There is a strange goblinesque charm in Gipsydom—­something of nature, and green leaves, and silent nights—­but it is ever strangely commingled with the forbidden; and as among the Greeks of old with Mercury amid the singing of leafy brooks, there is a tinkling of, at least, petty larceny.  Witness the following, which came forth one day from a Gipsy, in my presence, as an entirely voluntary utterance.  He meant it for something like poetry—­it certainly was suggested by nothing, and as fast as he spoke I wrote it down:—­

“It’s kushto in tattoben for the Rommany chals.  Then they can jal langs the drum, and hatch their tan acai and odoi pre the tem.  We’ll lel moro habben acai, and jal andurer by-an’-byus, an’ then jal by ratti, so’s the Gorgios won’t dick us.  I jins a kushti puv for the graias; we’ll hatch ‘pre in the sala, before they latcher we’ve been odoi, an’ jal an the drum an’ lel moro habben.”

“It is pleasant for the Gipsies in the summer-time.  Then they can go along the road, and pitch their tent here and there in the land.  We’ll take our food here, and go further on by-and-by, and then go by night, so that the Gorgios won’t see us.  I know a fine field for the horses; we’ll stop there in the morning, before they find we have been there, and go on the road and eat our food.”

“I suppose that you often have had trouble with the gavengroes (police) when you wished to pitch your tent?”

Now it was characteristic of this Gipsy, as of many others, that when interested by a remark or a question, he would reply by bursting into some picture of travel, drawn from memory.  So he answered by saying—­

“They hunnelo’d the choro puro mush by pennin’ him he mustn’t hatch odoi.  ‘What’s tute?’ he pens to the prastramengro; ’I’ll del you thrin bar to lel your chuckko offus an’ koor mandy.  You’re a ratfully jucko an’ a huckaben.’”

English—­They angered the poor old man by telling him he must not stop there.  “What are you?” he said to the policeman, “I’ll give you three pounds to take your coat off and fight me.  You’re a bloody dog and a lie” (liar).

“I suppose you have often taken your coat off?”

“Once I lelled it avree an’ never chivved it apre ajaw.”

(I.e., “Once I took it off and never put it on again.”)

“How was that?”

“Yeckorus when I was a tano mush, thirty besh kenna—­rummed about pange besh, but with kek chavis—­I jalled to the prasters of the graias at Brighton.  There was the paiass of wussin’ the pasheros apre for wongur, an’ I got to the pyass, an’ first cheirus I lelled a boro bittus—­twelve or thirteen bar.  Then I nashered my wongur, an’ penned I wouldn’t pyass koomi, an’ I’d latch what I had in my poachy.  Adoi I jalled from the gudli ‘dree the toss-ring for a pashora, when I dicked a waver mush, an’ he putched mandy, ‘What bak?’ and I penned pauli, ’Kek bak; but I’ve got a bittus left.’  So I wussered with lester an’ nashered saw my covvas—­my chukko, my gad, an’ saw, barrin’ my rokamyas.  Then I jalled kerri with kek but my rokamyas an—­I borried a chukko off my pen’s chavo.