The record-union., 1894-09-08


ble makeshifts OF city housing, has in it
Tar more impressive revelation of win
ter's coming than all the autumn flights
of birds and wInd-whipped beatings of
bare branches and bedraggled brown
leaves,
'Hus gifts old, doan't hus?"
This from tinker Zeke, one November
morning where L had remained over
night with a gypsy caravan beside a
dreary down on The old stage road to
Bath.
Bareheaded and barefooted he had
clambered outside our tiny roadside hab-
itation TO "look DER th' day." could see
him through the frowsy tent mouth
peering anXiously for omens in the still,
Lalt-darkened sky.
He looked again and again at the sky
and over TO the satfron-tinted east.
Illus gifts old, doan't hus?" he re-
peated dejectedly.
'How's that, Ecker" l answered mer-
rily enough, determined to provoke
continuation OF his strain of gypsy phil
osophy ii possible. "Gypsies never get
old. And, besides, you're too brave an
old rascal, Zeke, to whimper about get
ting along in years little"
Hi tells ye hus all gifts oldr' This We
hemently. "Hl never quits th' country,
'thout mindin' o hit. Hits like moulian
dying, leastwise for me, to jaw vree tn
drom ito leave the road. Cans sturdie
(the towns prison."
Here was a genuine exhibition of gypsy
sentiment. Zeke pumped himself down
alongside the moldering campfire with
his elbows upon his knees and his fine
old head in his hands and apparently
gave way to the moodiest reflections.
Catching gypsy OF his guard is not a
common thing, and felt like prodding
him a little.
Turn gorgio (non-gypsy) then, Zeke.
Enjoy every day of life with a happy,
permanent home over your head. Go to
church like white man OF Sunday,
and finally get to heaven where there
won't be any rough gypsy wintersv'
He looked at me first in blank amaze
ment. a tnea scorn came into his
swarthy face. Then in a tone of mingled
reproo1, disbelief and almost pathetic
longing, he said, with ridiculous solemn
ity:
"Ay, an HID turn gorgio, an even
kair raiah town or false gypsy fur a. o.
that-made sure''
An, honest Zeke, and who would not?
Here were perhaps twO-score vans with
all their ramshackle belongings, their
ponies, asses and dogs, their crockery.
cocoanuts and oilcloths, their skewers.
pegs and rush baskets, their dried flow
ers and leaves, and their far more odd
and interesting owners.
Some of the wanderers came from as
far north as Beauty in Scotland, from
away up in classic Wordsworth by the
quiet English lakes, from off southwest
by the shore hooks of Somerset and De-
Won, and even from st. Ives and PEN
zance in Cornwall, but most from dick
ering and dukkering among the midland
and western counties fairs.
AS if through some secret understand
ing they had drifted together for bit of
roadside reunion at the edge of these
swept-wind moors, where few of the con-
stabulary come with their remorseless
summons, Move on, you gypsy dogsp'
Returning to the great city from a
country tramp in Buckinghamshire, by
right of rank and station as gorgio chal
tnon-gypsy gypsies' friend), [ had be-
come one of them in their little royster-
ing, before the final abandonment of the
seasons wanderings by blossoming lane
and road.
The camp was to be broken that very
morning. The dark places of London
would close upon the tawny crew, scat
tered in little groups and families, by
night 1t was absolutely certain they
would never all meet again, even though
separate families or bands should again
know the boundless joy OF the springtime
outgoing.
And there is large and ample human
regard, one for another, in this commu-
nifty of roadside interest and compan-
ionship, which we of civilized" thought
and ways can never know.
Tinker Zeke was not alone in his
mournful regret. The camp was rife
with it, just as the landscape, sky and air
were instinct with the tender sadness of
the dying year.
1t seemed TO me, nor was it all of SEEM
ing, that the fires themselves burned with
less crackle and flame. Even the siz-
Ziing pots, hanging from the grimy ket-
tlesticks, boiled and blubbered in minor
hearthside tones.
Over in the stunted copses of the moor
the tethered donkeys stood meekly 81
lent, with bowed heads, or nibbled at
the frosty grass as If in serious rumina-
ton.
AS the morning advanced good wives
sat by the tent mouths, or in the open
van doors, in sober discussion with their
husbands, or still busted themselves with
the morning meal, less spry and chipper
than is the gypsy woman's ways.
Youths bringing water from the stream
or returning TO the camp with fodder for
the animals and dead moor brushwood
for the fires, did their work gloomily.
and with none of the summertime whoop
and halloa.
Here and there groups of the elder
gypsy men, seated on upturned buckets.
on vanthiils, or leaning their backs against
vanwheels, smoked their pipes with long,
strong, introspective puffs, saying little,
while that little was measured and re-
6ective.