By the time I was well on the way home it was almost dark. I met several gypsy fellows returning to their camp, and upon recognizing me they gave me “kushti rardi” in passing (Romany equivalent to good night).
I have a very distinct recollection of that night, for two or three horses had a fancy for grazing close to my tent,—so close were they that at times it seemed as though they would bite my pillow. There was nothing for it but to drive them off. Scarcely, however, had I settled down again to sleep when the chump, chump of horses grazing quite close to my head again awakened me to full consciousness.
I discovered next morning that these horses had somehow got loose, and visited more tents than mine during the night. I wondered whether the existence of a stack of prime hay at no great distance, having only a flimsy protecting rail, had suggested possibilities to the owners of these renegades.
One man had thrown his boots at them, and found in the morning that one boot had gone into a ditch. Another—a man who slept in a small and rather “lightly sprung” caravan—told me he awoke some time in the night owing to some one shaking the van; half-awake, he asked what was the matter, but, as the only reply was an extra vigorous shake, he woke up properly and looked out, to find three loose horses around, one of which was using a back corner of his van as a scratching-post; thereupon he drove off all the horses in the direction of the haystack in the next field. I shrewdly suspect that although he omitted to mention it, he had an idea that the subsequent manœuvres of the horses would lead to an interesting situation between the owners of the horses and him of the haystack. With daylight upon the scene I saw the horses pulling out large mouthfuls of hay from the stack, and later, the wrathful owner with a pocket-book in hand—apparently assessing damages. It is a suggestive fact that the next and subsequent nights passed quietly, all the horses remaining properly tethered.
Having arranged with Mr. Petulengro that I would look in and have tea on a certain evening if I did not run against him in the meantime, I set out from my tent early in the afternoon of the day appointed so that I could take the walk leisurely. Finding later I had gained time by cutting across hop fields that had been picked, and was likely to arrive at the neighbouring camp before I was due, I rested upon a wood pile and was thoroughly lazy for half an hour or so. Just before me was a wood of young oaks whose continuity was scarcely broken by an occasional stiffly erect pine, but which otherwise fell softly away to the valley below,—upon my right was a tall hedge of maple, whose foliage was beginning to take on an autumnal richness. The silence was almost complete, perfect it certainly was, for the twittering of tits overhead and the nearer music of grasshoppers seemed but to accentuate the general stillness. I scarcely know if I fell asleep, but I became suddenly conscious that the evening mist was rising and that I must bestir myself.
Possibly, the voices I could hear had broken in upon my dreams, for the noise of men, women and children calling out one to another now increased to a general hubbub in the distance, for all had been “called off,” and work in the fields for the day was over. A few minutes later and animated groups troop along the lane towards the camping ground, where a further few minutes suffice to bring fires to life and preparations into full swing for a well-earned tea.
I can scarcely imagine any man—if, indeed, he be a “live” man in the expressive sense of the American term—who could look upon such a scene as confronted me when I approached the camp, groups of merry, hard-working people, mostly Romanies, of both sexes and of almost all ages, in groups around the fires, living the simple, open-air life upon just what they work hard for—without thinking that there is something vouchsafed to these people that he would give much to call his own.
My friend had called out to me as I passed his field, and pointed out a convenient gap in the hedge, by making use of which I saved a few minutes’ walk and soon joined the family at the meal. Our talk touched upon a great variety of topics—from lame horses to chills on the stomach—until I managed to shunt it on to a subject in which I was really interested,—the reputed efficacy of charms. The matter had scarcely been broached when my host produced from his pocket a small flattish bone, and, handing it to me for close inspection, said—
“That’s a very good thing to carry on you; it’s a bone that comes from the side of a sheep’s skull. I’ve been told that if it were not for that particular bone, a sheep would be able to talk.”[5]
I was unable to get a photograph of this interesting luck-bringer but made a drawing of it, the actual bone being about two inches in length. It was now my turn to explain the “virtue” of the brooch being worn by Mrs. Petulengro. She stated she had it given to her and was told it was lucky, but knew no more about it. I was very much interested in this ornament, for, as I told them, I had read about it in a book concerning Spanish gypsies, but had not previously seen one of them (Fig. 10, page 112). According to the writer of this book, these charms were suspended from the necks of children by means of a cord braided from the hair of a black mare’s tail, and was considered a safeguard against the ill-effects of the evil eye. This brooch agreed in every particular with those described, being of stag’s horn mounted with silver, but it appeared to have been always worn as a brooch and not suspended in the manner narrated. I reminded my friends that in Egypt cowrie shells were worn as a charm for the same purpose. Here Mr. Petulengro exclaimed excitedly—