt=
+"A Romany Fiddler.  Photo. Fred Shaw"
+title=
+"A Romany Fiddler.  Photo. Fred Shaw"
+src="images/p222s.jpg" />
+</a></p>
+<p>Just then the publican came in, panting after a tussle with
+the wind, and, being on good terms with my Gypsy friends, he
+said, &ldquo;I&rsquo;m glad to see you&rsquo;ve brought your
+music.&nbsp; Gi&rsquo; us a tune, Frank.&rdquo;&nbsp; Then the
+Gypsy, taking his fiddle from its baize bag, screwed up the
+strings, and, having tuned them to his liking, gave us a merry
+air from memory&rsquo;s repertoire.&nbsp; At the back of the
+clear cantabile of the air, you heard the deep roar of the
+storm.&nbsp; Once I <a name="page223"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 223</span>went to the window and looked out
+into the night.&nbsp; Athwart the white moonlit road lay the
+sharp black shadows of the ash trees rising from the far
+hedgerow, and, as I watched the swaying, writhing boughs, a
+lonely horseman sped past, a phantom he seemed more than a living
+being, and, returning to my nook in the ingle, I heard in fancy
+all through the Gypsy&rsquo;s music the haunting clatter of the
+night-rider&rsquo;s horse, and wondered what mysterious mission
+had called him forth on this riotous March evening.&nbsp; Now the
+fiddler ceased, and his pewter was forthwith replenished.&nbsp;
+&ldquo;Good ale, this,&rdquo; says Frank, wiping his mouth with
+the back of his hand.&nbsp; &ldquo;Why, yes,&rdquo; put in the
+landlady, looking over her spectacles, and glad, if the truth be
+known, to give her darning a rest; &ldquo;it&rsquo;s Newark ale,
+and no better drink could any man wish for; we&rsquo;ve sold
+nothing else for years.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Said the landlord, who by this time had recovered his
+breath&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;That was a strange case as I see&rsquo;d in the paper
+t&rsquo;other day about the wise woman getting
+&lsquo;trapped&rsquo; by the constable&rsquo;s wife as went to
+have her fortune told.&nbsp; The paper said as how a crystal ball
+were used, but I&rsquo;m blest if I knows how anybody can expect
+to see their future in a thing o&rsquo; that sort.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Dunno so much about that,&rdquo; remarked Old Liddy,
+who had been dreaming over the fire.&nbsp; &ldquo;A woman as had
+a crystal once told my dad he would go to <a
+name="page224"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 224</span>prison in a
+fortnight, and sure enough he did, along wi&rsquo; a conjurer
+who&rsquo;d been up to his tricks, and dad says to him when they
+was in jail, &lsquo;A mighty poor conjurer you be, my fine
+fellow, if you can&rsquo;t conjure us out of this
+place.&rsquo;&nbsp; I believes there <i>is</i> summut in
+crystals.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>And then I was tempted to tell how a clairvoyant&rsquo;s
+crystal once did me a good turn.&nbsp; Let me explain that many
+years ago, when I was a curate on the Wolds, our Rector&rsquo;s
+aged wife used to bring me rare wild-flowers to be named, and
+thus I won a place in the lady&rsquo;s good books.</p>
+<p>Time passed, and the Rector&rsquo;s wife died.&nbsp; Not long
+after, I moved away to another sphere of work.&nbsp; Then came
+the news of the decease of the old Rector himself.&nbsp; One
+morning, twenty years after quitting that Wold parish, a letter
+reached me, asking if I had been a curate with Canon A&mdash; in
+such and such years, and further inquiring whether my wife
+Elizabeth was still alive.&nbsp; Of course I had no difficulty in
+satisfying the writer of the letter, and his speedy reply brought
+an agreeable enclosure in the form of a cheque, a little legacy
+bequeathed to us by a codicil to the will of the old
+Rector&rsquo;s wife who loved wild-flowers.&nbsp; But the
+strangest part of the story is yet to come.&nbsp; During a visit
+to London, the wife of the present parson of our old parish
+visited a clairvoyant who by the aid of a crystal declared that
+in the drawing-room of her home stood a small brass <a
+name="page225"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 225</span>handled
+writing-table containing several drawers, in one of which would
+be found on examination a bundle of papers long neglected.&nbsp;
+On returning home, the writing-table was duly searched, with the
+result that the forgotten codicil was disclosed, and in it were
+mentioned some legacies bequeathed to friends, several of whom
+had since passed away, but my wife and I happened to be among the
+survivors.&nbsp; Thus there came to us, as I have said, an
+agreeable arrival by the morning post, so that if &ldquo;seeing
+is believing,&rdquo; my wife and I ought nevermore to scoff at
+clairvoyants and their crystals.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>&ldquo;<i>Dawdi</i>!&rdquo; (expression of surprise) exclaimed
+Liddy, with something of a gasp in her voice, while Old Frank
+looked wonder struck.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Well, that licks all I&rsquo;ve ever heard,&rdquo; said
+the publican, slapping his knee in punctuation of his
+surprise.&nbsp; &ldquo;Now let&rsquo;s have another tune,
+Frank.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Whereupon the fiddler broke into a Scottish air with
+variations, his body swaying to and fro the while.&nbsp; During
+several staves, the player laid his cheek on the violin in a
+fashion so comical that at the end of the tune I could not
+refrain from remarking&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;You reminded me just now, my pal, of Wry-necked Charley
+the <i>boshomengro</i>&rdquo; (fiddler).&nbsp; With a
+good-natured grin he replied&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;So you know that tale about the fiddler?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>And here it is, in my own words.</p>
+<p><a name="page226"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+226</span>Charley Lovell, a fiddler of renown, was returning one
+evening after a tiring day&rsquo;s fiddling at a village
+feast.&nbsp; On the way to his tent, which was pitched in a
+disused quarry, the Gypsy took from his pocket a few coins he had
+received by way of payment.&nbsp; &ldquo;Poor luck, I call it, to
+be paid like this for such hard work.&rdquo;&nbsp; Thus
+commiserating himself, he trudged along the sunken lane leading
+to his tent.&nbsp; Imagine his surprise to find at the tent door
+a tall gentleman dressed in black broad-cloth.&nbsp; Dark of
+complexion, black-eyed, and polished in demeanour, the stranger
+turned to meet the Gypsy.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Good evening, sir,&rdquo; said Charley, bowing low, for
+he had the sense to perceive that a gentleman stood before
+him.&nbsp; &ldquo;Pray what can I do for you?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;A great kindness,&rdquo; responded the stranger,
+&ldquo;for I have heard of your skilful playing upon this
+wonderful instrument&rdquo; (tapping Charley&rsquo;s fiddle with
+his finger), &ldquo;and I wish to know if you will come to play
+at a dance of mine to-morrow night.&rdquo;&nbsp; The place and
+hour were named, and the Gypsy promised to be there.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Open your hands, my man;&rdquo; and into them the
+stranger emptied a pocketful of silver coins, and departed,
+smiling over his shoulder at the perplexed Gypsy.&nbsp; All that
+night Charley tossed restlessly on his bed of straw.&nbsp;
+&ldquo;A fore-handed payment, and generous too.&nbsp; Who can
+that dark gentleman be?&rdquo;&nbsp; In the morning the Gypsy
+betook himself to a neighbouring priest, who, on hearing his
+story, looked grave.</p>
+<p><a name="page227"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+227</span>&ldquo;You have made a bargain with the
+Devil.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Then tell me how I can get out of it.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;You must keep your engagement, for, if you don&rsquo;t,
+the Devil will fetch you.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;But what am I to do when I get there?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;If you do as I say, all will be well.&nbsp; When you
+are asked to strike up, you must be sure to play nothing but
+slow, solemn psalm tunes.&nbsp; Mind you do as I say.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>At the appointed hour the trembling fiddler stood on the
+moonlit sward within the walls of a ruined castle.&nbsp; Awaiting
+his arrival was the tall dark gentleman surrounded by his guests,
+an array of lords and ladies in silks and satins.&nbsp; When the
+signal was given for the fiddler to commence his music, Charley
+drew his bow over the strings, evoking none but psalm tunes,
+solemn and slow, as the priest had advised.&nbsp; After a few
+moments of this sort of music, the Devil marched up to the Gypsy,
+and, fixing his large black eyes upon him, said&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Give us something more lively at once.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;I cannot,&rdquo; said the Gypsy.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Then, take <i>that</i>!&rdquo;&mdash;and the Devil
+struck Charley a smart blow on the cheek, twisting the poor
+fellow&rsquo;s head on one side, and so it ever remained.&nbsp;
+After that, he was always known as &ldquo;Wry-necked&rdquo;
+Charley.</p>
+<p>As the clock was striking the hour of ten, the rural
+tavern&rsquo;s closing-time, my Gypsy friends stepped out into
+the night.</p>
+<p><a name="page228"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 228</span>All
+through the long hours the wind howled in the chimney and rattled
+the casements, and one traveller at least slept but fitfully in
+his four-poster draped with curtains of red damask.</p>
+<p>In the morning the landlord informed me at breakfast that a
+tree had been blown down across the road, and, while
+&ldquo;rembling&rdquo; under his overturned straw-stack, a fine
+fox was found smothered, and, &ldquo;See here,&rdquo; he said,
+&ldquo;I shall always think of last night whenever I look at
+this,&rdquo; holding up a beautiful tawny brush.</p>
+<p>The storm-rack was still scudding overhead as I bade adieu to
+the quaint pair on the footworn doorstep of the &ldquo;Black
+Boy&rdquo; on the ridge way.</p>
+<h2><a name="page229"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+229</span>CHAPTER XVII<br />
+<span class="GutSmall">HORNCASTLE FAIR</span></h2>
+<p><span class="smcap">Like</span> Lincoln, York, and Chester,
+the town of Horncastle originated within the boundaries of a
+Roman <i>castrum</i>, and to this day an old-world atmosphere
+clings to its narrow, cobbled streets.</p>
+<p>Readers who know their Borrow will recall the visit of
+&ldquo;The Romany Rye&rdquo; to Horncastle in the August of 1825,
+in order to sell a horse which he had purchased by means of a
+loan from his Gypsy friend Jasper.</p>
+<p>Nowhere perhaps are the changes wrought by the passing years
+more plainly seen than at a horse-fair of ancient standing.&nbsp;
+Horncastle has inhabitants who remember when the great August
+Horse-Fair occupied fully a fortnight or three weeks, and was
+widely recognized as an event of the first rank.&nbsp; Within my
+own observation, this fair, like others of its kind, has declined
+with swift strides.&nbsp; In my time, buyers would be present
+from all parts of the country, as well as from the Continent, and
+members of our best Gypsy families invariably made a point of
+attending.&nbsp; In all these respects, however, the once famous
+fair has dwindled in a very marked manner.</p>
+<p><a name="page230"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 230</span>Let
+me describe a twentieth-century visit to the August
+horse-mart.</p>
+<p>Having approached the town along a bold ridgeway commanding a
+countryside yellowing to harvest, I arrive to find the place
+astir with dealers and horses.&nbsp; Though now but a one-day
+affair, the mart is not without its pleasing aspects to a lover
+of such scenes.&nbsp; The chief centre of business is known as
+the Bull Ring, where well-clad dealers from our English towns,
+horsey-looking men slapping their thighs with malacca canes, rub
+shoulders with rubicund farmers from Wold and Marsh, grooms and
+Gypsies.&nbsp; Not for the purpose of buying or selling horses
+have I come hither, but for no other reason than to meet the
+Gypsy families who usually turn up at the fair.</p>
+<p style="text-align: center">
+<a href="images/p230b.jpg">
+<img alt=
+"Horncastle Horse Fair.  Photo. Carlton"
+title=
+"Horncastle Horse Fair.  Photo. Carlton"
+src="images/p230s.jpg" />
+</a></p>
+<p>Behind the Parish Church of St. Mary, in a pasture pleasantly
+open to the sun, numerous caravans are drawn up under the
+hedges.&nbsp; It is here that the better sort of Gypsies
+congregate.&nbsp; Down Hemingby Lane lies an encampment of poorer
+travellers, and some of the same sort of people have drawn into
+the yard of the &ldquo;New Inn.&rdquo;&nbsp; In the course of the
+day I shall visit these three companies of Gypsies.</p>
+<p>Meanwhile, passing over the Bain Bridge, I step inside the old
+Parish Church and, taking out from my pocket a well-thumbed copy
+of <i>The Romany Rye</i>, I turn to the passage where Borrow
+talks with the sexton about the rusty scythes hanging on the
+wall.&nbsp; Just then a lady, evidently an American tourist, who
+has been looking <a name="page231"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+231</span>up Tennyson&rsquo;s footprints, which abound
+hereabouts, asks:&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Can you tell me anything about those strange-looking
+things on the wall?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Various theories have been advanced to account for the
+presence of these old scythe-blades within the sacred building,
+the popular opinion being that they were used as instruments of
+war at Winceby Fight on 11th October 1643.&nbsp; So much, indeed,
+Borrow seems to have gathered from the sexton, but the
+better-informed authorities of to-day think that they are relics
+of the rising known as the Pilgrimage of Grace in the year
+1536.</p>
+<p>Quitting the fine old church, I passed out into the fair, and
+straightway met a Gypsy fingering a telegram.&nbsp; &ldquo;Will
+you read it for me, please?&rdquo;&nbsp; The message was from a
+popular Baroness who was desirous of borrowing a caravan for a
+bazaar; and as I pencilled a reply on the back of the telegram,
+the Gypsy declared that he would sleep in a tent till his
+&ldquo;house on wheels&rdquo; returned to him.</p>
+<p>I have always known that Gypsies readily help one another when
+in trouble.&nbsp; This man, before going off with his telegram,
+told me a pleasing thing.&nbsp; It appears that an aged Gypsy,
+whose horse had died suddenly, had no money to buy another with,
+but a pal of his, going round with a cap among the Gypsy dealers
+at the fair, had quickly taken ten pounds, which were handed up
+to the old man who was now able to buy himself an animal.</p>
+<p><a name="page232"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 232</span>In
+<i>The Romany Rye</i>, Borrow speaks of the inn where he put up
+as having a yard which opened into the principal street of the
+town.&nbsp; On entering that yard he was greeted by the ostlers
+with&mdash;&ldquo;It is no use coming here&mdash;all
+full&mdash;no room whatever;&rdquo; whilst one added in an
+undertone, &ldquo;That &rsquo;ere a&rsquo;n&rsquo;t a bad-looking
+horse.&rdquo;&nbsp; In a large upstairs room overlooking a court,
+the newcomer dined with several people connected with the
+fair.</p>
+<p style="text-align: center">
+<a href="images/p232ab.jpg">
+<img alt=
+"The &ldquo;George&rdquo; Inn Yard at Horncastle.  Photo.
+Carlton"
+title=
+"The &ldquo;George&rdquo; Inn Yard at Horncastle.  Photo.
+Carlton"
+src="images/p232as.jpg" />
+</a></p>
+<p>During former visits to Horncastle I had tried to identify
+Borrow&rsquo;s inn, but without result.&nbsp; Happily, on the
+present occasion, I came upon a local antiquary from whom I
+gathered that Borrow&rsquo;s inn was undoubtedly the
+&ldquo;George,&rdquo; now converted into a post office.&nbsp;
+Strolling down the quondam inn-yard, my friend pointed out the
+bow-window through which the jockey so neatly pitched his bottle
+of pink champagne.&nbsp; Also, he told a good tale of the fair in
+its palmy days&mdash;</p>
+<p style="text-align: center">
+<a href="images/p232bb.jpg">
+<img alt=
+"Ready for the Fair.  Photo. Fred Shaw"
+title=
+"Ready for the Fair.  Photo. Fred Shaw"
+src="images/p232bs.jpg" />
+</a></p>
+<p>Public-houses, though very numerous in the town, were yet
+unable to supply the fair folk with all the drink they required,
+and any householder could take out what was called a Bough
+Licence on payment of seven shillings and sixpence.&nbsp; Having
+decided to take out such a licence, a man and his wife obtained a
+barrel of beer and displayed the customary green bough over their
+door.&nbsp; On the eve of the fair the husband said to his
+wife&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll see if this beer is good.&rdquo;</p>
+<p><a name="page233"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+233</span>&ldquo;You won&rsquo;t without paying for
+it.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Very well, my dear, I&rsquo;ll have
+three-pen&rsquo;orth,&rdquo; handing over the coins to his
+wife.</p>
+<p>He appeared to enjoy it so much that she said&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Let me have three-pen&rsquo;orth,&rdquo; handing the
+pence to her husband.&nbsp; Then he had another drink, passing
+the threepence back again.&nbsp; And the same coppers passed to
+and fro until the barrel was empty.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>It was to Horncastle Fair, years ago, that Jem Mace came with
+his master, Nat Langham, to whom he had been introduced at
+Lincoln Fair, where Nat had a sparring troupe which he had
+brought down from the metropolis.&nbsp; At Horncastle, Jem had a
+tremendous glove-fight with the local champion, who was the
+terror of the district.&nbsp; This fellow was bigger and older
+than Mace, who was then only in his eighteenth year, and for a
+long time the issue was doubtful, but at last the Horncastle
+champion was licked to a standstill, and had to give in.</p>
+<p>Walking down a crooked by-lane, past a shop where a chatty
+little tailor sat repairing a scarlet hunting-coat (the South
+Wolds Kennels lie a few miles outside the town), I found a camp
+of Gypsies in a field, and near one of the fires on the grass sat
+Liddy Brown, a crone of seventy years, puffing a black pipe, her
+curls peeping from beneath a gay <i>diklo</i> (kerchief).&nbsp;
+In the course of our talk, she spoke <a name="page234"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 234</span>of our hilly country, and recalled
+the days when her folk had pack-donkeys and camped in the green
+lanes on the Wolds.&nbsp; A grand-daughter of Fowk Heron, she had
+some diverting reminiscences of her mother Mizereti, and her
+aunts Cinderella and Tiena.&nbsp; The last-named was bitten by a
+mad dog, and thereby came to an untimely end.</p>
+<p>Returning to the town, I looked into the &ldquo;New Inn&rdquo;
+yard and found a number of Gypsies stopping there.&nbsp; The
+women and girls had donned their smartest fair-going
+raiment.&nbsp; As I viewed these wanderers, it was not easy to
+realize that they were the lingering remnants of the once
+powerful tribes of Browns and Winters hailing from the Border
+country in the days of Sheriff Walter Scott.</p>
+<p>Passing through the archway of the inn, I mingle again with
+the crowd, but no thimblengro, no Irish Murtagh, no Jack Dale
+meet the eye, though, curiously enough, from the racing stables
+at Baumber, where the Derby winner of 1875&mdash;Prince
+Batthyany&rsquo;s Galopin&mdash;was born, there are two or three
+jockeys looking more than usually diminutive among the burly
+dealers in the street.</p>
+<p>Towards the end of the afternoon the fair began to
+slacken.&nbsp; The few remaining groups of horses seemed to have
+gone to sleep in the sultry Bull Ring.&nbsp; Already farmers were
+moving off in their light traps, and dealers were making for the
+railway station.&nbsp; Going along the riverside path I saw a
+Gypsy man asleep at the foot of a tree, and, climbing <a
+name="page235"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 235</span>a fence, I
+found myself in the encampment behind the church.&nbsp; The scene
+was enlivening.&nbsp; Seated around their fires most of the
+Gypsies were making ready for the evening meal.&nbsp; Near a
+little tent the aged Mrs. Petulengro, a veritable &ldquo;Mother
+in Egypt,&rdquo; was lighting her pipe.&nbsp; Her grand-daughter
+coming out of the tent offers her a stool to sit upon, but the
+old lady scorns the idea.&nbsp; &ldquo;I should tumble off a
+thing like that.&nbsp; I&rsquo;m better down here,&rdquo;
+pointing to a sack spread by the fire beside which two kettles
+are hissing.</p>
+<p>In various parts of the field the Petulengros are gathered
+together.&nbsp; Here are tall Alfy and Hook-nosed Suki,
+&ldquo;Rabbitskin&rdquo; Bob, and &ldquo;Ratcatcher&rdquo;
+Charley.&nbsp; During supper, I had to listen to a disquisition
+on lying from Suki.&nbsp; Put into a nutshell, her ideas amount
+to this: Lying is of two kinds.&nbsp; There is lying for a
+living, else how could any sort of business be carried on.&nbsp;
+But business deceptions are not to be mentioned in the same
+breath with nasty lies which are meant to &ldquo;hurt a
+body.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Do you remember, <i>rashai</i>, that time we met you by
+Newark, when Elijah was with us?&nbsp; A jolly old fellow he
+were.&nbsp; He often got into <i>staruben</i> (prison) for
+fighting but never for stealing.&nbsp; He would go through an
+orchard, like that one there&rdquo; (pointing to some apple-trees
+close by), &ldquo;but do you think he&rsquo;d ever pick up an
+apple?&nbsp; Not he, he&rsquo;d never steal nothink,
+wouldn&rsquo;t Elijah.&nbsp; He could stand hard knocks, and
+would only fight a better man than hisself.&nbsp; He was <a
+name="page236"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 236</span>that tough,
+nothing ever hurt him.&nbsp; He would lay asleep under a wagon
+with never a shirt on him and take no harm.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Elijah was one of three brothers&mdash;tall, powerful
+fellows.&nbsp; Sometimes the trio, Elijah, Master, and Swallow,
+would enter a lonely tavern, and having ordered ale would depart
+without paying for it.&nbsp; When the publican protested, the
+Gypsies displayed their brawny arms and huge fists before his
+face.&nbsp; One day they had performed this favourite trick
+several times, and were paying an evening call at a village inn,
+where they sat a long time.&nbsp; Waxing quarrelsome, the
+brothers first brawled among themselves, and afterwards got at
+cross-purposes with a farmer in the tap-room.&nbsp; In the course
+of a tussle with this person, Swallow fell upon him as he lay on
+the floor, and, as they struggled there, a steel rush-threading
+needle of large size, used in mending chair bottoms, dropped from
+the Gypsy&rsquo;s pocket.&nbsp; Seizing this, Elijah pricked the
+farmer in the ribs, and then flung the needle at the feet of
+Swallow, who picked it up.&nbsp; The farmer&rsquo;s cries
+attracted the attention of a village constable who was going
+by.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Eh, what&rsquo;s the matter here?&rdquo; said the
+constable, stepping into the tap-room.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;These Gypsies are trying to murder me,&rdquo; said the
+farmer.&nbsp; &ldquo;One of &rsquo;em&rsquo;s stuck me with a
+long knife as he&rsquo;s got about him.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>The pockets of the Gypsies were searched, and <a
+name="page237"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 237</span>the steel
+needle was found upon Swallow.&nbsp; As the constable held it up
+between his fingers, the farmer cried&mdash;&ldquo;That&rsquo;s
+it.&nbsp; That&rsquo;s what he tried to kill me with.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>The three brothers were arrested and underwent their trial,
+with the result that Elijah and Master were sent to prison for a
+year, but poor Swallow, although innocent of the charge made
+against him, was transported for fourteen years.</p>
+<p>By that Gypsy fire the evening meal passed pleasantly enough,
+and when at a later hour I returned to the town, the darkened
+houses were framing the cobbled street, and through the open
+window of a tavern I caught a soft Romany phrase along with the
+clinking of glasses.&nbsp; And then from under the archway of the
+inn yard a dwarfish Gypsy, mounted on a lean horse, rode off with
+a great clatter into the dusk.</p>
+<h2><a name="page238"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+238</span>CHAPTER XVIII<br />
+<span class="GutSmall">A GYPSY SEPULCHRE&mdash;BURIAL
+LORE&mdash;THE PASSING OF JONATHAN</span></h2>
+<p><span class="smcap">In</span> Tetford churchyard, not far from
+my Rectory on the Lincolnshire Wolds, lies the grave of two
+celebrated Gypsies, Tyso Boswell and Edward, or &ldquo;No
+Name,&rdquo; Hearn (Heron), who were killed by lightning on 5th
+August 1831.&nbsp; The incident seems to have made a profound
+impression upon our Gypsies, and to this day it is everywhere
+remembered among the Anglo-Romany clans.&nbsp; A large company of
+the Boswells and Hearns (Herons) appear to have halted at Tetford
+on their way to Horncastle August Fair, at that time a horse-mart
+of great importance.&nbsp; Overtaken by a thunderstorm, Tyso and
+No Name were sheltering in a barn, whither they had gone for some
+straw, when a stroke of lightning descended fatally upon
+them.</p>
+<p>An aged Gypsy, Lucy Brown (born in the year 1807), once
+informed me that she remembered the incident quite clearly.&nbsp;
+Said she, &ldquo;We were camping atop of Tetford Hill, just above
+Ruckland Valley, when the lightning struck the poor
+fellows.&nbsp; We <a name="page239"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+239</span>were on our way to Horncastle Fair.&nbsp; I mind it
+all, <i>rashai</i>, as if it had happened only
+yesterday.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>In Westarus Boswell&rsquo;s autobiography, recorded (in his
+own words) by Smart and Crofton in their work <i>The Dialect of
+the English Gypsies</i>, are some references to this
+event&mdash;</p>
+<blockquote><p>&ldquo;I was born at Dover.&nbsp; My father (Tyso)
+was a soldier, and I was born in the army.&nbsp; My father, when
+I was born, was in charge of the great gun (Queen Anne&rsquo;s
+pocket-piece).&nbsp; After a while he came home, and left the
+army.&nbsp; He came down into Yorkshire, and there he stayed for
+many years, and all our family were brought up in that county,
+and there we all stayed after he was killed in
+Lincolnshire.&nbsp; He died when I was a lad.&nbsp; The lightning
+struck him and another, both together.&nbsp; They were
+cousins.&nbsp; Our people put them both in one grave.&nbsp; There
+I left them, poor fellows.&nbsp; I was much grieved at it.&nbsp;
+He (Tyso) always dressed well.&nbsp; When he was buried, I took a
+wife, and went all over the country. . . .&nbsp; His
+cousin&rsquo;s name was called No Name, because he was not
+christened till he was an old man, and then they called him
+Edward.&rdquo;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>A curious story attaches to &ldquo;No Name&rdquo; Hearn.&nbsp;
+His parents took him to church to be christened, and when the
+parson said, &ldquo;Name this child,&rdquo; the Gypsy mother
+answered, &ldquo;It&rsquo;s Jehovah, sir.&rdquo;&nbsp; &ldquo;I
