The fire—whose fumes had at first given me trouble—was contained in a circular and rather deep kind of iron tray about fifteen inches in diameter which was kept from actual contact with the ground by being supported on three old bricks; over the fire a kettle was suspended by the kekauvisky saster—frequently called a crane—the kettle iron.
Reference to our illustration on page 38 will enable one at a glance to get an idea of the general arrangement. At the end farthest removed from the fire were the beds, in front of which, and raised some four or five inches from the floor, was a sort of divan composed of straw evenly laid and covered with cloths, the remainder of the floor space being bare earth. Curtains were hung before the beds, giving something of an Oriental air to the interior.
There were, too, a few cushions that had seen much service but nevertheless were clean, besides which there was practically nothing but the customary box for the storage of china and food, and yet this was, and had been for more than twenty years, the dwelling of these Romany folk, honest people, who had worked hard—often for a bare subsistence—but who had nevertheless reared a large family of healthy children without appealing to charity. And they were proud, too, boasting of a long line of proud ancestors.
This set me a-thinking, and as I sat there these thoughts passed through my mind:
“If pride in one’s ancestry is justifiable, have not these people far saner reasons for such pride than those who boast of having ‘come over with the Conqueror’?” It is indeed true that their Romany forbears were not numbered among the cut-throat rabble who accompanied the historic William of Normandy, but they come of a people who had a history, literature and a language when that gentleman made his début.
Like their near relatives, the Hindus of to-day, many of the gypsies can neither read nor write, but usually our Romany friend has a sound mind in a sound body, and when he points—as he well may—to the blots on our civilization and the shams in our religion, I do not wonder at the up-hill work of those good souls among us who seek to instil the Christ spirit into the minds of those whom the world dubs outcasts, and yet surprise is evinced that the progress of our missions to these people is slow. How heart-breaking the work is only those who are engaged in it know. But a truce to moralizing. I must bestir myself or my friends will judge me dull.
After the meal the kettle needed to be again filled and the water heated preparatory to a general wash and clean up, and I heard a young girl ordering her younger brother to—
“Put the panee on the yog, yer fool, and mind yer put some soda in,” which of course meant—“Put the water on the fire and add some soda.” He was afterwards instructed by the mother to “clean the churi’s on the poov,” and set about it by utilizing the hard earth floor as a knife-board, in doing which I noticed that he sensibly selected a miniature mound upon which to rub the blades so that his knuckles should not be subjected to the same cleaning process as the knives, which were ultimately stowed away quite clean, if they had not received a high polish.
Work for the day—which in this case had been strawberry picking—being over, the time before turning in was whiled away with tales of the road, common and forest, and stories of keepers, police and other bugbears of nomadic life. When my companion considered that a sketch would help his narrative he made a rough drawing on the hard earth—of a road or other subject—with the charred end of a piece of stick, and I discovered that he worked out simple accounts connected with his work in the same manner.