The American gypsies do not beg, like their English brothers, and particularly their English sisters. This fact speaks volumes for their greater prosperity and for the influence which association with a proud race has on the poorest people. Our friends at Oaklands always welcomed us as guests. On another occasion when we went there, I said to my niece, “If we find strangers who do not know us, do not
speak at first in Romany. Let us astonish them.” We came to a tent, before which sat a very dark, old-fashioned gypsy woman. I paused before her, and said in English,—
“Can you tell a fortune for a young lady?”
“She don’t want her fortune told,” replied the old woman, suspiciously and cautiously, or it may be with a view of drawing us on. “No, I can’t tell fortunes.”
At this the young lady was so astonished that, without thinking of what she was saying, or in what language, she cried,—
“Dordi! Can’t tute pen dukkerin?” (Look! Can’t you tell fortunes?)
This unaffected outburst had a greater effect than the most deeply studied theatrical situation could have brought about. The old dame stared at me and at the lady as if bewildered, and cried,—
“In the name of God, what kind of gypsies are you?”
“Oh! mendui shom bori chovihani!” cried L., laughing; “we are a great witch and a wizard, and if you can’t tell me my fortune, I’ll tell yours. Hold out your hand, and cross mine with a dollar, and I’ll tell you as big a lie as you ever penned a galderli Gorgio “Well,” exclaimed the gypsy, “I’ll believe that you can tell fortunes or do anything! Dordi! dordi! but this is wonderful. Yet you’re not the first Romany rāni [lady] I ever met. There’s one in Delaware: a boridiri [very great] lady she is, and true Romany,—flick o the jib te rinkeni adosta [quick of tongue and fair of face]. Well, I am glad to see you.” “Who is that talking there?” cried a man’s voice