+cannot give your child that name,&rdquo; protested the
+clergyman.&nbsp; Whereupon the Gypsies stalked out of <a
+name="page240"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 240</span>the church
+muttering, &ldquo;He shall be called &lsquo;No
+Name,&rsquo;&rdquo; and by this fore-name he was known all
+through his life, although in his old age, as Westarus Boswell
+has told us, he was baptized in the name of Edward.</p>
+<p>As might be expected, the funeral of Tyso and Edward was
+attended by many Gypsies from far and near, and for some years
+afterwards the grave was visited annually by relatives, who are
+said to have poured libations of ale upon it.&nbsp; A grandson of
+Tyso relates that he once found a hole &ldquo;as big as a fire
+bucket&rdquo; in the side of the grave.&nbsp; This he stuffed
+with hay, and to my own knowledge the hole is still there, the
+brickwork of the vault having fallen inward.&nbsp; Aged folk at
+Tetford tell how a witch formerly lived in a cottage near the
+churchyard.&nbsp; One of her cats kittened down the hole in the
+vault, and passers-by would shudder to see the kittens bolt like
+rabbits into the Gypsies&rsquo; grave.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>If the Gypsies possess any religion at all, it may be summed
+up in one sentence&mdash;reverence for the dead.&nbsp; In bygone
+ages the Gypsies buried their dead in wild lonely spots, and
+though for many years the wanderers have been granted Christian
+burial, yet now and then an aged <i>Romanitshel</i> on his
+deathbed will express a desire to be laid to rest in the open and
+not in the churchyard.&nbsp; Moses Boswell, a Derbyshire Gypsy,
+requested that he might be buried &ldquo;under the
+fireplace,&rdquo; <i>i.e.</i> on the site of an encampment <a
+name="page241"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 241</span>of his
+people.&nbsp; When dying, Isaac Heron said, &ldquo;Bury me under
+a hedge,&rdquo; a reminiscence of the earlier mode of
+sepulture.&nbsp; In his <i>Lavengro</i>, Borrow describes the
+burial of old Mrs. Herne: &ldquo;The body was placed not in a
+coffin but on a bier, and carried not to the churchyard but to a
+deep dingle close by; and there it was buried beneath a rock,
+dressed just as I have told (in a red cloak and big bonnet of
+black beaver); and this was done at the bidding of Leonora, who
+had heard her <i>bebee</i> (aunt) say that she wished to be
+buried, not in gorgeous fashion, but like a Roman woman of the
+old blood.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>On the information of some East-Anglian Gypsies, my friend,
+Mr. T. W. Thompson, a good tsiganologue, writes: &ldquo;It must
+have been somewhere about 1830 when Borrow&rsquo;s friend,
+Ambrose Smith (Jasper Petulengro), found one of the Hernes
+burying his wife in a ditch near Gorleston, took the body away
+and gave it a Christian burial to prevent further trouble
+befalling the old man.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>In an entertaining volume entitled, <i>Caravanning and Camping
+Out</i>, Mr. J. Harris Stone describes a wayside Gypsy
+burial&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Some twenty years ago a Gypsy died in an encampment
+near Lulworth Cove in Dorset, and a friend of mine, who had
+become great friends with the tribe because he used to go and
+sing comic songs to them and perform simple conjuring tricks, was
+asked to the funeral.&nbsp; He told me that the coffin was black,
+and the burial took place at the cross-roads&mdash;<a
+name="page242"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 242</span>not exactly
+in the centre of the roadway where the highways crossed, but on
+the patch of roadside waste at the angle of one of the
+roads.&nbsp; Water was sprinkled on the coffin and earth thrown
+on, in the course of the ritual in Romany, but no parson was
+present.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Near the grass-grown sand-dunes of an East Lincolnshire parish
+is a camping-place frequented by Gypsies for many years
+past.&nbsp; In turning up the soil thereabouts not long ago, some
+labourers came upon a human skeleton, probably that of a Gypsy
+who had been buried there.</p>
+<p>I give these instances because it has been strongly asserted
+that Christian burial only has been the Gypsies&rsquo; usage for
+the last two hundred years.</p>
+<p>Sometimes a careful watch is kept over the body between death
+and burial.&nbsp; A Welsh correspondent who had an opportunity of
+observing this practice, writes: &ldquo;I found my Romany friends
+seated around a fire, and close by in a van lay the dead wife of
+one of the company, awaiting burial on the morrow.&nbsp; Gypsies
+about here do not go to bed from the time of a death till after
+the funeral.&nbsp; They sit in company around the fire, and now
+and again fall back and doze, but at least three must keep
+awake.&nbsp; If only two were awake, one might drop off to sleep
+and that would leave only one.&nbsp; Fear of the ghost is given
+as the reason why they sit in company by the fire.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>As a rule, the corpse is attired in the best clothes worn
+during life.&nbsp; Sometimes the garments are turned <a
+name="page243"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 243</span>inside out,
+a practice in Bulgarian mourning.&nbsp; When Zachariah Smith was
+buried in Yorkshire four years ago the following articles were
+enclosed in his coffin: a suit of clothes, besides the one he was
+wearing, watch and chain, a muffler, four pocket handkerchiefs, a
+hammer, a candle, and twopence.</p>
+<p>On the day after the funeral, old-fashioned Gypsies destroy
+the possessions of the dead, money excepted.&nbsp; All consumable
+belongings are burnt, while the crockery, iron utensils, and
+other articles are broken and dropped into a river, or buried, if
+no water is near.&nbsp; Jewellery is often disposed of in a
+similar manner.&nbsp; The horse of the deceased is either shot,
+or sold to the knackers to be destroyed.&nbsp; Fear of the ghost
+is the explanation of these ceremonies.&nbsp; So long as the
+possessions of the dead person remain intact, the ghost is
+believed to hover about them.&nbsp; In order, therefore, to
+dispel the ghost of the dead, his belongings are destroyed.</p>
+<p>Another observance, expressing in a striking manner the grief
+of the bereaved, is seen in their abstention for many years, or
+for ever, from the favourite food, beverage, or pastime of the
+loved one whom they have lost.&nbsp; One day Richard Petulengro
+called at my door and was offered refreshment in the
+kitchen&mdash;&ldquo;Not any ale, thank you.&nbsp; My brother
+died a bit ago, and he was wery fond of it.&nbsp; I don&rsquo;t
+touch it now.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>It is recorded of Old Isaac Joule that he would often spend
+whole nights watching by his Gypsy wife&rsquo;s <a
+name="page244"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 244</span>tomb in
+Yatton churchyard.&nbsp; Her headstone, which may still be seen,
+bears the lines&mdash;</p>
+<blockquote><p>&ldquo;Here lies Merily Joule<br />
+&nbsp;&nbsp; A beauty bright:<br />
+That left Isaac Joule<br />
+&nbsp;&nbsp; Her heart&rsquo;s delight<br />
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 1827.&rdquo;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>Sometimes unusual articles are laid on graves.&nbsp; Upon his
+boy&rsquo;s grave, Bohemia Boswell deposited a little teapot from
+which the boy used to drink.&nbsp; Rodney Smith placed a
+breast-pin upon his mother&rsquo;s grave in Norton
+churchyard.</p>
+<p>Gypsies shrink from uttering the names of the dead.&nbsp; Fear
+of invoking the ghost underlies this ancient tabu.&nbsp; One of
+the Herons had a child named Chasey, who died, and now he never
+utters that name.&nbsp; He even invented a nickname for a friend
+bearing the name of Chasey, in order to avoid pronouncing the
+name of his own dead child.</p>
+<p>One day, during conversation with Frampton Boswell, Groome
+asked&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;How did you get your name, Frampton; was it your
+father&rsquo;s?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;I can&rsquo;t tell you that, but wait a
+minute.&rdquo;&nbsp; And going to his mother&rsquo;s caravan, he
+returned with a framed photograph of a gravestone.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;That was my poor father&rsquo;s name, but I&rsquo;ve
+never spoken it since the day he died.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;He don&rsquo;t want her to walk,&rdquo; said my old
+friend, Frank Elliot, in explanation of a Gypsy&rsquo;s
+reluctance <a name="page245"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+245</span>to mention his dead sister&rsquo;s name.&nbsp; A Gypsy
+boy was baptized Vyner Smith, but when his Uncle Vyner died, the
+boy was renamed Robert, because the name Vyner was too painful a
+reminder of the departed relation.</p>
+<p>A death-omen among Gypsies is the cry of the
+&ldquo;death-hawk&rdquo; heard over a camp by night.&nbsp; A
+Gypsy once told me how two crows and two yellow pigeons flew to
+and fro over him in a town street in the early morning.&nbsp; By
+these signs he knew that his wife had died in the hospital, and
+so it proved.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>Let me close this chapter with the passing of my old friend
+Jonathan Boswell.&nbsp; Not long ago tidings reached me that he
+had died in his travelling cart, in which I have spent some happy
+hours with him on the road.&nbsp; The last time I saw Jonathan
+alive he was seated by his fire on a little lonely common, and
+near him stood the old cart looking so very ramshackle that a
+gust of wind might almost have wrecked it.&nbsp; Among the tufted
+bog-rushes, the lambs were gambolling a few yards away.&nbsp; As
+I sat with him, my old friend talked of bygone jaunts we had
+taken together, and his grandson, who was present, recalled the
+day he once spent at our Rectory.&nbsp; With slow and feeble
+steps Jonathan walked with me to the edge of the common and waved
+his cap in farewell.&nbsp; I never saw him again.&nbsp; I like to
+think of the old man as, looking back, I saw him holding out his
+hand <a name="page246"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 246</span>to
+fondle a lamb whose confidence he had won while camping on the
+common.</p>
+<p style="text-align: center">
+<a href="images/p246b.jpg">
+<img alt=
+"A London Gypsy.  Photo. Fred Shaw"
+title=
+"A London Gypsy.  Photo. Fred Shaw"
+src="images/p246s.jpg" />
+</a></p>
+<p>About a month after receiving the news of the death of my old
+pal, I came upon his grandson, who told me that the
+<i>v&acirc;do</i> (cart) had been <i>hotsherdo</i> (burnt).&nbsp;
+The fragments which remained after the fire were duly buried, and
+the faithful nag had been sent away to the hunt-kennels.&nbsp;
+Thus, with the ancient ceremonies of his race, my old friend had
+been laid to rest.</p>
+<blockquote><p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">To
+the English Gipsies</span>. <a name="citation246"></a><a
+href="#footnote246" class="citation">[246]</a></p>
+<p>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&ldquo;You soon will pass away;<br />
+Laid one by one below the village steeple<br />
+&nbsp;&nbsp; You face the East from which your fathers sprang,<br
+/>
+&nbsp;&nbsp; Or sleep in moorland turf, beyond the clang<br />
+Of towns and fairs; your tribes have joined the people<br />
+&nbsp;&nbsp; Whom no true Romany will call by name,<br />
+&nbsp;&nbsp; The folk departed like the camp-fire flame<br />
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Of withered yesterday.&rdquo;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<h2><a name="page247"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+247</span>CHAPTER XIX<br />
+<span class="GutSmall"><i>BITSHADO PAWDEL</i></span><span
+class="GutSmall"> (TRANSPORTED)</span></h2>
+<p><span class="smcap">Thickly</span> sprinkled with Gypsy names
+are the &ldquo;Transportation Lists&rdquo; (1787&ndash;1867)
+reposing on the shelves of the Public Record Office in London;
+yet as your eye scans those lists of names, how dull and ordinary
+they look.&nbsp; It is not until you embark upon the arduous task
+of tracking individuals in old newspaper files that you realize
+the charm of unearthing buried romances in which the Gypsies
+played a part.</p>
+<p>If, on the one hand, the wildness and roughness of the times
+are fully impressed upon your mind, there arises also the
+unedifying spectacle of British justices vieing with one another
+in their ardour for dispatching Gypsies across the sea on the
+most trivial pretexts.&nbsp; In the Transportation Lists both
+sexes are well represented, and occasionally one obtains the
+<i>aliases</i> borne by Gypsies at the time of their
+arrest.&nbsp; From a study of these <i>aliases</i>, it becomes
+possible to trace the origin of some of our modern Gypsy
+families, for it is quite in keeping with Romany usage for the
+children of an expatriated father to adopt his <i>alias</i>.</p>
+<p>I have never yet known an elderly Gypsy whose <a
+name="page248"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 248</span>memory
+lacked a store of what may be called transportation tales, and,
+listening to their recital, I have sometimes been saddened, if
+not angered.&nbsp; What can we of the twentieth century think of
+the &ldquo;justice&rdquo; (!) which sent a Romany mother across
+the sea for stealing a lady&rsquo;s comb valued at sixpence, or
+banished for seven years a middle-aged Gypsy man for the crime of
+appropriating three penny picture-books from a cottage
+doorway?</p>
+<p>Over a few crimson embers on the ground I listened one summer
+evening to tales from the lips of one of the old Herons, as we
+sat together under a thorn hedge.&nbsp; For a theft of harness
+Solli Heron (my informant&rsquo;s uncle) was sentenced to a
+lengthy residence in an over-sea colony.&nbsp; The time came when
+he and a few Gypsy comrades were led out of prison and placed in
+chains on board the coach which was to convey them to the convict
+ship.&nbsp; By some means Solli had become possessed of a small
+file, wherewith, during the journey by coach, he managed to cut
+through his irons and make his escape into a wood.&nbsp; After an
+exciting chase through brake and brier, the Gypsy was recaptured
+and duly shipped across the sea.</p>
+<p>The following story shows that sometimes, when two Gypsies
+were implicated in a crime, one of them would endeavour to screen
+his companion.&nbsp; From the stables at Claremont House, Esher,
+during the period of the Princess (afterwards Queen)
+Victoria&rsquo;s residence, a horse and a mare were stolen <a
+name="page249"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 249</span>by two
+Gypsies, an elderly man and a younger one.&nbsp; Early one foggy
+morning these fellows broke open the stable door and took the
+animals away.&nbsp; A hue-and-cry was set up, and, within a few
+days of the theft, the red-breasted &ldquo;Runners&rdquo; had
+made an arrest.&nbsp; In court, the Princess&rsquo;s coachman
+declared that he had seen two men near the stable, but the elder
+Gypsy persistently affirmed that he had done the business
+entirely alone, and his endeavour to screen his mate proved
+effectual.&nbsp; The young Gypsy was acquitted, but his companion
+was transported for life to Van Diemen&rsquo;s Land.</p>
+<p>The same spirit of self-sacrifice is seen in another
+incident&mdash;</p>
+<p>A Gypsy tinker and a sweep were arrested for stealing a pony
+at a time when the penalty for horse-stealing was death.&nbsp;
+Said the sweep to the tinker&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Why need two of us be hanged for this job?&nbsp;
+I&rsquo;ll swear that you know nothing about it.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>When the two were brought up for trial, the sweep, while
+readily admitting his own guilt, asserted the tinker&rsquo;s
+innocence with such vehemence that the judge and jury believed
+his tale.&nbsp; The tinker got twelve months in jail, but the
+sweep was hanged.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>In his <i>Romany Word-Book</i>, Borrow mentions the
+transportation of Fighting Jack Cooper, &ldquo;once the terror of
+all the Light Weights of the English Ring, who knocked West
+Country Dick to pieces, and <a name="page250"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 250</span>killed Paddy O&rsquo;Leary, the
+fighting pot-boy, Jack Randall&rsquo;s pet.&rdquo;&nbsp; Jack
+Cooper and his brother Tom were transported under peculiar
+circumstances.&nbsp; Tom was the first to be sent away.&nbsp; It
+appears that the brothers went to a ball where, in the course of
+the evening, Jack &ldquo;pinched&rdquo; a silver snuff-box, and
+without meaning any harm dropped it into his brother&rsquo;s
+pocket.&nbsp; Presently the snuff-box was missed by its owner,
+and suspicion fell upon the Gypsies.&nbsp; A policeman was called
+in, and, while conversing with Tom, offered him a pinch of
+snuff.&nbsp; As the Gypsy removed a handkerchief from his pocket,
+out flew the snuff-box to his great astonishment, for he was
+unaware of the trick played by his brother.&nbsp; Speedily the
+handcuffs were slipped upon Tom&rsquo;s wrists, and in due course
+he was brought to trial.&nbsp; Before the judge, Jack swore that
+Tom was innocent, as indeed he was, but he was nevertheless
+sentenced to transportation.</p>
+<p>However, Jack&rsquo;s fate was not long delayed.&nbsp;
+&ldquo;Infatuated with love for his paramour,&rdquo; (says
+Borrow), &ldquo;he bore the blame of a crime which she had
+committed, and suffered transportation to save her.&rdquo;&nbsp;
+On the expiration of his lengthy term, he preferred to stay in
+Australia, where he made money by teaching young gentlemen the
+pugilistic art.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>There are more stories of this kind showing that innocent
+persons were at times sent across the water.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>Well-known to the Gypsies of our Midland <a
+name="page251"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 251</span>counties is
+the story of Absalom Boswell&rsquo;s transportation.&nbsp; One
+night the Gypsy father and his two sons sat talking in their
+tent, and, in order to rest his weary feet, the old man removed
+his shoes and soon fell asleep on the straw.&nbsp; One of the
+lads donned his father&rsquo;s footgear, and set off with his
+brother to <i>latsher</i> a bit of <i>bokro-mas</i>, which, being
+interpreted, means that they went to steal
+&ldquo;mutton.&rdquo;&nbsp; Their errand was successful, but
+morning light brought a policeman to the camp, for the sheep had
+been missed and suspicion had fallen upon the Gypsies.&nbsp; An
+early riser, Absalom had put on his shoes and was walking
+abroad.&nbsp; He and his two sons were arrested.&nbsp; There were
+no witnesses to the theft, but a footprint had been discovered on
+a patch of clay in the farmer&rsquo;s field from which the sheep
+had been taken, and Absalom&rsquo;s shoe fitted the footprint
+exactly.&nbsp; On this shred of circumstantial evidence the old
+man was transported for seven years, while his sons were lodged
+in jail for twelve months.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>On Mitcham Common I once heard the following story from one of
+the Dightons.&nbsp; Seated on the wayside was a Gypsy making
+pegs, with his children playing around him, and, looking up from
+his work, he was surprised to see a well-dressed <i>gawji</i>
+(non-Gypsy) woman staring hard at him.&nbsp; She stood there
+without saying a word, until at last she moved slowly away.&nbsp;
+Then came a policeman to where the peg-maker sat&mdash;</p>
+<p><a name="page252"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+252</span>&ldquo;You must come along with me.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;What for?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;You&rsquo;ll know when we get to the police
+station.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>A report had been handed in that a young woman had been found
+half-murdered in a green lane.&nbsp; She said a Gypsy had done
+it, and described the man to a detail, giving the colour of his
+hair, particulars of his dress, and the number of his
+children.&nbsp; &ldquo;I am an innocent man,&rdquo; said the
+Gypsy, &ldquo;and the Lord&rsquo;ll make her tell the truth
+before she dies.&rdquo;&nbsp; He was transported for seven
+years.&nbsp; Two years afterwards the lady fell ill, and
+confessed that the man was innocent.&nbsp; He was liberated, but
+on the homeward voyage he died.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>Yet another tale from the &ldquo;tents of
+Egypt&rdquo;&mdash;</p>
+<p>John Chilcot was <i>bitshado pawdel</i> (transported), and his
+wife took it so much to heart that she would sit on the tent
+floor cutting up straw into pieces about an inch in length.&nbsp;
+At last she could endure it no longer.&nbsp; She craved for the
+sight of her husband, so she <i>tshor</i>&rsquo;d <i>tshumani</i>
+(stole something), and was sent away too.&nbsp; The strange part
+of the story is, that the same farmer who employed Chilcot on his
+farm in Van Diemen&rsquo;s Land, went and hired John&rsquo;s wife
+when she was sent out there.&nbsp; The woman came to John&rsquo;s
+cottage one day about sundown, and, looking through the open
+door, she saw him lacing his heavy boots, as he muttered to
+himself, &ldquo;I must <i>tshiv mi tshokaw opr&ecirc;</i>
+an&rsquo; <i>jaw te </i><a name="page253"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 253</span><i>dik de bokr&ecirc;</i>&rdquo; (I
+must put my boots on and go to see the sheep).</p>
+<p>&ldquo;<i>&Acirc;wa</i>, <i>mi mush</i>, <i>tshiv len
+opr&ecirc;</i> and <i>k&egrave;r sig</i>&rdquo; (Yes, my man, put
+them on and make haste).&nbsp; John looked up, and, seeing his
+own wife standing there, opened his arms and she dropped into
+them.&nbsp; The two worked together for months without the farmer
+knowing who the woman was, then one day John told him that she
+was his lawful wife, and they lived together till their time
+expired, when they came back to England.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>A story is told of one of the old Herons who had been
+transported, and, his term having expired, he wrote to his wife
+and family in England asking them to send fifty pounds.&nbsp;
+This they did, and a reply was received announcing the time of
+his arrival at a certain port.&nbsp; As a means of
+identification, he promised, on landing, to carry a small bundle
+of sticks on his right shoulder.&nbsp; His sons met him, and
+according to his promise he had the sticks on his shoulder.&nbsp;
+Now these sons were only tiny children when their father had been
+sent away, and did not remember what his features were like, but
+of course they were willing to accept him as their father, and
+rejoiced accordingly.&nbsp; Then came the meeting between the old
+man and his wife.&nbsp; But so completely had his features
+changed during the long years of absence that she failed to
+recognize him as her husband, even though he pointed to his old
+bottle <a name="page254"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+254</span>green coat still in her possession.&nbsp; It is said
+that he turned away sorrowfully, and died soon after of a broken
+heart.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>Moses Heron was on the Thames in a convict ship going to
+Australia for <i>grai-tshor</i>in (horse-stealing).&nbsp; Some of
+his relatives went out in a boat to see the last of him, as his
+ship was anchored off shore.&nbsp; Moses took out his knife and
+cut his <i>diklo</i> (kerchief) from his neck and threw it
+overboard for them to take the knot back to his sweetheart.&nbsp;
+He cut the <i>diklo</i> from under his ear so that the knot was
+undisturbed but remained just as he had tied it.</p>
+<p>Stories of this character might be multiplied indefinitely,
+but the instances given will suffice to show how pathetic are the
+annals of the Gypsies.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>In a lecture delivered before the Leeds Philosophical and
+Literary Society, my friend, Mr. R. A. Scott Macfie, has justly
+estimated the character of the Anglo-<i>Romanitshel</i>s of
+to-day.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;In Great Britain the Gypsies are at present exposed to
+a petty persecution, inflicted ostensibly for their good by
+illogical persons, who pretend to believe that they live
+unnatural lives and should be driven into town slums for the
+benefit of their health and morals.&nbsp; They are harassed by
+prosecutions on such curious pretexts as sleeping-out,
+overcrowding (in tents every inch of which admits the free
+passage of God&rsquo;s fresh air), possessing no dustbin, or
+neglecting <a name="page255"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+255</span>to provide a proper water supply for their
+habitations.&nbsp; Yet, on the whole, in this country they have
+for the last century received less unpleasant attention and more
+sympathy than elsewhere, and it is very noteworthy that they have
+responded to this kindness by adopting the civilized conception
+of their duty towards their neighbour.&nbsp; I have many hundreds
+of press cuttings from British newspapers published during the
+last few years.&nbsp; They prove that the Gypsies of this country
+are never guilty of the greater crimes.&nbsp; The majority of the
+convictions are for almost inevitable offences, such as halting
+in the road or allowing horses to stray.&nbsp; Gypsies have, of
+course, rather primitive views as to rights of property,
+especially in respect of what grows or moves upon the earth in a
+more or less wild state, yet, while there are an appreciable
+number of instances of poaching, fortune-telling, and of certain
+traditional Gypsy swindles, most of the cases of so-called theft
+are very insignificant petty larcenies&mdash;a handful of fruit
+taken from an orchard, a few swedes from a field, or a stick or
+two from the hedge.&nbsp; So conspicuous is the law-abiding
+character of the British Gypsies in my records, and in my
+personal experience, that I do not hesitate to assert, that, in
+spite of their reputation, they are as superior in honesty to the
+lower classes of our native population as they are in morality
+and cleanliness.&rdquo;</p>
+<h2><a name="page256"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+256</span>CHAPTER XX<br />
+<span class="GutSmall">A ROMANY MUNCHAUSEN</span></h2>
+<p><span class="smcap">The</span> Gypsies are an imaginative
+folk, delighting, like children, in romances and romancing; and
+if one may judge from the array of folk-tales <a
+name="citation256"></a><a href="#footnote256"
+class="citation">[256]</a> already collected from them, these
+wanderers appear to possess the gift of story-telling in generous
+measure.&nbsp; To this day, in Eastern Europe, the Gypsies still
+pursue their ancient r&ocirc;le of tale-telling, mystifying their
+hearers with stories which perhaps they brought out of India many
+centuries ago.&nbsp; Here, in the West, no one can mingle
+intimately with members of the Gypsy clan of Wood, amid the
+mountains of Wales, without feeling the charm of the wonderful
+tales handed down to them from their forelders.</p>
+<p>Sometimes I have seen the beginning of a folktale in a
+fragment of narrative reeled off by a Gypsy on the spur of the
+moment.</p>
+<p>A London Gypsy had been fiddling for my delectation, and, when
+he ceased, I asked him quite casually why, being a Gypsy, his
+hair was fair?&nbsp; Without a moment&rsquo;s reflection he
+replied, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll tell you why my hair is fair.&nbsp;
+One winter night I slept <a name="page257"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 257</span>with my head outside the tent, and
+of course my hair froze to the ground.&nbsp; When I woke in the
+morning I shouted for help, and my daddy poured boiling water on
+my hair to get it loose.&nbsp; That&rsquo;s why my <i>bal</i> is
+<i>pawni</i>&rdquo; (my hair is fair).</p>
+<p>An impromptu &ldquo;lying tale&rdquo; intended to amuse.</p>
+<p>Groome, in his <i>Gypsy-Folk Tales</i> (Introduction, p.
+lxxxi.), notices the same sort of thing in a fanciful outburst on
+the part of a Gypsy girl.&nbsp; &ldquo;She had been to a pic-nic
+in a four-in-hand, with &lsquo;a lot o&rsquo; real tiptop
+gentry&rsquo;; and &lsquo;<i>reia</i>&rsquo; (sir), she said to
+me afterwards, &lsquo;I&rsquo;ll tell you the comicalist thing
+that ever was.&nbsp; We&rsquo;d pulled up to put the brake on,
+and there was a <i>puro hotchiwitchi</i> (old hedgehog) come and
+looked at us through the hedge, looked at me hard.&nbsp; I could
+see he&rsquo;d his eye on me.&nbsp; And home he&rsquo;d go, that
+old hedgehog, to his wife, and &ldquo;Missus,&rdquo; he&rsquo;d
+say, &ldquo;what d&rsquo;ye think?&nbsp; I seen a little Gypsy
+gal just now in a coach and four hosses,&rdquo; and
+&ldquo;<i>D&acirc;bla</i>&rdquo; she&rsquo;d say,
+&ldquo;<i>sawk&ucirc;mi</i> &rsquo;as <i>v&acirc;d&ecirc;
+kenaw</i>&rdquo; (Bless us, every one has carriages
+now).&rsquo;&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Years ago I used to hear our English Gypsies speak of a
+certain Happy Boz&rsquo;ll, a Gypsy given to romancing about his
+own affairs.&nbsp; He was always the hero of his own stories, and
+to this day, among our Gypsies, a Happy Boz&rsquo;ll tale is a
+synonym for a &ldquo;crammer.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>It was once my good fortune at Lincoln Fair to come upon a
+van-dwelling horse-dealer, close upon his eightieth year, whose
+early days were spent in <a name="page258"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 258</span>the company of Happy Boz&rsquo;ll,
+and from him I obtained the tales given below:&mdash;</p>
+<p>Old Happy had a donkey, and one day it was lost.&nbsp; Up and
+down the green lanes the Gypsy searched for the missing animal
+and found it not.&nbsp; At last, as he was wandering under some
+trees, he heard a familiar noise overhead.&nbsp; The sound came
+from the top of a big ash tree, and sure enough, when Happy
+looked up, there was the old donkey among the topmost boughs.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;What are you doing there?&rdquo; shouted Happy.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;I&rsquo;m gathering a bundle of sticks for your
+fire.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>And saying this, the donkey climbed down with a bunch of nice
+ash sticks.</p>
+<p style="text-align: center">
+<a href="images/p258b.jpg">
+<img alt=
+"Black as a Boz&rsquo;ll.  Photo. Fred Shaw"
+title=
+"Black as a Boz&rsquo;ll.  Photo. Fred Shaw"
+src="images/p258s.jpg" />
+</a></p>
+<p>At one time Happy, who was a tinker and grinder by trade,
+possessed a grinding-barrow made out of a whole block of silver,
+and whenever he was thirsty he had only to chop off a lump of
+silver and go to the nearest inn to get as much ale as he could
+carry.&nbsp; In course of time his barrow grew smaller, and there
+came a day when Happy had no barrow at all.&nbsp; He had
+swallowed it.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>One day Happy&rsquo;s wife, Becky, said to him&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Go and get a bucket of drinking water.&rdquo;&nbsp;
+Away he went to the spring, and, having filled the bucket, he
+paused to take a drink from it, and going on again he stumbled
+and spilt the water.&nbsp; When he got home he appeared before
+his wife with an empty bucket in his hand.</p>
+<p><a name="page259"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+259</span>&ldquo;Why haven&rsquo;t you brought the water?&rdquo;
+asked Becky.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Well, my blessed, I filled the bucket right enough, but
+on the way back the water started a-laughing at me, and I
+couldn&rsquo;t carry it no furder.&nbsp; Ay, the water laughed
+itself out of the bucket, it did&mdash;every little drop of
+it.&nbsp; There, now I&rsquo;ve told you.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>Another time Happy was crossing a field, and seeing a sack
+filled with something he went up and examined it, and there, if
+it wasn&rsquo;t full of eggs.&nbsp; He picked up the sack and
+carried it away on his back, and never cracked one of them.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>Happy was once walking beside a hedge, cracking nuts.&nbsp; He
+had pockets and pockets full of them, and he happened to fling a
+nutshell over the hedge, and it hit a wery fine hare and killed
+it.&nbsp; Wasn&rsquo;t that strange now?</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>Happy never owned a wagon.&nbsp; He and his wife travelled all
+their lives with a pack-donkey and a tent.&nbsp; One night their
+tent took fire, and in a little while they had nothing left in
+the world save the donkey and its blinkers.&nbsp; The next
+morning, as they crept out from under the hedge, Happy said to
+his wife, &ldquo;We shall have to beg wery hard
+to-day.&rdquo;&nbsp; By the evening they had done so well that
+they had provided themselves with an entirely new outfit.&nbsp;
+Under the hedge stood the finest tent you ever saw.&nbsp; <a
+name="page260"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 260</span>Inside it
+were new blankets, new bedding, new everything.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Well, my Becky, how do you like it?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;We haven&rsquo;t done so badly after all, my
+Happy.&nbsp; We&rsquo;ve got a better tent and a better supper
+than we had last night.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;And I&rsquo;m thinking, my Becky,&rdquo; said Happy,
+laughing softly, &ldquo;that it&rsquo;s wonderful like getting
+married again.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>Happy was once going along a road over the Peak o&rsquo;
+Derby.&nbsp; He hadn&rsquo;t gone far before he saw a cart full
+of the very best china, delicate stuff all coloured and gilded,
+and between the shafts stood a fine horse with silver-plated
+harness.&nbsp; There they were on the wayside grass and nobody
+with them.&nbsp; Happy lit his pipe and waited a bit to see if
+their owner came along.&nbsp; But nobody came.&nbsp; So he led
+the horse and cart to an inn just round the bend of the road, and
+asked the landlord if he knew who was the owner, but he
+didn&rsquo;t know.&nbsp; On and on went Happy, up hill and down
+dale, inquiring everywhere for the owner of the horse and
+pot-cart, but nowhere could he light on the gentleman, though he
+nearly broke his heart with anxiety in trying his best to find
+him.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>Happy one day took his dog a-hunting.&nbsp; Two hares started
+up, but the dog couldn&rsquo;t run after both of them at
+once.&nbsp; Just then, however, the dog ran <a
+name="page261"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 261</span>against a
+scythe-blade and cut itself in two.&nbsp; One half of the dog ran
+after one hare and caught it.&nbsp; The other half of the dog ran
+after the second hare and caught it.&nbsp; The hares were brought
+to Happy&rsquo;s feet.&nbsp; Then the two halves of the dog came
+together again.&nbsp; And the dog died.&nbsp; Happy took off the
+skin and patched his knee-breeches with it.&nbsp; Just a year
+afterwards, to the very day, his breeches burst open and barked
+at him.</p>
+<h2><a name="page262"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+262</span>CHAPTER XXI<br />
+<span class="GutSmall">THE GYPSY OF THE HILLS&mdash;IN THE HEART
+OF WALES&mdash;A WESTMORLAND HORSE-FAIR</span></h2>
+<h3>I</h3>
+<p><i>May</i> 12.&mdash;Just as I stepped out of the train at
+Corwen, thick vapours, blotting out the mountains, made up their
+minds to let down rain.&nbsp; Five years before, on landing at
+the same station, it was only to find a tornado howling over the
+land and heavy rain falling.&nbsp; That wild night I&rsquo;m not
+likely to forget in a hurry. . . .</p>
+<p>At last, after an hour&rsquo;s wait in a snug hostelry, I set
+off along the Holyhead Road, having a certain encampment in my
+mind&rsquo;s eye.&nbsp; At the &ldquo;Goat&rdquo; Inn, where the
+by-road turns off for Bettws-Gwerfil-Goch, I made inquiry for the
+said camp, but the landlord only shook his head.&nbsp; One of his
+daughters, however, hearing my question, said she knew where it
+was, and coming with me to the door indicated the whereabouts of
+the caravans of my quest.&nbsp; By now the rain had ceased, and,
+in a few moments, round a bend in the highway, the outline of a
+Gypsy tent, with a caravan and a tilt-cart standing near it,
+caught my eye against a row of twisted oaks in a wayside <a
+name="page263"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+263</span>field.&nbsp; On entering the camp there were hearty
+greetings from Gilderoy Gray and Oli Purum, his travelling
+pal.&nbsp; The ruddy glow in the fire-bucket made the
+tent&rsquo;s interior an inviting spot for tea, and there was
+plenty of fun that evening.&nbsp; Outside: the dark night with a
+roaring wind in the oak trees.&nbsp; Within: a wood-fire lit up
+the red blankets stretched over the curved tent-rods, and upon a
+well-made couch of straw (covered with rugs) we reclined.&nbsp;
+Oli was in fine form for tale-telling, and his pipe often went
+out.&nbsp; Gilderoy, too, had heaps of things to tell.&nbsp; Was
+ever a lover of the road better stocked with anecdotes than
+he?</p>
+<p>In the tilt-cart I made my bed, and slept as soundly as a
+dormouse.</p>
+<p><i>May</i> 13.&mdash;At 5 a.m. the sun was shining gloriously
+upon the mountains.&nbsp; Wash and breakfast in the open
+air.&nbsp; In the forenoon we three took the hilly road leading
+to Bettws-Gwerfil-Goch.&nbsp; A light breeze from off the
+mountains carried the smell of spring everywhere.&nbsp; The birds
+were all a-twitter in the leafing woods.&nbsp; Blue speedwells,
+white stars of stitchwort, bee-haunted gorse bloom&mdash;all
+turned to salute the sovereign sun glowing down upon the
+land.&nbsp; Gilderoy, ever a good walker, was soon pegging on
+ahead; then at a stile in a hedge he would wait until Oli and I
+came up.&nbsp; Just below the village of Bettws-Gwerfil-Goch, we
+stood on the <i>puri porj</i> (old bridge) and watched the trout
+leap in the vandyke-brown pools of the river Alwen.&nbsp; On to
+the &ldquo;Hand&rdquo; <a name="page264"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 264</span>tavern, my ideal village inn.&nbsp;
+George Borrow saw the interiors of many such houses during his
+tramps through &ldquo;Wild Wales.&rdquo;&nbsp; Nor are we likely
+to forget the kindness we received at the home of a certain great
+Scholar-Gypsy and Gypsy-Scholar, perched upon a high point
+commanding a magnificent landscape.</p>
+<p style="text-align: center">
+<a href="images/p264ab.jpg">
+<img alt=
+"Oli Purum.  Photo. Fred Shaw"
+title=
+"Oli Purum.  Photo. Fred Shaw"
+src="images/p264as.jpg" />
+</a></p>
+<p>About tea-time a jolly face appeared at our tent door,
+announcing the arrival of Gil&rsquo;roy&rsquo;s brother Jim, and,
+just as dusk was enfolding the scene, a merry boy came bounding
+into the camp.&nbsp; This was Deborah Purum&rsquo;s Willy, who
+told us that Bala Fair was to take place on the morrow.&nbsp;
+Lively indeed was our camp this evening, for had not our company
+increased by two?&nbsp; Resolving to set off in good time toward
+Bala in the morning, we slipped into our beds about midnight, and
+soon forgot to listen to the owls hooting mournfully in the
+woods.</p>
+<p style="text-align: center">
+<a href="images/p264bb.jpg">
+<img alt=
+"A Gypsy Harpist.  Photo. W. Ferguson"
+title=
+"A Gypsy Harpist.  Photo. W. Ferguson"
+src="images/p264bs.jpg" />
+</a></p>
+<p><i>May</i> 14.&mdash;A white mist on the mountains foretold a
+fine day, and by 6.30 we were breakfasting on trout and bacon
+done over a wood fire.&nbsp; Then harnessing the mare to the
+tilt-cart, we all climbed aboard, and away we rattled towards
+Bala.&nbsp; The wayside woods were empurpled with hyacinths, and
+on the hedge-banks little bushes of bilberry hung out their
+crimson flowers.&nbsp; Oli Purum, who is half a Welsh Gypsy,
+could tell us the very names of the families who had camped round
+the black patches on the roadsides.&nbsp; Springing off the cart,
+he would examine the heaps of willow-peelings with a critical <a
+name="page265"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 265</span>eye.&nbsp;
+&ldquo;<i>&Acirc;wa</i>, (yes) I thought so.&nbsp; It&rsquo;s
+some of the Klisons (Locks) that&rsquo;s been <i>hatsh</i>in
+<i>akai</i> (stopping here).&rdquo;&nbsp; A splendid trotter, our
+mare made light work of pulling the tilt-cart over those
+seventeen miles down the vale to Bala.&nbsp; Of course we were
+all wondering as to the Gypsies we might see at the fair.&nbsp;
+What a crowd of farm-folk we found filling the streets on our
+arrival.&nbsp; Just in front of the &ldquo;White Lion&rdquo;
+hostelry, I saw a potter-woman standing before a spread of
+crockery of all shapes and sizes on the side of the road, and,
+curiously enough, I had once met her son, Orlando Fox, at
+Bristol.</p>
+<p>Little did we dream, however, of the surprise awaiting us here
+in Bala.&nbsp; Elbowing our way through the dense crowd, it was
+Gilderoy who was the first to exclaim, &ldquo;<i>Dik
+odoi</i>&rdquo; (Look there), and turning our gaze that way,
+there, sure enough, was a very dark old Gypsy with grizzled locks
+and glittering black eyes.&nbsp; His garments were weathered by
+long wear amid the mountains, and in him I recognized the
+patriarchal Matthew (a descendant of Abraham Wood) whom I had met
+some years before.</p>
+<p>The Woods preserve many stories of Abraham, their earliest
+known progenitor, who flourished about the beginning of the
+eighteenth century.&nbsp; Entering Wales from Somerset, he
+brought with him a violin, and is supposed to have been the first
+to play upon one in the Principality.&nbsp; According to
+tradition, &ldquo;He always rode on a blood-horse, would not
+sleep in the <a name="page266"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+266</span>open but in barns, wore a three-cocked hat with gold
+lace, a red silk coat, a waistcoat embroidered with green leaves,
+had half-crowns for buttons on his coat, sported white breeches
+gaily decked with ribbons, pumps with silver buckles and spurs, a
+gold watch and chain, and two gold rings.&rdquo;&nbsp; Many of
+Abraham&rsquo;s descendants are excellent players on the harp,
+and all, without exception, speak pure, deep, inflected Romany,
+akin to the beautiful musical dialect spoken by the Gypsies of
+Eastern Europe.&nbsp; Angling all summer, fiddling or harping all
+winter, such is the life of the Gypsy Woods of Wales.</p>
+<p>It was with joy that we rambled with Matty along the shore of
+Bala Llyn, a glittering mirror in the sunshine broken only by
+rings made by rising fish.&nbsp; The windless day of summerlike
+quality induced our little party to loiter by the lake, and when
+at length we turned to come away, there on the road stood a
+Romany lass with her little brother, as merry a pair as ever wore
+Gypsy togs.&nbsp; To me it was very delightful to hear their
+fluent Welsh Romany.</p>
+<p>There was no difficulty in persuading Matty to accompany us to
+our camp at Maerdy.&nbsp; He seemed only too glad to escape into
+the sweet open country after the close atmosphere of the town
+streets.&nbsp; And how the mare did travel after her feed and
+rest!&nbsp; On and on up the mountain road we went, startling the
+horned sheep on the unfenced roadsides.&nbsp; Now and then Matty
+would point out the spots where his old folks used to camp.&nbsp;
+Well away from the town, we <a name="page267"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 267</span>took a bite of bread and cheese at a
+tiny white inn backed by a strip of pine forest, from whose
+shadows darted a grey sheep-dog almost wolf-like in its leanness
+of figure and sharpness of nose.&nbsp; What a penetrating bark it
+had too!</p>
+<p>A few more miles of rough road, with here a lone farm and
+there a cottage with lumps of white spar on its window-ledges,
+brought us once again to the &ldquo;Cymro,&rdquo; Maerdy, where
+we encountered a funny horse-breaker, reminding one of
+Borrow&rsquo;s gossipy ostlers.&nbsp; Oli Purum&rsquo;s tricks
+here &ldquo;took the cake,&rdquo; and to the delight of his
+audience he kept up a constant stream of them.</p>
+<p>To-night we felt that fate had been extraordinarily kind to
+us, as by the fire we sat listening to Matty&rsquo;s weird tales
+and to Oli&rsquo;s rendering of &ldquo;The Shepherd of
+Snowdon&rdquo; and other Welsh airs on his violin.&nbsp; A rare
+stock of tales has Matty&mdash;stories replete with enchanted
+castles, green dragons, witches, ghosts, and the hero is nearly
+always a clever Gypsy named Jack.&nbsp; Matty is Oli&rsquo;s
+cousin, and it is charming to see how happy they are
+together.</p>
+<p>To me this is a holiday indeed.&nbsp; The utter absence of
+conventionality, and the diversions of the Gypsy life, are as
+balm to one&rsquo;s nerves.</p>
+<p><i>May</i> 15.&mdash;To-day is another blue and golden
+foretaste of summer.&nbsp; Along the banks of the Alwen, dodging
+in and out among huge boulders, climbing fences, scrambling
+through the masses of flowering gorse and broom, Gilderoy, Matty,
+and I made our <a name="page268"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+268</span>way to Bettws-Gwerfil-Goch.&nbsp; In the old inn, a
+cool retreat after the broiling sunshine in the wooded valley, we
+sat awhile.&nbsp; Years ago I saw Matty and his sons dance on the
+blue-stone floor of this room, just after the New Year had come
+in&mdash;a time when all Welsh folk are merry with fiddle and
+song.</p>
+<p style="text-align: center">
+<a href="images/p268ab.jpg">
+<img alt=
+"A Happy Pair.  Photo. W. Ferguson"
+title=
+"A Happy Pair.  Photo. W. Ferguson"
+src="images/p268as.jpg" />
+</a></p>
+<p>On getting back to our camp in the early evening, all hands
+set to work, some gathering sticks, others fetching water, and
+soon the supper was spread inside the roomy tent.&nbsp; Tales and
+talk till the late-rising moon glinted through the holes nibbled
+by field-mice in the tent blankets.&nbsp; Then to dreamland.</p>
+<p style="text-align: center">
+<a href="images/p268bb.jpg">
+<img alt=
+"A Chat by the Gate.  Photo. W. Ferguson"
+title=
+"A Chat by the Gate.  Photo. W. Ferguson"
+src="images/p268bs.jpg" />
+</a></p>
+<p><i>May</i> 16.&mdash;This morning I find thin ice on a pail of
+water standing in the open.&nbsp; How bracing to complete your
+toilet in the cool air from the mountains.&nbsp; See with what
+tenderness the sunlight colours the rocks up there by the
+hillside farmstead.&nbsp; For the first time since coming into
+Wales I hear the cuckoo calling in the woods.&nbsp; High up on
+the slope I see a black horse dragging a hurdle with thorn boughs
+weighted by stones&mdash;a primitive harrow.&nbsp; I&rsquo;ll
+have a scamper down the road through the keen air of morn, before
+the sun has drunk up all the dew.</p>
+<p>After breakfast I go a-fishing.&nbsp; Home in the afternoon to
+find some of the Gypsy Locks coming down the Holyhead Road with
+their carts and ponies; a delightful party, and much
+<i>rokerben</i> (conversation) followed.</p>
+<p>A little later Gilderoy and I drive in the tilt-cart to Corwen
+to fetch Fred o&rsquo; the Bawro Gav.&nbsp; <a
+name="page269"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 269</span>This means
+more fun for us round the evening fire.&nbsp; When depressed in
+days to come, I want to remember that flow of Gypsy mirth away
+there under the shadow of Cader Dinmael, while the oak-groves
+outside our tent whispered in the rising wind of night.</p>
+<p><i>May</i> 17.&mdash;Farewell, tent and caravan and
+tilt-cart.&nbsp; Farewell, old pals beside your smoking
+fires.&nbsp; Farewell, sweet Wales and your beautiful
+mountains.&nbsp; To-day I return to civilization.</p>
+<p>Oli Purum drove me to Corwen station, and by night I am at
+home again on the Wolds of Lincolnshire.</p>
+<h3>II</h3>
+<p><i>September</i> 27.&mdash;We are at Sedbergh, a little grey
+town at the foot of the Yorkshire Fells.&nbsp; Stone walls,
+narrow streets, old inns&mdash;all have their outlines softened
+by the mellow shadows, half-golden, half-brown, stealing over the
+place this afternoon.&nbsp; Looking out from a tavern window I
+experience a thrill.&nbsp; There in the street stand two
+vehicles, a <i>v&acirc;do</i> and a tilt-cart, with sleek horses
+between their shafts.&nbsp; That tilt-cart I should know
+anywhere, for under its weathered hood I have dreamt happy
+dreams.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>&ldquo;I say, pals, we must be stirring.&nbsp; Come
+along,&rdquo; exclaims Gilderoy Gray, rising from his corner on
+the smooth-worn settle.&nbsp; We follow our leader into the
+street, and, boarding those vehicles, we are not long in getting
+clear of Sedbergh town.&nbsp; Bound for Brough Hill Horse-Fair,
+our party of six never had <a name="page270"></a><span
+class="pagenum">p. 270</span>a gayer prospect.&nbsp; Here we are
+on the road again&mdash;Gil&rsquo;roy, Merry Jim, Fred o&rsquo;
+the Bawro Gav, Oli Purum, his son Willy, and the Gypsy&rsquo;s
+Parson. . . .</p>
+<p>But even the brightest of September days must wane, and soon
+to right and left of us dark ridges lift themselves against the
+fading light.&nbsp; Our first stage is a short one.&nbsp;
+Nightfall sees us pull up at Cautley Crag, where we seek a
+stopping-place in the small croft adjoining the lonely white inn
+on the roadside.&nbsp; However, the gate proves too narrow to
+admit our carts, so we draw upon the wayside turf, under the
+shelter of a stone wall.&nbsp; Nimble as ever, Oli erects the red
+blanket tent in the croft, and Willy busies himself in building a
+good fire.&nbsp; When an abundance of brown bracken has been laid
+down in the tent (no fresh straw is to be had), the customary
+rugs are spread and we sit down to supper.&nbsp; Pipes and
+chatter make the evening hours fly.&nbsp; There is so much Gypsy
+news to talk over.&nbsp; At last, having placed a warning
+lantern, like a pendant star, on one of the carts, we tumble into
+our beds and quickly fall asleep.</p>
+<p><i>September</i> 28.&mdash;A keen, clear autumn morn making
+you feel how good it is to be alive.&nbsp; After pottering about
+the camp, Gilderoy and I wander along the bank of the roaring
+Rawthey, while Jim and Fred, lured by the shine and glamour of
+the sunlit mountains, set off across the dewy moor for a closer
+look at the &ldquo;Spout,&rdquo; as the waterfall up the dingle
+is described on the map.&nbsp; Down by the plank-bridge I stand
+and look at the fells all a-shimmer in the sun.&nbsp; <a
+name="page271"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 271</span>Far up
+beyond the region of stone walls, built (says our Oli) in the
+days when labourers received a wage of a penny a day, one&rsquo;s
+eye follows the forms of mountain ponies, horned sheep, and a
+couple of shepherds roaming with their dogs.&nbsp; Nearer, on the
+river-bank, are small companies of geese preening their feathers
+in the sunshine.&nbsp; I hear from our landlord that prowling
+hill-foxes sometimes snap up a goose on the moor. . . .</p>
+<p>Breakfast over, we were busy packing when some of the Whartons
+(Oli&rsquo;s relations) passed by in their light accommodation
+carts <i>en route</i> for Brough Fair, so Oli and Willy must
+needs rush out to gather the latest news of the road.&nbsp; This
+meant a trifling delay in our getting off, for Gypsies are
+loquacious.&nbsp; However, by 9.30 we were once more &ldquo;on
+travel,&rdquo; feeling blithe as larks.&nbsp; Rumble-rumble went
+the wheels on the road, and all was going as merry as a marriage
+bell until a single magpie flitted across our track.&nbsp;
+Observing the bird of ill-omen, I quoted the old-time
+ditty&mdash;</p>
+<blockquote><p>&ldquo;One for sorrow, two for mirth,<br />
+Three for a wedding, four for a birth.&rdquo;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>&ldquo;That&rsquo;s only an old woman&rsquo;s tale,&rdquo;
+quoth the Gypsy, flicking the horse&rsquo;s glossy back with the
+ends of the reins.&nbsp; Yet, a mile or so farther on, Oli was
+the first to discover that the horse had cast a shoe.&nbsp;
+Handing over the reins, the lithe Gypsy went off at a trot, and
+not long after he came up flaunting the lost <a
+name="page272"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 272</span>shoe, just
+as the smith at Court Common was ready, tools in hand, to put it
+on.</p>
+<p style="text-align: center">
+<a href="images/p272ab.jpg">
+<img alt=
+"&rsquo;Neath Cautley Crag.  Photo. Fred Shaw"
+title=
+"&rsquo;Neath Cautley Crag.  Photo. Fred Shaw"
+src="images/p272as.jpg" />
+</a></p>
+<p>Under the lee of a wood of bronzed beeches we made a stick
+fire to warm the stew-pot, while the smith replaced the shoe amid
+an interested group of yokels who had popped up from goodness
+knows where.</p>
+<p>The wonderfully transparent atmosphere of this region appears
+to possess magnifying powers, for even the poultry on the distant
+knolls assume the forms of huge birds, and as for the gaunt lady
+who sat &ldquo;taking the air&rdquo; on a lonesome bench half a
+mile away, she would have passed right enough for the wife of
+Goliath, if that celebrity ever possessed a missis.</p>
+<p>In a locality like this, romance and poetry meet one at every
+turn.&nbsp; A commonplace duck-pond in a grassy hollow does not,
+perhaps, suggest the glamorous things of life; yet the small tarn
+lying before us in the sunshine is the subject of a curious local
+legend.&nbsp; Here, says tradition, you are treading upon fairy
+ground, for in this dimple in front of the beech wood you have a
+<i>bottomless pool</i>!</p>
+<p style="text-align: center">
+<a href="images/p272bb.jpg">
+<img alt=
+"A Bottomless Pool.  Photo. Fred Shaw"
+title=
+"A Bottomless Pool.  Photo. Fred Shaw"
+src="images/p272bs.jpg" />
+</a></p>
+<p>As for yon grey house amid the trees on the common&rsquo;s
+upper edge, well, the man for whom it was built lived in it but a
+day and died, and over the doorway somebody has inscribed the
+text, &ldquo;Occupy till I come.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Soon after quitting the common, Wild Boar Fell begins to mark
+the skyline on our right, and now all around us lies a realm of
+strewn rocks&mdash;</p>
+<blockquote><p>&ldquo;Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly
+hurled,<br />
+The fragments of an earlier world.&rdquo;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p><a name="page273"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 273</span>A
+stiff push up the inclines brought us at last to the high point
+from whence the road dipped into the long straggling town of
+Kirkby-Stephen.&nbsp; Verily the place seemed to have dropped
+asleep in the September sun.&nbsp; With as little delay as
+possible we held on our way until, by 5 p.m., we had made Warcop
+and had pitched behind the farmhouse where we had stayed on
+previous happy occasions.</p>
+<p>With all hands to work, the tent was put up in record time,
+and as the ruddy sundown tinged the tree boles near our camp, we
+gathered round the fire for the evening meal.&nbsp; Thus closed a
+superb summerlike day.</p>
+<p><i>September</i> 29.&mdash;Somewhere about 7 a.m. a whiff of
+tobacco smoke comes curling pleasantly round the edge of our bunk
+in the tilt-cart, and I become aware that my bedmate, Fred
+o&rsquo; the Bawro Gav, is dressing.&nbsp; &ldquo;There&rsquo;s a
+heavy dew this morning,&rdquo; says he, turning back the
+coverings at the entrance of the cart; and in a little while I am
+up and washing outside, and perceive for myself that the cobwebs
+on the hedge are delicately jewelled with drops of dew.&nbsp;
+&ldquo;Look at the calves,&rdquo; says Fred, &ldquo;pretty
+fellows, aren&rsquo;t they?&rdquo;&nbsp; My companion has quite a
+farmer&rsquo;s eye for things, and as a weather-prophet he rarely
+makes a mistake.&nbsp; Overhead low clouds are rolling, or rather
+masses of dove-coloured mist, with patches of blue sky showing
+between, and already the mountains rising to the north are richly
+bathed in sunshine.</p>
+<p>During the forenoon Gilderoy, Fred, and I <a
+name="page274"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 274</span>stretch our
+legs in a stroll upon the sunlit &ldquo;Hill,&rdquo; where the
+Gypsies are encamped in considerable numbers for the
+morrow&rsquo;s great horse-fair.&nbsp; Many familiar faces greet
+us on every hand.&nbsp; Now it is Pat Lee who springs out from a
+group and nearly twists off Fred&rsquo;s hand, so vigorous is the
+shaking it receives, and now I am honoured by an invitation to
+test the weight of Femi Coleman&rsquo;s new baby.&nbsp; From the
+doorway of a gorgeous <i>v&acirc;do</i> Sophia Lovell thrusts out
+her black poll and inquires after our Oli.&nbsp; In this manner,
+with many variations, we make our way between the camps, and our
+ramble proves enjoyable in every way.</p>
+<p style="text-align: center">
+<a href="images/p274b.jpg">
+<img alt=
+"A Wandering Minstrel.  Photo. Fred Shaw"
+title=
+"A Wandering Minstrel.  Photo. Fred Shaw"
+src="images/p274s.jpg" />
+</a></p>
+<p>Going back to the wagons at Warcop, we drop into an inn, and
+by a bit of luck it happens that a &ldquo;character&rdquo; is
+present in the person of &ldquo;Fiddling&rdquo; Billy Williams,
+the wandering minstrel, who at our request takes his brown violin
+from a bag on his back and plays some lively airs, and Oli and
+Willy Purum, who have turned up, dance cleverly to a tune or two
+on the smooth-worn, blue-stone floor.&nbsp; But Old Billy&mdash;I
+cannot take my eyes off him.&nbsp; Look at his weathered coat (a
+gift from Lord Lonsdale) which in the course of years has lost
+its nap and shows here and there patches of a ruddy lower layer;
+surely the nondescript garment suits the grizzled old wanderer to
+perfection.&nbsp; Watching him closely, I observe that he has a
+very passable acquaintance with the Gypsy tongue, so, edging
+towards him, I drop a deep sentence into his ear.&nbsp; How he
+starts!&nbsp; &ldquo;You know something,&rdquo; says he.&nbsp;
+Then he goes on to tell me that as a boy <a
+name="page275"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 275</span>he
+travelled with no less renowned a personage than John Roberts,
+the Welsh Gypsy harpist.&nbsp; Here&rsquo;s a find.&nbsp; Who
+ever expected to meet a pupil of Old Janik&rsquo;s in a remote
+Westmorland inn?&nbsp; Billy says that Roberts taught him how to
+&ldquo;scrape music off these things,&rdquo; twanging the
+fiddle-strings with a forefinger, and smiling sweetly as he does
+it.&nbsp; For myself, I count this meeting with Fiddling Billy
+one of the &ldquo;events&rdquo; of our trip.</p>
+<p>In the evening we again rambled on the &ldquo;Hill&rdquo; to
+see a memorable sight&mdash;hundreds of Gypsy fires with rings of
+dark figures squatting around the blazing logs.&nbsp; A feast for
+the eyes of a lover of the nomads was this array of firelit faces
+set against a background of caravans, stone walls, and
+mountains.</p>
+<p><i>September</i> 30.&mdash;A fine morning with a cool wind
+blowing from the east.&nbsp; As we sat at breakfast, a clatter of
+hoofs on the road announced belated arrivals for the fair.&nbsp;
+Early in the forenoon we found ourselves in the thick of the
+crowd, which, to me, seemed as big as ever on Brough Hill.&nbsp;
+Once upon a time this fair used to last a whole week, much more
+indeed for the Gypsy element, but nowadays the last day of
+September and the first day of October are the only recognized
+dates.&nbsp; Droves of fell ponies took up a large space on the
+fair-ground.&nbsp; A few heavy horses and a sprinkling of
+&ldquo;bloods&rdquo; met the eye at times.&nbsp; For one thing we
+could see our Gypsy friends busy upon their &ldquo;native
+heath,&rdquo; for where is a Gypsy at home if it is not at a
+horse-fair?</p>
+<p><a name="page276"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 276</span>As
+evening approached, an ugly bank of inky-black cloud came over
+the mountains, and the wind in rude gusts began to wail,
+Valkyrie-like, in the tree-tops, and to shake our wagons in a way
+that reminded one of a night at sea.&nbsp; Thus the day which had
+opened so gaily ended in real &ldquo;Brough weather.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>An authority on that local phenomenon known as the
+&ldquo;Helm&rdquo; wind writes: &ldquo;The field of its operation
+extends from near Brough for a distance of perhaps thirty miles
+down the Eden Valley towards Carlisle, and is sharply restricted
+to the belt lying between the Pennines and the river; never, on
+the one hand, being encountered on the actual summit of the
+range, and never, on the other, crossing the water.&nbsp;
+Bitterly cold, it rushes like a tornado down the slope, and works
+havoc in the valley below.&nbsp; If the &ldquo;Helm&rdquo;
+happens to blow during the fair, the proprietors of scores of
+refreshment tents may usually bid farewell to all the canvas they
+possess.&rdquo;</p>
+<p style="text-align: center">
+<a href="images/p276b.jpg">
+<img alt=
+"Brough Hill Horse Fair.  Photo. Valentine"
+title=
+"Brough Hill Horse Fair.  Photo. Valentine"
+src="images/p276s.jpg" />
+</a></p>
+<p>The Gypsies, to whom I have ever mentioned the
+&ldquo;Helm&rdquo; wind at Brough, invariably shrug their
+shoulders, as if it were an old friend, and not a very welcome
+one at that.</p>
+<p><i>October</i> 1.&mdash;We were all afoot in good time this
+morning, six o&rsquo;clock or thereabouts, and right glad we were
+to see the sun breaking through the mists over Brough Fox
+Tower.&nbsp; Taking a halter apiece, Fred and I went to fetch the
+horses.&nbsp; Breakfast; then we packed, and away we went.&nbsp;
+&ldquo;Good-bye, old camping-place,&rdquo; we said, as the wagons
+reached the <a name="page277"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+277</span>Musgrave ramper, for very pleasant had been our sojourn
+by the spreading trees beyond the old farmhouse.&nbsp; On the way
+to Kirkby-Stephen, many light carts rattled past, going south,
+and, after the stiff pull out of the town, it was good to be once
+more on the open road with the keen mountain air blowing on our
+faces from over wide leagues of rocks and heather.</p>
+<p>By early evening we had reached Cautley, where, as before, we
+drew on to the strip of wayside turf, and in quick time a couple
+of plump fowls were roasting in the black pot over a wood
+fire.&nbsp; To watch Oli prepare and cook those fowls was an
+object-lesson to be remembered.&nbsp; Bravo, Oli, our Romany
+chef!</p>
+<p>Realizing that this was our last evening in the wilds, we were
+in no hurry to get between the blankets.&nbsp; So we stretched
+out the tales, and meandered leisurely through the fields of
+reminiscence, while the cloud of tobacco smoke grew denser around
+us, and the stars o&rsquo; night shone more and more brightly
+over Cautley&rsquo;s black crag.</p>
+<p><i>October</i> 2.&mdash;Up at seven to find the sky almost
+free from clouds and holding out the promise of a brilliant
+wind-up.&nbsp; After breakfast we set off for Lancaster, near
+whose castle we parted; and now, over fireside pipes, my notebook
+and its jottings possess the power to make every sight and sound
+of the journey live again.</p>
+<h2><a name="page278"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+278</span>CHAPTER XXII<br />
+<span class="GutSmall">FURZEMOOR</span></h2>
+<p><span class="smcap">Are</span> you seeking a recipe for
+youth?&nbsp; Go a-Gypsying.&nbsp; Forth to the winding road under
+the open sky, the Gypsies are calling you.&nbsp; Scorning our
+hurrying mode of life, these folk are content to loiter beneath
+the green beeches, or in the shadow of some old inn on the fringe
+of a windy common.&nbsp; Like Nature herself, these wildlings of
+hers overflow with the play-spirit and therefore remain ever
+youthful.&nbsp; To rub shoulders with them, I have found, is to
+acquire a laughing indifference to dull care and all its
+melancholy train.&nbsp; Whoever then would grow light-hearted and
+become just a happy child of sun and star and stream, let him
+respond to the call of the road: let him go a-Gypsying.</p>
+<p>Long ago I observed that during the pleasanter months of the
+year a few families of wanderers were generally to be found
+encamped upon a secluded waste&mdash;which I will call
+Furzemoor&mdash;where, by the courtesy of the owner, they were
+allowed to remain as long as they pleased.&nbsp; They resorted
+thither, so it seemed to me, to recuperate from the effects of
+their <a name="page279"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+279</span>winter&rsquo;s sojourn upon the city ash-patches hemmed
+in by unsavoury gas-lit streets.</p>
+<p>One April afternoon, following close upon a lengthy stay in
+London, I remember how blithely I tramped along the grassy
+cart-track, which, after winding between hedgerows full of green
+sprays, sweet odours and tinkling bird-notes, emerged upon rugged
+Furzemoor&mdash;one of those few places which in after years
+become for you backgrounds of dream-like delight by reason of the
+memories associated with them.&nbsp; Is it not to such spots that
+the fancy turns when the mood of the commonplace hangs heavily
+upon you, and any shred of adventure would be more stirring to
+the heart than &ldquo;the cackle of our burg,&rdquo; which is too
+often mistaken for &ldquo;the murmur of the world&rdquo;?</p>
+<p>No matter how often I came, the moor had ever the power to
+stir one&rsquo;s imagination anew by its suggestive atmosphere of
+the remote, the aloof, the wild; and having paused at the end of
+the lane to renew old recollections, I went forward and peered
+over the edge of a declivity fringed with bushes of furze in
+golden flower.&nbsp; Ah! there below the slope, kissed by the
+warm sun and fanned by the breath of spring from off the heath,
+lay the brown tents, tilt-carts, and smouldering fires of a
+Romany camp, looking strangely deserted save for a girlish figure
+reclining near one of the fires over which a kettle was
+slung.&nbsp; Pushing between the bushes, my blundering feet
+loosened some large stones which rolled <a
+name="page280"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 280</span>down the
+bank with a rattle, causing the girl to look sharply over her
+shoulder, and simultaneously from her red lips came a warning
+whistle, a shrill penetrating note first ascending then dropping
+again.&nbsp; I had heard that whistle of old and knew well its
+significance.&nbsp; In response thereto a Gypsy man appeared from
+behind the tents, his keen eyes gleaming with recognition.&nbsp;
+&ldquo;Hey, <i>rashai</i>, we&rsquo;s been a-talking about you
+lately.&nbsp; Only last night I was saying, p&rsquo;raps our
+pass&rsquo;n will be coming to see us one of these days, and here
+you are!&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Such was the greeting I got from Gypsy Sam, who now wheeled
+about and walked me off to a sandy hollow where his wife Lottie
+and her bairns sat by the fire.&nbsp; On catching sight of me,
+the children&mdash;a black-eyed troop&mdash;raised a shout of
+welcome, and, like little savages, soon began tugging at my coat
+tails.&nbsp; After an absence of several months from the
+camping-place this was a joyful meeting, and I guessed that my
+friends had much news to tell.</p>
+<p style="text-align: center">
+<a href="images/p280b.jpg">
+<img alt=
+"Gypsy Children.  Photo. Illustrations Bureau"
+title=
+"Gypsy Children.  Photo. Illustrations Bureau"
+src="images/p280s.jpg" />
+</a></p>
+<p>&ldquo;It&rsquo;s no use pretending to offer you a
+chair,&rdquo; said Lottie, giving my hand a hearty shake,
+&ldquo;for we haven&rsquo;t got one.&nbsp; If there&rsquo;s
+anything I does detest, it&rsquo;s chairs.&nbsp; The nasty things
+make sich draughts about &rsquo;ur legs.&rdquo;&nbsp; So,
+squatting on the ground, I awaited the unfolding of the family
+budget.</p>
+<p>There was a touch of the Orient on every side.&nbsp; Stuck in
+the wind-rippled sand under a bold wall of rock were curved
+tent-rods with brown blankets pinned round them.&nbsp; Between
+the golden furze <a name="page281"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+281</span>clumps a lean horse and a shaggy ass ripped the
+grasses.&nbsp; A greyhound lay asleep under a tilt-cart upon the
+shafts of which sundry gay garments were hanging to dry.&nbsp;
+Upon this picture my eye rested with pleasure.</p>
+<p>Now Gypsy Sam ignites his tobacco by scooping up a red ember
+with the bowl of his pipe.&nbsp; His wife does the same, and I
+follow suit.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;A prettier place is this,&rdquo; quoth Lottie,
+&ldquo;than when you see&rsquo;d us under that ugly railway bank
+at Hull.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Verily the Gypsies are possessed of an &aelig;sthetic sense,
+and their roving eyes grow wistful as they take in the beauty of
+the distant hills and the sun-gleams lighting up grassy knolls
+and spindly fir-trees rising from patches of sand.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;You remember that <i>pawno grai</i> (white horse) of
+ours?&rdquo; says Sam.&nbsp; &ldquo;Well, we lost him a little
+while back.&nbsp; A bit of <i>wafro bok</i> (bad luck) that was
+for us.&nbsp; We was stopping at a place with nasty bogs around
+us, and one stormy night the <i>grai</i> got into one of
+&rsquo;em unbeknown to we, and i&rsquo; the morning we found him
+with no more than his nose sticking out.&nbsp; Of course he were
+dead as a stone.&nbsp; Then there was that <i>kawlo jukel</i>
+(black dog) what you saw at Hull&mdash;brother to this one under
+the cart&mdash;he got poisoned up yonder by Rotherham.&nbsp; I
+reckon a keeper done it as had a spite agen us.&nbsp; I
+wouldn&rsquo;t ha&rsquo; parted with that dog for a good deal;
+he&rsquo;s got us many a rabbit.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>The steaming splutter of the kettle suggests a <a
+name="page282"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 282</span>meal, which
+is soon spread in winsome style.&nbsp; Meanwhile, from another
+fire hard by, a black pot is brought, and a savoury stew is
+followed by tea and slices of buttered bread with green cresses
+fresh from the brook.&nbsp; As Lottie lifts the silver teapot to
+pour out tea, I cannot help admiring the lovely old thing, and
+the Gypsy sees my appreciation.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; (holding it up in the sunlight),
+&ldquo;it&rsquo;s a beauty, ain&rsquo;t it?&nbsp; Did you ever
+hear of my Aunt J&#333;ni&rsquo;s quart silver teapot?&nbsp;
+Squire Shandres used to fix greedy eyes on it whenever he come
+down to the camp, but my aunt wouldn&rsquo;t part with it, not
+likely.&nbsp; You won&rsquo;t remember J&#333;ni, of
+course.&nbsp; A funny old woman she were, to be sure.&nbsp; There
+was one thing I minds her a-telling of us.&nbsp; She&rsquo;d been
+out with her <i>kipsi</i> (basket) but it weren&rsquo;t one of
+her good days, and by night her basket was nearly as heavy as
+when she&rsquo;d set out.&nbsp; Twopence was all she&rsquo;d
+made, as she passed through three or four willages, tumble-down
+sort of places, where the house walls were bent and the thatches
+of the cottages were sinking into the rooms underneath
+&rsquo;em.&nbsp; At one of these cottages as stood in an odd
+corner, J&#333;ni stopped to knock.&nbsp; Two steps led up to a
+green door with a bird-cage hanging outside.&nbsp; She waited a
+minute, but as nobody came she gave two more raps and tried the
+door.&nbsp; It was bolted.&nbsp; After that she heard sounds
+inside, a muttering voice came nearer, and slip-slap went the
+shoes, as an old woman opened the door.&nbsp; Talk about ugly,
+she was that, if you like; and there was hair growing on her lip
+and <a name="page283"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+283</span>chin.&nbsp; Fixing her black eyes on J&#333;ni, she
+scowled and scolded, and, pointing a finger at her, she cursed
+poor J&#333;ni, and for ten days afterwards my aunt
+couldn&rsquo;t speak proper.&nbsp; Whenever she tried to talk,
+she could only groan and bark and moo like the beastses, and it
+wasn&rsquo;t till after the tenth day that she were herself at
+all.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>From witches it was not a long leap to wise men.</p>
+<p>Said Lottie, &ldquo;Did I ever tell you about the wise man of
+Northampton?&nbsp; Well, it was one time as I&rsquo;d had wery
+bad luck indeed with my basket.&nbsp; I couldn&rsquo;t sell
+nothing at all in the willages agen that town, but I know&rsquo;d
+a <i>gozvero mush</i> (wise man) as lived there, so I went to see
+him, and he give me a rabbit&rsquo;s head and a cake of
+bread.&nbsp; &lsquo;Now,&rsquo; says he, &lsquo;go you and call
+at the places where you&rsquo;ve took nothing, and you&rsquo;ll
+take money at all of &rsquo;em.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;And what he told me came true, every word of it.&nbsp;
+I&rsquo;ll take my sacrium oath it did.&nbsp; That there
+<i>gozvero mush</i> (wise man) could tell the names of folks as
+had stolen things, and he could <i>d&ucirc;ker</i> (tell
+fortunes) like one of us.&nbsp; He could tell folk a lot about
+theirselves by rubbing his hand over the bumps on their heads,
+and he could read the stars like a book, and find out things by
+the cards and by the crystal.&nbsp; He was sort of friendly with
+our people, and they liked him, but they would never go near a
+witch if they knew it.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>It has been truly said, &ldquo;No one is fond of <a
+name="page284"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 284</span>Gypsies,
+but is fonder of Gypsy children.&rdquo;&nbsp; Grave-eyed pixies,
+at once bold and reserved, these quaint little sprites are simply
+irresistible.&nbsp; When the meal is over, I stroll off with a
+party of these romping rascals towards a gorsy hollow which the
+sun warms into a gayer gold.&nbsp; Asking the children if they
+would like a tale, and what sort?&nbsp; Answer comes, &ldquo;A
+<i>muleno gudlo</i>&rdquo; (fairy tale).</p>
+<p>&ldquo;How long?&rdquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;A mile long, in course.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>Into my tale creeps a ghost, and when I had done, little
+Reuben says&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;I know something about <i>mulos</i> (ghosts).&nbsp; One
+time a man was killed by a bull at the corner of the lane down
+yonder, and we allus hurries past that place for fear of
+<i>dik</i>in his <i>mulo</i>&rdquo; (seeing his ghost).&nbsp;
+&ldquo;And then there was two Gypsies as father once
+know&rsquo;d.&nbsp; They begged some straw from a farmer and put
+it in a little shed for to sleep on.&nbsp; Then they went into
+the willage to buy a loaf, and when they got back they found the
+straw had gone.&nbsp; A little ways off they see&rsquo;d a woman
+running away with the straw, but &rsquo;stid of follering her
+they went straight to the farmhouse where they&rsquo;d got leave
+to sleep in the shed, and they told the farmer about the woman,
+and he says&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Why, that&rsquo;s my old woman as died ten year
+ago.&rsquo;&nbsp; My word, those Gypsies soon began to look out
+for a sleeping-place somewhere else.&nbsp; Yes, we knows a lot
+about <i>mulo</i>s.&rdquo;</p>
+<p><a name="page285"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+285</span>&ldquo;What&rsquo;s that noise?&rdquo; asked one of the
+girls, springing up.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Come away <i>tshav&ecirc;</i> (children).&nbsp; Come
+away, sir.&nbsp; Don&rsquo;t you hear that nasty little
+<i>sap</i>&rdquo; (snake)?</p>
+<p>From among the mossy stones near at hand came a hissing sound,
+and there, sure enough, was a small viper wagging his
+black-forked tongue at us.&nbsp; We got up and moved nearer the
+camp.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Norfolk&rsquo;s the place for sarpints,&rdquo; said one
+of the boys; &ldquo;I once see one with a frog in its
+mouth.&nbsp; Lor, how the poor thing did squeal.&nbsp;
+There&rsquo;s lots of lizards about here, and they say that a
+<i>hotshi</i> (hedgehog) will eat &rsquo;em, but if I thought
+<i>that</i> I&rsquo;d never touch no more <i>hotshi</i>
+s&rsquo;long as I live.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>I told the children of a little incident which had happened on
+my way to Furzemoor, how I had cycled into a family of weasels
+crossing the road but didn&rsquo;t run over any of them, and,
+dismounting, I banged one of the little fellows with my
+hat.&nbsp; He lay still, and I thought he was dead, but when I
+turned my head for a moment he was gone like a flash.&nbsp;
+Lottie, who had drawn near and was listening, remarked&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;It&rsquo;s bad luck to meet a wezzel on the <i>drom</i>
+(road), but if there&rsquo;s anything we does like to meet,
+it&rsquo;s the Romany <i>tshiriklo</i> (bird),&rdquo; which I
+knew to be the pied wagtail, the foreteller of coming
+Gypsies.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;When we sees our <i>tshiriklo</i> on the road, and it
+flies, we knows we are going to meet Gypsies who&rsquo;ll be akin
+to us, but if it only runs away, the travellers coming will be
+strangers.&nbsp; One day me and my man <a
+name="page286"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 286</span>was on the
+<i>drom</i> and we see a young hare tumbling over and over in
+front of us.&nbsp; That&rsquo;s a sign as means ill, and, sure
+enough, a few days after we heard tell of the death of my
+man&rsquo;s uncle &rsquo;Lijah.&nbsp; Talking about meeting
+things, I&rsquo;ve heard it said that if you meet two carts, one
+tied behind t&rsquo;other, you&rsquo;ll soon go to
+prison.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>The strains of a fiddle now proceeded from where Sam sat alone
+by the fire, and we joined him.&nbsp; As the sun was going down
+one of the girls proposed a dance, and soon a merry whirl of
+Gypsy elves enlivened the camp.&nbsp; By the fireside,
+reminiscences came crowding into Sam&rsquo;s brain.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Many&rsquo;s the time, as you know, we&rsquo;ve
+draw&rsquo;d on to this place, and I takes good care to be
+friendly with all the keepers round here.&nbsp; I never meddles
+wi&rsquo; nothink, you see, so we never gets across wi&rsquo;
+&rsquo;em.&nbsp; Ay, but I minds when I didn&rsquo;t used to be
+so pertikler.&nbsp; See that oak wood up yonder?&nbsp; In my
+young days me and my old mammy got leave from a keeper to gather
+acorns in that wood.&nbsp; Us used to take &rsquo;ur sacks and
+fill &rsquo;em with acorns and sell &rsquo;em to a man as we
+know&rsquo;d.&nbsp; And mam &rsquo;ud warn me not to meddle with
+the rabbits, lest we should be forbid to stop on here.&nbsp; One
+afternoon mam had half-filled her sack, and when her back was
+turned, I tumbled the acorns out, and slipped into the sack three
+rabbits as I&rsquo;d knocked over, and I put the acorns back on
+the top of &rsquo;em.&nbsp; I was a good big lad then, and, my,
+wasn&rsquo;t I frit when I see the keeper coming with <a
+name="page287"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 287</span>his
+dog.&nbsp; When he got up to us, he and mam got a-talking, and I
+see the dog sniffing round the bag.&nbsp; The keeper, thinking
+that there was only acorns in it, shouts to the dog, &ldquo;Come
+away there.&rdquo;&nbsp; But the dog stuck there, and I was
+trembling in my boots for fear we should get into trouble.&nbsp;
+Howsiver, the keeper kept calling the dog off, and soon they goes
+away.&nbsp; Then I nips up the bag and trots off home with it,
+and when I told mam about it afterwards she gave me a downright
+good scolding and begged me never to do it no more.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Our old folks allus travelled with pack-donkeys, and
+they had one donkey as was a wery knowing animal.&nbsp;
+I&rsquo;ll tell you one thing it did.&nbsp; We was stopping in a
+lane of a summer&rsquo;s evening, and our <i>foki</i> (people)
+was smoking afore the fire under a hedge with the children
+playing round, and everybody was as happy as the Lord in Heaven,
+but all at once our <i>maila</i> (donkey) comes and pokes its
+head atween daddy and me, and I taps it on the nose,
+playful-like, to send it away, but it comes back, and it was that
+restless and fidgety, poking and pulling at us&mdash;it
+wouldn&rsquo;t be druv off.&nbsp; My mammy had been watching it
+from the tent, and she come up and says&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;That <i>maila</i> knows summut, I
+reckons.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Ay, it&rsquo;s a sign sure enough,&rsquo; says
+daddy.&nbsp; And the donkey still kep&rsquo; on poking and
+pulling at us.&nbsp; Long and by last dad says&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;We&rsquo;d better clear out of here,&rsquo; for
+he thought <a name="page288"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+288</span>there was summut queer about the donkey&rsquo;s goings
+on.&nbsp; Well, we pulled up the tent rods and packed &rsquo;ur
+things, and we&rsquo;d only just got out of the lane when two
+horsemen come along and began inquiring about a little pig as was
+missing from a farm.&nbsp; They made us unpack, and they searched
+through everythink, but, of course, they couldn&rsquo;t find
+nothink agen us, and they goes their way and we goes ours.&nbsp;
+And that night, after we had settled down in an old quarry a bit
+furder on, my daddy beckoned me and took me to a deep hollow full
+o&rsquo; dead leaves, and, scrabbling among &rsquo;em, he takes
+out&mdash;what do you think?&nbsp; The nicest little <i>bawlo</i>
+(porker) you ever see&rsquo;d, and we gets it safe home.&nbsp;
+That donkey <i>did</i> know summut after all.&nbsp; Ay, them were
+the old times.&nbsp; Things is wery different now.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;If you come here to-morrow you&rsquo;ll mebbe walk up
+with me to the planting on t&rsquo;other side of yon beck.&nbsp;
+The <i>rai</i> as this land belongs to lets me <i>tshin</i> (cut)
+all the <i>wuzen</i> (elder) I wants.&nbsp; My old daddy used to
+say&mdash;</p>
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;You should never lay a chopper to a tree
+wi&rsquo;out first axing the fairies&rsquo; leave,&rsquo; but
+folks forgets to do it now.&rdquo;</p>
+<p>The eyes of my friends here began to turn frequently in the
+direction of the cart-track.&nbsp; Indeed, when their eyes were
+not looking that way it seemed to me that their minds still
+were.&nbsp; Nor was this expectancy to go long unsatisfied, for
+soon there appeared in the sunken lane a black chimney topping <a
+name="page289"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 289</span>a
+green-hooded vehicle, a light cart bringing up the rear.&nbsp;
+These Gypsies turned out to be a married son of Sam, with his
+wife and family.&nbsp; Here was a jolly arrival.&nbsp; With
+surprising rapidity the horses were unyoked, and the newcomers
+were gathered round their parents on the grass.&nbsp; Off to a
+well-known spring run the girls to fill the kettle and a bucket
+or two, and the boys scamper off towards a spinney to return with
+an abundance of dead wood.&nbsp; Then how the fires crackle and
+spurt, and in next to no time the steam is puffing from kettle
+spouts.</p>
+<p>Feeling ten years younger for my visit to the Furzemoor
+Gypsies, I climbed up the deeply-rutted lane on the way to the
+distant railway station, and, as I turned for a last look, brown
+hands were waving, and <i>kushto bok</i> (good luck), which is
+the Gypsy&rsquo;s &ldquo;good-bye,&rdquo; was shouted after
+me.&nbsp; On my part I felt a strong tugging at the heart when,
+at a bend in the lane, I caught a farewell glimpse of the domed
+tents, upcurling blue smoke, and happy Gypsies among the golden
+gorse.</p>
+<h2><a name="page291"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+291</span>GLOSSARY</h2>
+<h3>PRONUNCIATION <a name="citation291"></a><a
+href="#footnote291" class="citation">[291]</a></h3>
+<h4>I.&nbsp; <span class="smcap">Vowel-Sounds</span></h4>
+<table>
+<tr>
+<td><p>&nbsp;</p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">As
+In</span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>&acirc;</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>alms (&acirc;ms).</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>a</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>aloe (al&ocirc;).</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>aw</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>all (awl).</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>&ecirc;</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>ale (&ecirc;l).</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>&egrave;</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>air (&egrave;r).</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>e</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>ell (el).</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>&icirc;</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>eel (&icirc;l).</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>i</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>ill (il).</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>&ocirc;</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>old (&ocirc;ld).</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>o</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>olive (oliv).</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>&ucirc;</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>ooze (&ucirc;z).</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>u</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>book (buk).</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>&ugrave;</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>ulcer (&ugrave;lsa).</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+<h4>II.&nbsp; <span class="smcap">Diphthongs</span></h4>
+<table>
+<tr>
+<td><p>&nbsp;</p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">As
+In</span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>ai</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>aisle (ail).</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>oi</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>oyster (oista).</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>ou</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>ounce (ouns).</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+<h4>III.&nbsp; <span class="smcap">Consonants</span></h4>
+<p>The following are pronounced as in English:&mdash;</p>
+<p style="text-align: center">b, d, f, h, k, l, m, n, p, t, v,
+w.</p>
+<p>v and w are, as a rule, easily interchangeable.</p>
+<table>
+<tr>
+<td><p>&nbsp;</p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">As
+In</span></p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>y</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>yes (yes).</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>r</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>roam (r&ocirc;m).</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>ch</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>loch (Scottish loch).</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><a name="page292"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+292</span>s</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>ass (as).</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>sh</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>shin (shin).</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>tsh</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>chin (tshin).</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>z</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>zest (zest).</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>zh</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>pleasure (plezhur).</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>j (dzh)</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>jest (jest).</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>g</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>gate (g&ecirc;t).</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>ng</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>singer (singa).</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>ngg</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>finger (fingga).</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>th</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>thin (thin).</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>dh</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>then (dhen).</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+<h3>VOCABULARY.</h3>
+<table>
+<tr>
+<td><p style="text-align: center"><span
+class="smcap">Romany</span>.</p>
+</td>
+<td><p style="text-align: center"><span
+class="smcap">English</span>.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Adr&ecirc;</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>In, into, within.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Akai</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Here.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Apopli</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Again.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Apr&ecirc;</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>On, upon.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Av</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Come.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>&Acirc;va, &acirc;vali, &acirc;wa, &acirc;wali</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Yes, certainly, verily</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Avr&icirc;</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Away, out.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td colspan="2"><p>&nbsp;</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>B&acirc;</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Stone, sovereign (&pound;1).</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Baiengri</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Waistcoat.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Bal</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Hair.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Balovas</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Bacon, ham.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Barvelo</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Rich.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Baw</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Comrade, mate.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Bawlo</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Pig.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Bawro</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Great, large.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Bawro-Gav</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>London.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Beng</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Devil.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Besh</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Sit, rest, lie.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>B&icirc;bi</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Aunt.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Biken</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Sell.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Bita</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Little.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Bitshado</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Sent.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Bitshado-pawdel</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Sent over, transported.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Bok</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Luck.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Bokro</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Sheep.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><a name="page293"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+293</span>Bokro-mas</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Mutton.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Bongo</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Crooked, lame, wrong.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Boshomengro</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Fiddler.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Bouri</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Snail.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Bouri-zimen</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Snail-broth.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>B&ucirc;dika</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Shop.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td colspan="2"><p>&nbsp;</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>D&acirc;bla</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Exclamation of surprise.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Dadus</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Father.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Dai</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Mother.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Dawdi</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Exclamation of surprise.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Delaben</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Gift.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Del-apr&ecirc;</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Read.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Didakai</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Half-breed Gypsy.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Dik</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>See, look.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Dikamengri</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Picture, looking-glass.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Diklo</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Kerchief.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Dinelo</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Fool, simpleton.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Diri</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Dear.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Divus</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Day.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Dosta</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Enough, plenty.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Dova</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>That.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Drom</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Road.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>D&ucirc;i</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Two.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>D&ucirc;ker</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Tell fortunes.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>D&ucirc;keripen</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Fortune.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>D&ucirc;vel</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>God.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td colspan="2"><p>&nbsp;</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>F&ocirc;ki</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>People.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td colspan="2"><p>&nbsp;</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Gad</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Shirt.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Gawjikeno</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Belonging to gentiles.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Gawjo</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Alien, gentile, anyone who is not a Gypsy.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Gav</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Town.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>G&egrave;ro</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Man.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Gozvero</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Cunning.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Grai</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Horse.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Gudlo</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Tale, noise.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Guno</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Bag, sack.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><a name="page294"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+294</span>Hatsh</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Stop, camp.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Hatsh-opr&ecirc;</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Arise, get up.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Haw</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Eat.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Hawben</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>A meal, food.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>H&#277;ro</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Leg, wheel.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Hokano</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Lie, trick, swindle.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Hora</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Penny.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Hotsherdo</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Burnt.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Hotshiwitshi</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Hedgehog.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td colspan="2"><p>&nbsp;</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Jaw</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Go.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Jin</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Know.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Jiv</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Live.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Jukel</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Dog.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td colspan="2"><p>&nbsp;</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Kai</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Where.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Kanengro</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Hare.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Kani</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Hen.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Kawlo</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Black.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Ke-divus</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>To-day.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Kek, keka</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>No, not, never.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Kel, k&egrave;r</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Do, make.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>K&egrave;r</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>House.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Kipsi</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Basket.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Kisi</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Much.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Kitshima</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Tavern, public-house.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Kl&icirc;sin</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Lock.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Kokero</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Self.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Koliko</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>To-morrow.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Kom</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Love, like.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Kon</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Who.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Konaw</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Now.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Kongri</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Church.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Kopa</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Blanket.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Kosht</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Stick, wood.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Kova</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>This, thing.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Krafni</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Button.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Kuro</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Cup, glass, mug.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Kushto</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Good.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><a name="page295"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+295</span>Laj</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Shame.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Latsher</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Find, pick up.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Lav</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Word.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Lavengro</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Word-man, linguist.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Lel</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Get, take.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Len, lendi</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Them, their.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Lesti</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Him, his.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Levina</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Beer.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Lil</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Book, paper.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Loli</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Red.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Lova</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Money.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td colspan="2"><p>&nbsp;</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Maila</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Donkey.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Man, mandi</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>I, me.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Mas</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Meat.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Masengro</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Butcher.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Maw</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Don&rsquo;t.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Maw</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Kill, slay, murder.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>M&icirc;, m&icirc;ro, m&rsquo;o</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>My, mine.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Mokado</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Unclean.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Mokto</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Box.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Mol</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Wine.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Mong</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Beg, pray, request.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Mon&ucirc;shni</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Woman, wife.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>M&ucirc;i</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Mouth, face.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>M&ucirc;k</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Let, allow, leave, lend.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>M&ucirc;leno</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Ghostly, fairy, supernatural.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>M&ucirc;lo</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Dead, ghost.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>M&ucirc;lo-mas</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Carrion.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>M&ucirc;meli</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Candle.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Mumpari, mumper</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Low-class traveller.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Mumpli</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Nasty.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>M&ucirc;sh</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Man.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>M&ucirc;skro</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Policeman.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td colspan="2"><p>&nbsp;</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Nasher</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Lose, waste.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Nongo</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Naked, bald, bare.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td colspan="2"><p>&nbsp;</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>O</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>The.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Odoi</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>There.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><a name="page296"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+296</span>Opr&ecirc;</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>On, up, upon.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Ora</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Hour, watch.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td colspan="2"><p>&nbsp;</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Pal</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Brother.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>P&acirc;ni</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Water.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Pariko</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Thank.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Patrin</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Trail, sign, leaf.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Pawdel</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Across, over, beyond.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Pawni</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Fair, white.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Pen</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Sister.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Pen</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Say.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Peser</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Pay.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Petulengro</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Smith.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>P&icirc;ro</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Foot.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Pogado</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Broken.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Poger</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Break.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Porj</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Bridge.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Posh</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Half.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Praster</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Run.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>P&ucirc;ker</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Tell.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>P&ucirc;kinger</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Magistrate.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>P&ucirc;ri-dai</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Grandmother.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>P&ucirc;ro</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Old.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>P&ucirc;rum</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Leek.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>P&ucirc;tsh</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Ask.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>P&ucirc;v</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Field.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>P&ucirc;vengri</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Potato.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td colspan="2"><p>&nbsp;</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Rai, raia</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Gentleman, sir.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Rakli</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Girl.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Rashai</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Priest, parson.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Rat</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Blood.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Rat, rati</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Night.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Rawni</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Lady.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Rinkeno</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Beautiful.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Rokamiaw</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Trousers.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Roker</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Talk, speak.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Rokerben</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Conversation, speech.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Rom</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Husband.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><a name="page297"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+297</span>Romanes</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Gypsy-wise, Gypsy language.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Romanitshel</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Gypsy.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Romano</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Gypsy.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Romer</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Marry</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>R&ucirc;p</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Silver.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td colspan="2"><p>&nbsp;</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>S&acirc;</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>How.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Sal</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Laugh.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Sap</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Snake.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Saw</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>All, everything.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Sawk&ucirc;mi</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Everybody.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Sawla</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Morning.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Shan</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Are.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Sh&ucirc;kora</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Sixpence.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Sh&ucirc;n</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Hear.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Shushi</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Rabbit.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>S&icirc;</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Is.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Sig</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Quickly, soon, early.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>S&ocirc;</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>What.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Sos</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Was.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Stari</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Star.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Staruben</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Prison.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Stor</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Four.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Sw&ecirc;gler</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Pipe.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td colspan="2"><p>&nbsp;</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Ta</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>And.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>T&acirc;der</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Draw.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>T&#259;l&ecirc;</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Down.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Tan</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Tent.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>T&acirc;no</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Young.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Tatsheno</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>True, genuine.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Tatshipen</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Truth.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Tatsho</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>True.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Te</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>To.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Tem</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Country, land.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>T&icirc;ro</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Your.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>T&ocirc;v</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Wash.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Trash</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Frighten.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Trin</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Three.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p><a name="page298"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+298</span>Tshai</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Lass, daughter, girl.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Tshavo</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Son.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Tshib</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Tongue, language.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Tshikli</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Dirty, foul.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Tshin</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Cut.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Tshiriklo</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Bird.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Tshitshi</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Nothing.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Tshiv</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Put.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Tshokaw</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Boots.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Tshor</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Steal.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Tshordo</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Stolen.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Tshori</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Poor.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Tshovihawni</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Witch.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Tsh&ucirc;mani</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Something.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Tsh&ucirc;pni</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Whip.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>T&ucirc;, t&ucirc;t, t&ucirc;ti</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>You.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>T&ucirc;v</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Smoke.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>T&ucirc;valo</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Tobacco.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td colspan="2"><p>&nbsp;</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>V&acirc;do</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Caravan, cart.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>V&acirc;va</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Another.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Vast</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Hand.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Vel, wel</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Come.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td colspan="2"><p>&nbsp;</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Wafod&ucirc;, wafro</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Bad.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Wesh, vesh</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Wood, forest.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>W&ucirc;ser</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Throw.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>W&ucirc;zen</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Elder.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td colspan="2"><p>&nbsp;</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Yek</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>One.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Yog</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Fire.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Yoi</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>She.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Y&ocirc;ra</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Egg.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Yov</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>He.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td colspan="2"><p>&nbsp;</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Zimen</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Broth</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+<h3><span class="smcap">Mumper&rsquo;s Patter</span></h3>
+<table>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Dunnock</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Steer.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><p>Mush-fakir</p>
+</td>
+<td><p>Umbrella-mender.</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+<h2><a name="page299"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+299</span>GYPSY &ldquo;FORE&rdquo; OR CHRISTIAN NAMES.</h2>
+<h3><span class="smcap">Masculine Names</span>.</h3>
+<p>Airant.</p>
+<p>Aniel.</p>
+<p>Artelus.</p>
+<p>Baius.</p>
+<p>Barendon.</p>
+<p>Bartholoways.</p>
+<p>Bohemia.</p>
+<p>Bosko.</p>
+<p>Boufi.</p>
+<p>Buzi.</p>
+<p>Craimia.</p>
+<p>Credi.</p>
+<p>Dimiti.</p>
+<p>Dinki.</p>
+<p>Doval.</p>
+<p>Dud.</p>
+<p>Duraia.</p>
+<p>Dusti.</p>
+<p>Eros.</p>
+<p>Evergreen.</p>
+<p>Feli.</p>
+<p>Fennix.</p>
+<p>Fowk.</p>
+<p>Ganation.</p>
+<p>Glympton.</p>
+<p>Golias.</p>
+<p>G&#333;ni.</p>
+<p>Gui.</p>
+<p>Haini.</p>
+<p>Harkles.</p>
+<p>Harodain.</p>
+<p>Hedji.</p>
+<p>&Icirc;nan.</p>
+<p>&Icirc;thil.</p>
+<p>&Icirc;za.</p>
+<p>Jaina.</p>
+<p>Kaivela.</p>
+<p>Kashi.</p>
+<p>Khulai.</p>
+<p>Ladin.</p>
+<p>Lamerok.</p>
+<p>Leshi.</p>
+<p>Liberty.</p>
+<p>Logan.</p>
+<p>Loni.</p>
+<p>Lumas.</p>
+<p>Lusha.</p>
+<p>Mairik.</p>
+<p>Manabel.</p>
+<p>Manfri.</p>
+<p>Manful.</p>
+<p>Mantis.</p>
+<p>Meriful.</p>
+<p>Moelus.</p>
+<p>Morpus.</p>
+<p>Moti.</p>
+<p>Motsha.</p>
+<p>Motshan.</p>
+<p>Motshus.</p>
+<p>Muldobrai.</p>
+<p>Nelus.</p>
+<p>Niabai.</p>
+<p>Nipkin.</p>
+<p>Nitshel.</p>
+<p>Northalion.</p>
+<p>&#332;bi.</p>
+<p>&#332;ki.</p>
+<p>&#334;lbi.</p>
+<p>&#334;li.</p>
+<p>Orferus.</p>
+<p>&#332;seri.</p>
+<p>&#332;thi.</p>
+<p><a name="page300"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+300</span>&#332;ti.</p>
+<p>Penderbela.</p>
+<p>Persuvius.</p>
+<p>Perun.</p>
+<p>Pesulia.</p>
+<p>Piramus.</p>
+<p>Polius.</p>
+<p>Potamus.</p>
+<p>Rabai.</p>
+<p>Raito.</p>
+<p>Renda.</p>
+<p>Righteous.</p>
+<p>Rinki.</p>
+<p>Ruslo.</p>
+<p>Sairenda.</p>
+<p>Santabelphijum.</p>
+<p>Santalina.</p>
+<p>Santanoa.</p>
+<p>Seki.</p>
+<p>Seneptune.</p>
+<p>Shandres.</p>
+<p>Shani.</p>
+<p>Shiva.</p>
+<p>Silus.</p>
+<p>Simpronius.</p>
+<p>Solivaino.</p>
+<p>Studivares.</p>
+<p>Swallow.</p>
+<p>Taimi.</p>
+<p>Taiso.</p>
+<p>Teni.</p>
+<p>Thurles.</p>
+<p>Tudlin.</p>
+<p>Tuti.</p>
+<p>Vaina.</p>
+<p>Wacka.</p>
+<p>Waimore.</p>
+<p>Wantelo.</p>
+<p>Wingi.</p>
+<p>Woodlock.</p>
+<p>Yoben.</p>
+<p>Zegul.</p>
+<p>Zezil.</p>
+<h3><span class="smcap">Feminine Names</span>.</h3>
+<p>Acorn.</p>
+<p>Alamina.</p>
+<p>Andelia.</p>
+<p>Angelis.</p>
+<p>Anis.</p>
+<p>Ashena.</p>
+<p>Ashila.</p>
+<p>Aslog.</p>
+<p>Begonia.</p>
+<p>Bidi.</p>
+<p>Biti.</p>
+<p>Bobum.</p>
+<p>Boina.</p>
+<p>Consuleti.</p>
+<p>Daiena.</p>
+<p>Darklis.</p>
+<p>Delaia.</p>
+<p>Delenda.</p>
+<p>Deleta.</p>
+<p>Deloreni.</p>
+<p>Dorenia.</p>
+<p>Edingel.</p>
+<p>Eldorai.</p>
+<p>Elophia.</p>
+<p>Elvaira.</p>
+<p>Emanaia.</p>
+<p>Erosabel.</p>
+<p>Everilda.</p>
+<p>Ezi.</p>
+<p>Fazenti.</p>
+<p><a name="page301"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+301</span>Femi.</p>
+<p>Fernet.</p>
+<p>Fianci.</p>
+<p>Fili.</p>
+<p>Florentia.</p>
+<p>Fluenzi.</p>
+<p>Froniga.</p>
+<p>Genti.</p>
+<p>Glorina.</p>
+<p>Graveleni.</p>
+<p>Idad&ecirc;.</p>
+<p>Inji.</p>
+<p>Jeta.</p>
+<p>J&#333;ni.</p>
+<p>Kadilia.</p>
+<p>Kerlenda.</p>
+<p>Kiomi.</p>
+<p>Kodi.</p>
+<p>Kraisini.</p>
+<p>Laini.</p>
+<p>Lavaina.</p>
+<p>Leanabel.</p>
+<p>Lenda.</p>
+<p>Leondra.</p>
+<p>Levaithen.</p>
+<p>Lidi.</p>
+<p>Linji.</p>
+<p>Liti.</p>
+<p>Lurina.</p>
+<p>Lusana.</p>
+<p>Lwaiden.</p>
+<p>Madona.</p>
+<p>Maiburi.</p>
+<p>Maireni.</p>
+<p>Mandra.</p>
+<p>Marbeleni.</p>
+<p>Melvinia.</p>
+<p>Memberensi.</p>
+<p>Mezi.</p>
+<p>Million.</p>
+<p>Mino.</p>
+<p>Mireli.</p>
+<p>Miselda.</p>
+<p>Mitoreni.</p>
+<p>Mizereti.</p>
+<p>Modiwench.</p>
+<p>Morjiana.</p>
+<p>Nareli.</p>
+<p>Olovina.</p>
+<p>Omi.</p>
+<p>Oshina.</p>
+<p>Paizeni.</p>
+<p>Paizi.</p>
+<p>Pamela.</p>
+<p>Penhela.</p>
+<p>Perpagelion.</p>
+<p>Piki.</p>
+<p>Plenti.</p>
+<p>Polovine.</p>
+<p>Pomona.</p>
+<p>Queenation.</p>
+<p>Reni.</p>
+<p>Repentance.</p>
+<p>Repriona.</p>
+<p>Richenda.</p>
+<p>Rodi.</p>
+<p>Romania.</p>
+<p>Saibarini.</p>
+<p>Saiera.</p>
+<p>Saifi.</p>
+<p>Saiforela.</p>
+<p>Saiki.</p>
+<p>Sanspirela.</p>
+<p>Savaina.</p>
+<p>Sedinia.</p>
+<p>Seluna.</p>
+<p>Seni.</p>
+<p>Separi.</p>
+<p>Shorensi.</p>
+<p>Shuri.</p>
+<p><a name="page302"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+302</span>Sibela.</p>
+<p>Siberensi.</p>
+<p>Sibereti.</p>
+<p>Sinaminta.</p>
+<p>Sinfai.</p>
+<p>Spidi.</p>
+<p>Stari.</p>
+<p>Suti.</p>
+<p>Taishan.</p>
+<p>Telaitha.</p>
+<p>Tiena.</p>
+<p>Traienti.</p>
+<p>Treci.</p>
+<p>Treli.</p>
+<p>Trenit.</p>
+<p>Vashti.</p>
+<p>Wadi.</p>
+<p>Waini.</p>
+<p>Wasti.</p>
+<p>Wenti.</p>
+<p>Weson.</p>
+<p>Whipni.</p>
+<p>Widens.</p>
+<p>Wigi.</p>
+<p>Wuzi.</p>
+<p>Yunakrai.</p>
+<p>Zebra.</p>
+<p>Zina.</p>
+<p>Zuba.</p>
+<h2><a name="page303"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+303</span>INDEX</h2>
+<p>Arnold, Matthew, <i>The Scholar-Gipsy</i>, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page123">123</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Articles enclosed in coffin, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page243">243</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Aryan languages of India and the Gypsy language, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page73">73</a></span>&ndash;74.</p>
+<p>Australia, Gypsies in, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page167">167</a></span>&ndash;168.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>Baring-Gould, S., <i>Book of Folk-Lore</i>, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page22">22</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Borrow, George, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page27">27</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page81">81</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page197">197</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page264">264</a></span>; Dumpling Green (Borrow&rsquo;s
+birthplace), <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page197">197</a></span>; <i>Lavengro</i>, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page27">27</a></span>, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page28">28</a></span>, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page160">160</a></span>, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page197">197</a></span>, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page241">241</a></span>;
+Borrow&rsquo;s originals, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page28">28</a></span>&ndash;31, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page158">158</a></span>; <i>The
+Romany Rye</i>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page28">28</a></span>&ndash;30, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page143">143</a></span>, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page230">230</a></span>, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page232">232</a></span>;
+<i>Romany</i> (Gypsy) <i>Word-Book</i>, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page161">161</a></span>, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page165">165</a></span>, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page249">249</a></span>; <i>The
+Zincali</i>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page81">81</a></span>&ndash;83.</p>
+<p>Bottomless pool, a, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page272">272</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Brancepeth Castle, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page33">33</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page35">35</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Bread crumbled to ward off evil, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page53">53</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Brewer, Dr., <i>Dictionary of Fable</i>, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page126">126</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Burning possessions of the departed, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page243">243</a></span>, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page246">246</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Byard&rsquo;s Leap, a witch legend, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page140">140</a></span>&ndash;141.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p><i>Caian</i>, <i>The</i> (quoted), <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page73">73</a></span>&ndash;74.</p>
+<p>Calderari, the, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page206">206</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Charm, a Gypsy, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page36">36</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Childbirth tabu, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page53">53</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Coining words, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page170">170</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Creel (portable grinding-machine), <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page161">161</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Creenies, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page206">206</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Crinks, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page207">207</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Crofton, H. T., on continental origin of certain Anglo-Romany
+Christian names, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page54">54</a></span>; <i>The Dialect of the English
+Gypsies</i>.&nbsp; See Smart.</p>
+<p>Crystal-gazing, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page108">108</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page223">223</a></span>&ndash;225.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>Dancing booth, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page177">177</a></span>.</p>
+<p><i>Dark Ages</i>, <i>The</i>, by &ldquo;L.,&rdquo; <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page246">246</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Death-hawk, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page245">245</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Devil and nuts, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page111">111</a></span>.</p>
+<p><i>Dialect of the English Gypsies</i>, <i>The</i>, by Dr. Bath
+Smart and H. T. Crofton, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page76">76</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page239">239</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Dialects, modern Indian, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page73">73</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Dialogue between two Gypsies, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page144">144</a></span>&ndash;145.</p>
+<p>Diamond, Manful Heron&rsquo;s, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page190">190</a></span>&ndash;191.</p>
+<p><i>Didakais</i> (half-breeds), <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page25">25</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page77">77</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Drinking-vessels of aliens avoided, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page82">82</a></span>.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>East Anglian Gypsy family, an, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page104">104</a></span>&ndash;117.</p>
+<p>Egyptian origin of the Gypsies, legend of, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page74">74</a></span>&ndash;75.</p>
+<p>Ermine Street (High Dyke), a Roman road, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page134">134</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Evil eye, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page53">53</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page129">129</a></span>.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p><a name="page304"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+304</span>Fairies, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page15">15</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page288">288</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Fairs&mdash;Bala, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page265">265</a></span>; Brough Hill, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page275">275</a></span>;
+Horncastle, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page229">229</a></span>&ndash;237; Leicestershire Fair, a,
+<span class="indexpageno"><a href="#page47">47</a></span>;
+Lincoln, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page257">257</a></span>; Newark-on-Trent, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page141">141</a></span>&ndash;142;
+Peterborough, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page118">118</a></span>&ndash;133; Seamer, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page184">184</a></span>&ndash;185;
+Stow Green, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page68">68</a></span>&ndash;70; West Stockwith, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page89">89</a></span>&ndash;98.</p>
+<p>Fasting, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page111">111</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page163">163</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Fear of ghost, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page243">243</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Feeding a gibbeted man, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page22">22</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Ferdousi (quoted), <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page114">114</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Fight between Gypsies, a, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page69">69</a></span>&ndash;70.</p>
+<p>Fighting song, a, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page70">70</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Flaming, Tinman, the, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page28">28</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Fortune-telling, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page61">61</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page107">107</a></span>&ndash;108, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page128">128</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Fossdyke, a Roman canal, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page16">16</a></span>&ndash;17.</p>
+<p>Freckles and Gypsies, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page102">102</a></span>.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>Gamekeepers and Gypsies, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page19">19</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page63">63</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page139">139</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page286">286</a></span>&ndash;287.</p>
+<p>Gentleman Gypsy, the.&nbsp; See Stables, Dr. Gordon.</p>
+<p>Ghosts, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page66">66</a></span>&ndash;67, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page108">108</a></span>&ndash;109,
+<span class="indexpageno"><a href="#page183">183</a></span>,
+<span class="indexpageno"><a href="#page284">284</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Gibberish, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page78">78</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page153">153</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Gilliat-Smith, B., on the Gypsy language, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page73">73</a></span>&ndash;74.</p>
+<p>Glanvill, Joseph, <i>The Vanity of Dogmatizing</i>, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page123">123</a></span>&ndash;125.</p>
+<p>Gordon, Jean, prototype of Meg Merrilies, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page28">28</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Great North Road, the, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page55">55</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page57">57</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page100">100</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page104">104</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page207">207</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Groome, F. H., <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page91">91</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page102">102</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page129">129</a></span>; <i>Gypsy Folk-Tales</i>, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page257">257</a></span>; <i>In
+Gipsy Tents</i>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page85">85</a></span>; letter (quoted), <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page126">126</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Gypsy baptism, a, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page52">52</a></span>&ndash;53.</p>
+<p>&bdquo; benison, a, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page46">46</a></span>.</p>
+<p>&bdquo; bird (pied wagtail), <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page89">89</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page285">285</a></span>.</p>
+<p>,, blood, grades of, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page77">77</a></span>.</p>
+<p>&bdquo; burial lore, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page240">240</a></span>&ndash;246.</p>
+<p>&bdquo; carelessness about names, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page131">131</a></span>.</p>
+<p>,, cheerfulness, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page34">34</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Gypsy, Christian or &ldquo;fore&rdquo; names, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page53">53</a></span>&ndash;54,
+<span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page299">299</a></span>&ndash;302.</p>
+<p>&bdquo; church-going, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page219">219</a></span>.</p>
+<p>&bdquo; cookery, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page277">277</a></span>.</p>
+<p>&bdquo; Court, its characters, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page18">18</a></span>&ndash;27, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page105">105</a></span>, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page176">176</a></span>.</p>
+<p>&bdquo; crimes, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page254">254</a></span>&ndash;255.</p>
+<p>&bdquo; curse, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page129">129</a></span>.</p>
+<p>&bdquo; dreams, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page109">109</a></span>&ndash;110, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page159">159</a></span>.</p>
+<p>&bdquo; enchantress, a, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page164">164</a></span>&ndash;165.</p>
+<p>&bdquo; epitaphs, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page150">150</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page244">244</a></span>.</p>
+<p>&bdquo; eye, the, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page160">160</a></span>&ndash;161.</p>
+<p>&bdquo; fetish, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page145">145</a></span>&ndash;146.</p>
+<p>&bdquo; fiddlers, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page10">10</a></span>&ndash;11, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page29">29</a></span>&ndash;30,
+<span class="indexpageno"><a href="#page84">84</a></span>, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page86">86</a></span>, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page120">120</a></span>, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page195">195</a></span>, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page222">222</a></span>, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page266">266</a></span>&ndash;267,
+<span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page274">274</a></span>&ndash;275.</p>
+<p>&bdquo; fighters, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page3">3</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page30">30</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page69">69</a></span>&ndash;70.</p>
+<p>&bdquo; graves, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page150">150</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page170">170</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page238">238</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page240">240</a></span>.</p>
+<p>&bdquo; guiding-signs (<i>patrin</i>s), <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page95">95</a></span>&ndash;96,
+<span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page142">142</a></span>&ndash;143.</p>
+<p>&bdquo; harpist, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page85">85</a></span>&ndash;86, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page275">275</a></span>.</p>
+<p>&bdquo; heroism, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page30">30</a></span>.</p>
+<p>&bdquo; hospitality, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page49">49</a></span>&ndash;51.</p>
+<p>&bdquo; incantation over sick person, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page164">164</a></span>&ndash;165.</p>
+<p><i>Gypsy Jack</i>, a drama, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page103">103</a></span>.</p>
+<p>,, <i>Laddie</i>, the, a ballad, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page171">171</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Gypsy language, the, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page73">73</a></span>&ndash;74, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page153">153</a></span>.</p>
+<p>&bdquo; Lore Society (note), <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page254">254</a></span>.</p>
+<p>&bdquo; love of extraordinary names, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page54">54</a></span>.</p>
+<p>&bdquo; love of a fire, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page10">10</a></span>.</p>
+<p>&bdquo; marriage, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page176">176</a></span>.</p>
+<p>,, mesmerism, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page122">122</a></span>&ndash;125.</p>
+<p>,, migrations, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page157">157</a></span>.</p>
+<p>,, moods, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page7">7</a></span>.</p>
+<p>,, morals, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page255">255</a></span>.</p>
+<p>,, name-changes, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page244">244</a></span>&ndash;245.</p>
+<p>,, origins, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page72">72</a></span>&ndash;76.</p>
+<p>&bdquo; pedigrees, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page78">78</a></span>&ndash;79, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page167">167</a></span>.</p>
+<p>,, pets, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page142">142</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page192">192</a></span>&ndash;193.</p>
+<p>,, play-spirit, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page91">91</a></span>&ndash;94, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page216">216</a></span>.</p>
+<p>,, politeness, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page3">3</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page79">79</a></span>.</p>
+<p>&bdquo; pride, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page76">76</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page156">156</a></span>.</p>
+<p>,, queens, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page71">71</a></span>.</p>
+<p><a name="page305"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 305</span>,,
+reverence for the dead, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page240">240</a></span>.</p>
+<p>,, sense of beauty, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page281">281</a></span>.</p>
+<p>&bdquo; snuff-taking, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page18">18</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page196">196</a></span>.</p>
+<p>,, soldier, a, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page27">27</a></span>.</p>
+<p>&bdquo; song, a, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page84">84</a></span>&ndash;85.</p>
+<p>&bdquo; surnames, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page55">55</a></span>&ndash;56.</p>
+<p>&bdquo; tent, construction of, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page146">146</a></span>.</p>
+<p>,, tinkers, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page205">205</a></span>&ndash;212.</p>
+<p>&bdquo; trial, a, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page31">31</a></span>.</p>
+<p>&bdquo; tricks, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page121">121</a></span>&ndash;123, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page132">132</a></span>, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page236">236</a></span>.</p>
+<p>&bdquo; unwillingness to impart names, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page54">54</a></span>&ndash;55.</p>
+<p>,, warning whistle, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page7">7</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page280">280</a></span>.</p>
+<p>,, washing rules, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page113">113</a></span>&ndash;114.</p>
+<p>Gypsyries&mdash;Blackpool, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page71">71</a></span>&ndash;88; Derby, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page157">157</a></span>&ndash;165;
+Lincoln, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page2">2</a></span>&ndash;4; London, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page162">162</a></span>, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page198">198</a></span>&ndash;201;
+Scarborough, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page173">173</a></span>&ndash;179.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>Half-breeds, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page77">77</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page181">181</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Hangman&rsquo;s Ditch, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page2">2</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Hedge-crawlers, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page77">77</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page156">156</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Hedgehog, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page26">26</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page45">45</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page49">49</a></span>&ndash;50, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page62">62</a></span>, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page67">67</a></span>, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page177">177</a></span>&ndash;178,
+<span class="indexpageno"><a href="#page257">257</a></span>.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Helm&rdquo; wind (at Brough Hill), <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page276">276</a></span>.</p>
+<p><i>Henry </i><span class="GutSmall"><i>IV</i></span>.
+(Shakespeare), quoted, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page207">207</a></span>.</p>
+<p>High Dyke, or Ermine Street, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page134">134</a></span>&ndash;141.</p>
+<p>Hindi, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page73">73</a></span>.</p>
+<p><i>Hokano Bawro</i>, a traditional swindle, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page121">121</a></span>&ndash;122.</p>
+<p>Holyhead Road, the, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page262">262</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page268">268</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Horse of deceased Gypsy shot or sold, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page243">243</a></span>, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page246">246</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Horse-stealing, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page132">132</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Hoyland, <i>Historical Survey of the Gypsies</i>, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page39">39</a></span>.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>Irish vagrants, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page157">157</a></span>.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>Jack o&rsquo; Lantern, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page147">147</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Jewellery of deceased Gypsy dropped into river, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page243">243</a></span>.</p>
+<p><i>Journal of the Gypsy Lore Society</i>, <i>The</i>, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page164">164</a></span>&ndash;165.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>King Edward the <span class="GutSmall">VII</span>. (when
+Prince of Wales), <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page203">203</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Kirk Yetholm, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page115">115</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Knapp, Dr. W. I., <i>The Life</i>, <i>Writings</i>, <i>and
+Correspondence of George Borrow</i>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page28">28</a></span>.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>Legends and folk-tales&mdash;</p>
+<p class="gutindent">Caspar, one of the Magi, a Gypsy, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page75">75</a></span>.</p>
+<p class="gutindent">Ghost of the Haystack, the, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page147">147</a></span>&ndash;148.</p>
+<p class="gutindent">Ghost of the Ford, the, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page222">222</a></span>.</p>
+<p class="gutindent">Happy Boz&rsquo;ll&rsquo;s Tales, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page257">257</a></span>&ndash;261.</p>
+<p class="gutindent">Nails at the Crucifixion, a legend, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page75">75</a></span>.</p>
+<p class="gutindent">O&rsquo;Neil&rsquo;s Horse, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page182">182</a></span>.</p>
+<p class="gutindent">Romanitshels hail from Egypt, a legend,
+<span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page74">74</a></span>&ndash;75.</p>
+<p class="gutindent">Ruzlam Boz&rsquo;ll&rsquo;s Boy and the
+Fairies, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page14">14</a></span>&ndash;15.</p>
+<p class="gutindent">Witch of Byard&rsquo;s Leap, the, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page140">140</a></span>&ndash;141.</p>
+<p class="gutindent">Wry-necked Fiddler, the, and the Devil,
+<span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page225">225</a></span>&ndash;227.</p>
+<p class="gutindent">Zuba Lovell sells herself to the Devil,
+<span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page112">112</a></span>&ndash;113.</p>
+<p>Leland, Charles G., <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page54">54</a></span>; <i>The English Gipsies and their
+Language</i>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page203">203</a></span>; his discovery of Shelta (note),
+<span class="indexpageno"><a href="#page208">208</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Libation on Gypsy graves, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page151">151</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page240">240</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Lincoln, Upper (described), <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page1">1</a></span>&ndash;2.</p>
+<p>Lithuanian Gypsies, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page75">75</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Loan-words, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page74">74</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Lying tales, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page86">86</a></span>&ndash;87, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page257">257</a></span>&ndash;261.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>Mace, Jem, the pugilist, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page195">195</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page233">233</a></span>.</p>
+<p>M&lsquo;Cormick, Provost, his <i>Tinkler Gypsies</i> (quoted),
+<span class="indexpageno"><a href="#page10">10</a></span>.</p>
+<p><a name="page306"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
+306</span>Macfie, R. A. Scott, lecture (quoted), <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page254">254</a></span>&ndash;255;
+<i>System of Anglo-Romany Spelling for English Readers and
+British Printers</i>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page291">291</a></span>&ndash;292.</p>
+<p>Magi, the, a Gypsy legend, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page75">75</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Merrilies, Meg, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page28">28</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Meyer, Kuno, on Shelta (note), <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page207">207</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Miller, Thomas, <i>Gideon Giles the Roper</i>, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page161">161</a></span>.</p>
+<p><i>Mokadi</i> (unclean), <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page113">113</a></span>&ndash;114.</p>
+<p>Mousehold Heath, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page28">28</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page80">80</a></span>&ndash;81, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page197">197</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Moveable Dwellings Bill, the, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page155">155</a></span>.</p>
+<p><i>Mulo-mas</i> (note), <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page61">61</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page62">62</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Mumper&rsquo;s Dingle, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page31">31</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Mumpers and Gypsies contrasted, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page77">77</a></span>.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>Name-changes, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page192">192</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page244">244</a></span>&ndash;245.</p>
+<p>Newark ale, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page221">221</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page223">223</a></span>.</p>
+<p>No Man&rsquo;s Land, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page178">178</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Nomenclature, Gypsy, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page299">299</a></span>&ndash;302.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>Oakley (an artist), <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page163">163</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Omens, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page245">245</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page285">285</a></span>&ndash;286.</p>
+<p>Oppression of Gypsies, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page20">20</a></span>.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p><i>Pall Mall Budget</i>, the, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page43">43</a></span>.</p>
+<p>&ldquo;Peelers,&rdquo; <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page26">26</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Petulengro Jasper (Ambrose Smith), <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page28">28</a></span>, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page30">30</a></span>, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page157">157</a></span>, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page197">197</a></span>, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page229">229</a></span>, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page241">241</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Public Record Office, the, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page247">247</a></span>.</p>
+<p><i>Puvin Graiaw</i>, the illegal pasturing of horses, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page138">138</a></span>.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>Recipe for youth, a, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page278">278</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Robin Hood&rsquo;s Bay, Gypsies at, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page178">178</a></span>, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page180">180</a></span>&ndash;183.</p>
+<p>&bdquo; &bdquo; Hills, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page149">149</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Romany Language, its pronunciation, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page291">291</a></span>&ndash;292.</p>
+<p>&bdquo; Vocabulary, a, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page292">292</a></span>&ndash;298.</p>
+<p>Rudiger, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page73">73</a></span>.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>Sampson, Dr. John, on Shelta (note), <span
+class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page207">207</a></span>&ndash;208.</p>
+<p>Sanskrit, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page73">73</a></span>&ndash;74.</p>
+<p>Scott, Sir Walter, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page28">28</a></span>; <i>Guy Mannering</i>, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page28">28</a></span>; Sheriff of
+Selkirkshire, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page39">39</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page234">234</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Scythe blades in Horncastle Church, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page230">230</a></span>&ndash;231.</p>
+<p>Self-sacrifice of a sweep, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page249">249</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Shelta (tinkers&rsquo; talk), its Celtic origin (note), <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page207">207</a></span>&ndash;208;
+short vocabulary of, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page212">212</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Sims, G. R., <i>The Romany Rye</i> (a drama), <span
+class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page103">103</a></span>&ndash;104.</p>
+<p>Smart, Dr. Bath, and Crofton, H. T., <i>The Dialect of the
+English Gypsies</i>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page76">76</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page239">239</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Smith, George, of Coalville (philanthropist), <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page51">51</a></span>, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page155">155</a></span>&ndash;156.</p>
+<p>Snail broth, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page62">62</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Snakes, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page88">88</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page285">285</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Spanish Gypsies, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page196">196</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Spirits summoned by the spoken name, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page54">54</a></span>&ndash;55.</p>
+<p>Stables, Dr. Gordon, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page149">149</a></span>&ndash;150.</p>
+<p>Stone, J. Harris, <i>Caravanning and Camping Out</i>, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page241">241</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Stories&mdash;</p>
+<p class="gutindent">Bishop Trollope&rsquo;s Story of Dunston
+Pillar, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page137">137</a></span>&ndash;138.</p>
+<p class="gutindent">Bobby Faa and the Shepherd&rsquo;s Pie,
+<span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page115">115</a></span>&ndash;117.</p>
+<p class="gutindent">Dunnock (steer), a Tale about, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page12">12</a></span>&ndash;13.</p>
+<p class="gutindent">Eliza Gray&rsquo;s Tale of a Ghost, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page108">108</a></span>&ndash;109.</p>
+<p class="gutindent">&ldquo;Finding&rdquo; a Horse, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page132">132</a></span>&ndash;133.</p>
+<p class="gutindent">Poaching Policeman, a, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page63">63</a></span>.</p>
+<p class="gutindent">The Bough Licence, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page232">232</a></span>&ndash;233.</p>
+<p class="gutindent">The Donkey that knew Something, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page287">287</a></span>&ndash;288.</p>
+<p class="gutindent">The Gypsy&rsquo;s Surprise, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page37">37</a></span>&ndash;38.</p>
+<p class="gutindent">Tyso Boswell and the Buried Treasure, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page190">190</a></span>.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p><a name="page307"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 307</span>Tabu,
+childbirth, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page53">53</a></span>.</p>
+<p>&bdquo; on food and drink of the dead, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page39">39</a></span>&ndash;40,
+<span class="indexpageno"><a href="#page243">243</a></span>.</p>
+<p>&bdquo; on names of the dead, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page244">244</a></span>&ndash;245.</p>
+<p>Tales.&nbsp; See Legends, Lying Tales, Stories,
+Transportation.</p>
+<p>Temple, Sir Richard, on Gypsy Christian names, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page54">54</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Theatre, Harrison&rsquo;s, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page103">103</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Thompson, T. W., on Gypsy burial, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page241">241</a></span>.</p>
+<p><i>Times</i>, the, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page103">103</a></span>&ndash;104.</p>
+<p>Tinkers, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page205">205</a></span>&ndash;212, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a href="#page249">249</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Tinkers&rsquo; talk.&nbsp; See Shelta.</p>
+<p>Tinklers, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page10">10</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page207">207</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Transportation of Gypsies, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page247">247</a></span>&ndash;254.</p>
+<p>,, tales, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page247">247</a></span>&ndash;254.</p>
+<p>Trollope, Bishop E., <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page137">137</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Turning garments of dead inside out, <span
+class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page242">242</a></span>&ndash;243.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>Victoria, Queen, <i>More Leaves from the Journal of a Life in
+the Highlands</i> (quoted), <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page29">29</a></span>.</p>
+
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>Watching the corpse, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page242">242</a></span>.</p>
+<p>&bdquo; the grave, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page243">243</a></span>&ndash;244.</p>
+<p>Wayside burial, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page240">240</a></span>&ndash;242.</p>
+<p>Welsh Gypsies, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page262">262</a></span>&ndash;269.</p>
+<p>White, Gilbert, of Selborne, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page55">55</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Wine buried, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page114">114</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Wise man, a, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page283">283</a></span>.</p>
+<p>,, woman, a, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page223">223</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Wishing a wish, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page129">129</a></span>.</p>
+<p>Witches, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page188">188</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page240">240</a></span>, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page282">282</a></span>&ndash;283.</p>
+<p>Wood, Abraham, <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page265">265</a></span>&ndash;266.</p>
+<h2>Footnotes</h2>
+<p><a name="footnote28"></a><a href="#citation28"
+class="footnote">[28]</a>&nbsp; <i>The Life</i>, <i>Writings</i>,
+<i>and Correspondence of George Borrow</i>, by Prof. Wm. I.
+Knapp.&nbsp; London, 1899.</p>
+<p><a name="footnote53"></a><a href="#citation53"
+class="footnote">[53]</a>&nbsp; See list of masculine and
+feminine names, pp. <span class="indexpageno"><a
+href="#page299">299</a></span>&ndash;302.</p>
+<p><a name="footnote61"></a><a href="#citation61"
+class="footnote">[61]</a>&nbsp; <i>Mulo-mas</i>, the flesh of an
+animal which has died without the aid of a butcher.&nbsp;
+&ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t what the <i>diri Duvel</i> (God) kills as good
+as anything killed by a <i>masengro</i>?&rdquo; (butcher).</p>
+<p><a name="footnote73"></a><a href="#citation73"
+class="footnote">[73]</a>&nbsp; &ldquo;Gypsies,&rdquo; by B.
+Gilliat-Smith (<i>The Caian</i>, vol. xvi. No. 3).</p>
+<p><a name="footnote207"></a><a href="#citation207"
+class="footnote">[207]</a>&nbsp; &ldquo;Shelta is a secret
+language of great antiquity . . . in Irish MSS. we have mentions
+and records of it under various names . . . though now confined
+to tinkers, its knowledge was once possessed by Irish poets and
+scholars, who, probably, were its original framers&rdquo;
+(Professor Kuno Meyer).</p>
+<p>&ldquo;The language of the tinkers is a dialect or jargon
+exclusively of Celtic origin, though, like one of their own
+stolen asses, it is so docked and disguised as to be scarcely
+recognizable. . . .&nbsp; A large number of Shelta words are
+formed by transposing the principal letters of the Gaelic
+word.&nbsp; This species of back-slang is, of course, purely
+phonetic, differing in this respect from the more artificial
+letter-reversing back-slang of costers and cabmen. . . .&nbsp; It
+is indeed strange that the existence of a tongue so ancient and
+widespread as Shelta should have remained entirely unsuspected
+until Mr. Leland, with whom the undivided honour of this
+discovery rests, first made it public in the pages of
+<i>Macmillan&rsquo;s Magazine</i>&rdquo; (Dr. John Sampson).</p>
+<p><a name="footnote246"></a><a href="#citation246"
+class="footnote">[246]</a>&nbsp; <i>The Dark Ages and Other
+Poems</i>.&nbsp; By L.</p>
+<p><a name="footnote256"></a><a href="#citation256"
+class="footnote">[256]</a>&nbsp; <i>Gypsy Folk-Tales</i>, by
+Francis Hindes Groome (London, 1899).</p>
+<p><a name="footnote291"></a><a href="#citation291"
+class="footnote">[291]</a>&nbsp; Taken from <i>A System of
+Anglo-Romani Spelling for English Readers and British
+Printers</i>, by R. A. Scott Macfie.</p>
+<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GYPSY'S PARSON***</p>
+<pre>
+
+
+***** This file should be named 46015-h.htm or 46015-h.zip******
+
+
+This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
+http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/4/6/0/1/46015
+
+
+
+Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions
+will be renamed.
+
+Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no
+one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation
+(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without
+permission and without paying copyright royalties.  Special rules,
+set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to
+copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to
+protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark.  Project
+Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you
+charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission.  If you
+do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the
+rules is very easy.  You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose
+such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and
+research.  They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do
+practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks.  Redistribution is
+subject to the trademark license, especially commercial
+redistribution.
+
+
+
+*** START: FULL LICENSE ***
+
+THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
+PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
+
+To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
+distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
+(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project
+Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project
+Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at
+  www.gutenberg.org/license.
+
+
+Section 1.  General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm
+electronic works
+
+1.A.  By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
+electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
+and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
+(trademark/copyright) agreement.  If you do not agree to abide by all
+the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy
+all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.
+If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project
+Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the
+terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or
+entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.
+
+1.B.  "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark.  It may only be
+used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
+agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement.  There are a few
+things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
+even without complying with the full terms of this agreement.  See
+paragraph 1.C below.  There are a lot of things you can do with Project
+Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement
+and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
+works.  See paragraph 1.E below.
+
+1.C.  The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation"
+or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project
+Gutenberg-tm electronic works.  Nearly all the individual works in the
+collection are in the public domain in the United States.  If an
+individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are
+located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from
+copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative
+works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg
+are removed.  Of course, we hope that you will support the Project
+Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by
+freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of
+this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with
+the work.  You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by
+keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project
+Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.
+
+1.D.  The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
+what you can do with this work.  Copyright laws in most countries are in
+a constant state of change.  If you are outside the United States, check
+the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement
+before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or
+creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project
+Gutenberg-tm work.  The Foundation makes no representations concerning
+the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United
+States.
+
+1.E.  Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
+
+1.E.1.  The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate
+access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently
+whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the
+phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project
+Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed,
+copied or distributed:
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+1.E.2.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived
+from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is
+posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied
+and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees
+or charges.  If you are redistributing or providing access to a work
+with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the
+work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1
+through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the
+Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or
+1.E.9.
+
+1.E.3.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
+with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
+must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional
+terms imposed by the copyright holder.  Additional terms will be linked
+to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the
+permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.
+
+1.E.4.  Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
+License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
+work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.
+
+1.E.5.  Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
+electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
+prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
+active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
+Gutenberg-tm License.
+
+1.E.6.  You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
+compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any
+word processing or hypertext form.  However, if you provide access to or
+distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than
+"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version
+posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org),
+you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a
+copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon
+request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other
+form.  Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm
+License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
+
+1.E.7.  Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
+performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
+unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
+
+1.E.8.  You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
+access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided
+that
+
+- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
+     the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
+     you already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  The fee is
+     owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he
+     has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the
+     Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.  Royalty payments
+     must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you
+     prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax
+     returns.  Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and
+     sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the
+     address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to
+     the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."
+
+- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
+     you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
+     does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
+     License.  You must require such a user to return or
+     destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium
+     and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of
+     Project Gutenberg-tm works.
+
+- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any
+     money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
+     electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days
+     of receipt of the work.
+
+- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
+     distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.
+
+1.E.9.  If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm
+electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set
+forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from
+both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael
+Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark.  Contact the
+Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.
+
+1.F.
+
+1.F.1.  Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
+effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
+public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm
+collection.  Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
+works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain
+"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or
+corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual
+property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a
+computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by
+your equipment.
+
+1.F.2.  LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right
+of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
+Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
+Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
+Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
+liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
+fees.  YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
+LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
+PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3.  YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
+TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
+LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
+INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
+DAMAGE.
+
+1.F.3.  LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
+defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
+receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
+written explanation to the person you received the work from.  If you
+received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with
+your written explanation.  The person or entity that provided you with
+the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a
+refund.  If you received the work electronically, the person or entity
+providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to
+receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund.  If the second copy
+is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further
+opportunities to fix the problem.
+
+1.F.4.  Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
+in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO OTHER
+WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO
+WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
+
+1.F.5.  Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
+warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages.
+If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the
+law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be
+interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by
+the applicable state law.  The invalidity or unenforceability of any
+provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.
+
+1.F.6.  INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
+trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
+providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance
+with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production,
+promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works,
+harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees,
+that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do
+or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm
+work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any
+Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.
+
+
+Section  2.  Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm
+
+Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
+electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers
+including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers.  It exists
+because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from
+people in all walks of life.
+
+Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
+assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
+goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
+remain freely available for generations to come.  In 2001, the Project
+Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
+and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations.
+To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
+and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4
+and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Section 3.  Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
+Foundation
+
+The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
+501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
+state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
+Revenue Service.  The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
+number is 64-6221541.  Contributions to the Project Gutenberg
+Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent
+permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.
+
+The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S.
+Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered
+throughout numerous locations.  Its business office is located at 809
+North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887.  Email
+contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the
+Foundation's web site and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact
+
+For additional contact information:
+     Dr. Gregory B. Newby
+     Chief Executive and Director
+     gbnewby@pglaf.org
+
+Section 4.  Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
+Literary Archive Foundation
+
+Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide
+spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
+increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
+freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
+array of equipment including outdated equipment.  Many small donations
+($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
+status with the IRS.
+
+The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
+charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
+States.  Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
+considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
+with these requirements.  We do not solicit donations in locations
+where we have not received written confirmation of compliance.  To
+SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any
+particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate
+
+While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
+have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
+against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
+approach us with offers to donate.
+
+International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
+any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
+outside the United States.  U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
+
+Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
+methods and addresses.  Donations are accepted in a number of other
+ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations.
+To donate, please visit:  www.gutenberg.org/donate
+
+
+Section 5.  General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
+works.
+
+Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm
+concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared
+with anyone.  For forty years, he produced and distributed Project
+Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.
+
+Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
+editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.
+unless a copyright notice is included.  Thus, we do not necessarily
+keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.
+
+Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:
+
+     www.gutenberg.org
+
+This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
+including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
+Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
+subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
+</pre></body>
+</html>
diff --git a/46015-h/images/fpb.jpg b/46015-h/images/fpb.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..fbc4cd4
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/fpb.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/fps.jpg b/46015-h/images/fps.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..b75ce8a
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/fps.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p112b.jpg b/46015-h/images/p112b.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..3bb5b97
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p112b.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p112s.jpg b/46015-h/images/p112s.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..7237768
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p112s.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p118b.jpg b/46015-h/images/p118b.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..72f1396
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p118b.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p118s.jpg b/46015-h/images/p118s.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..88cb51d
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p118s.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p128ab.jpg b/46015-h/images/p128ab.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..5e72b68
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p128ab.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p128as.jpg b/46015-h/images/p128as.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..70c2224
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p128as.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p128bb.jpg b/46015-h/images/p128bb.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..7f4194b
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p128bb.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p128bs.jpg b/46015-h/images/p128bs.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..068b461
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p128bs.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p139ab.jpg b/46015-h/images/p139ab.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..8649482
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p139ab.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p139as.jpg b/46015-h/images/p139as.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..72ee62a
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p139as.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p139bb.jpg b/46015-h/images/p139bb.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..a0c0033
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p139bb.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p139bs.jpg b/46015-h/images/p139bs.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..befa896
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p139bs.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p142b.jpg b/46015-h/images/p142b.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..cf5e2e1
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p142b.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p142s.jpg b/46015-h/images/p142s.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..0f0772a
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p142s.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p146ab.jpg b/46015-h/images/p146ab.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..5487b50
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p146ab.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p146as.jpg b/46015-h/images/p146as.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..f82e48e
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p146as.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p146bb.jpg b/46015-h/images/p146bb.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..f5735e0
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p146bb.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p146bs.jpg b/46015-h/images/p146bs.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..206e5c4
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p146bs.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p160b.jpg b/46015-h/images/p160b.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..1f5dd2f
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p160b.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p160s.jpg b/46015-h/images/p160s.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..f0ea5ad
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p160s.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p172b.jpg b/46015-h/images/p172b.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..4fd72a6
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p172b.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p172s.jpg b/46015-h/images/p172s.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..bd9d2e5
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p172s.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p184b.jpg b/46015-h/images/p184b.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..210b3e2
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p184b.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p184s.jpg b/46015-h/images/p184s.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..970118e
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p184s.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p202b.jpg b/46015-h/images/p202b.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..57591c0
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p202b.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p202s.jpg b/46015-h/images/p202s.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..d907a18
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p202s.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p208ab.jpg b/46015-h/images/p208ab.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..88e6cc8
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p208ab.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p208as.jpg b/46015-h/images/p208as.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..9c74f28
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p208as.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p208bb.jpg b/46015-h/images/p208bb.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..a4113bb
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p208bb.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p208bs.jpg b/46015-h/images/p208bs.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..8a5d86f
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p208bs.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p20b.jpg b/46015-h/images/p20b.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..0ea839e
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p20b.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p20s.jpg b/46015-h/images/p20s.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..5dc8f86
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p20s.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p222b.jpg b/46015-h/images/p222b.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..3b84190
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p222b.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p222s.jpg b/46015-h/images/p222s.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..db46f54
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p222s.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p230b.jpg b/46015-h/images/p230b.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..2982819
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p230b.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p230s.jpg b/46015-h/images/p230s.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..e6837a6
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p230s.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p232ab.jpg b/46015-h/images/p232ab.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..2d2cf8c
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p232ab.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p232as.jpg b/46015-h/images/p232as.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..02a5d98
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p232as.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p232bb.jpg b/46015-h/images/p232bb.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..fe1ebd5
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p232bb.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p232bs.jpg b/46015-h/images/p232bs.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..f2981e9
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p232bs.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p246b.jpg b/46015-h/images/p246b.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..a9bda61
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p246b.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p246s.jpg b/46015-h/images/p246s.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..a504168
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p246s.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p258b.jpg b/46015-h/images/p258b.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..f036b79
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p258b.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p258s.jpg b/46015-h/images/p258s.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..aacf1b1
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p258s.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p264ab.jpg b/46015-h/images/p264ab.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..b73335b
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p264ab.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p264as.jpg b/46015-h/images/p264as.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..9b9abad
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p264as.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p264bb.jpg b/46015-h/images/p264bb.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..b21dd6c
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p264bb.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p264bs.jpg b/46015-h/images/p264bs.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..65a40a7
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p264bs.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p268ab.jpg b/46015-h/images/p268ab.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..060fb42
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p268ab.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p268as.jpg b/46015-h/images/p268as.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..10d8e18
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p268as.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p268bb.jpg b/46015-h/images/p268bb.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..069f704
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p268bb.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p268bs.jpg b/46015-h/images/p268bs.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..e47bbbd
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p268bs.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p272ab.jpg b/46015-h/images/p272ab.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..2d2cb52
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p272ab.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p272as.jpg b/46015-h/images/p272as.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..43d9c2c
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p272as.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p272bb.jpg b/46015-h/images/p272bb.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..ce534dc
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p272bb.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p272bs.jpg b/46015-h/images/p272bs.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..49a3daf
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p272bs.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p274b.jpg b/46015-h/images/p274b.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..ec27cf4
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p274b.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p274s.jpg b/46015-h/images/p274s.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..119c5ce
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p274s.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p276b.jpg b/46015-h/images/p276b.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..32a6caa
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p276b.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p276s.jpg b/46015-h/images/p276s.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..05f36df
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p276s.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p280b.jpg b/46015-h/images/p280b.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..83b60c9
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p280b.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p280s.jpg b/46015-h/images/p280s.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..2bf4149
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p280s.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p28b.jpg b/46015-h/images/p28b.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..1b62acb
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p28b.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p28s.jpg b/46015-h/images/p28s.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..cd4d08d
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p28s.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p36ab.jpg b/46015-h/images/p36ab.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..8dda3eb
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p36ab.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p36as.jpg b/46015-h/images/p36as.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..8fc0025
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p36as.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p36bb.jpg b/46015-h/images/p36bb.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..f6064ac
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p36bb.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p36bs.jpg b/46015-h/images/p36bs.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..022f568
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p36bs.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p48ab.jpg b/46015-h/images/p48ab.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..b8f8b71
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p48ab.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p48as.jpg b/46015-h/images/p48as.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..486d5b3
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p48as.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p48bb.jpg b/46015-h/images/p48bb.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..468edb1
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p48bb.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p48bs.jpg b/46015-h/images/p48bs.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..b70c5d2
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p48bs.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p62b.jpg b/46015-h/images/p62b.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..98dd0f6
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p62b.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p62s.jpg b/46015-h/images/p62s.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..1ea34b4
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p62s.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p68ab.jpg b/46015-h/images/p68ab.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..84a6b63
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p68ab.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p68as.jpg b/46015-h/images/p68as.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..aed0802
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p68as.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p68bb.jpg b/46015-h/images/p68bb.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..3151644
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p68bb.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p68bs.jpg b/46015-h/images/p68bs.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..74c027a
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p68bs.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p6b.jpg b/46015-h/images/p6b.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..767793e
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p6b.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p6s.jpg b/46015-h/images/p6s.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..55086ee
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p6s.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p72b.jpg b/46015-h/images/p72b.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..501a3e2
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p72b.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p72s.jpg b/46015-h/images/p72s.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..59c89db
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p72s.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p86ab.jpg b/46015-h/images/p86ab.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..d36b876
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p86ab.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p86as.jpg b/46015-h/images/p86as.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..980ff0c
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p86as.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p86bb.jpg b/46015-h/images/p86bb.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..b628de3
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p86bb.jpg
diff --git a/46015-h/images/p86bs.jpg b/46015-h/images/p86bs.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..bf1d511
--- /dev/null
+++ b/46015-h/images/p86bs.jpg
diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..6312041
--- /dev/null
+++ b/LICENSE.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,11 @@
+This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements,
+metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be
+in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES.
+
+Procedures for determining public domain status are described in
+the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org.
+
+No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in
+jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize
+this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright
+status under the laws that apply to them.
diff --git a/README.md b/README.md
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..6bc977e
--- /dev/null
+++ b/README.md
@@ -0,0 +1,2 @@
+Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for
+eBook #46015 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/46015)