I am writing these lines at Brighton, after having been a week on the road, and I must record that Inie and I get on well together. She is delighted with her gipsy tour, and with all the wonders she daily sees, and the ever-varying panorama that flits dreamlike before her, as we trot along on our journey. She nestles among rags on the broad coupé, or sits on my knee beside the driver, talking, laughing, or singing all day long. We never want apples and pears in the caravan—though they are given to us, not bought—and it is Inie’s pleasure sometimes to stop the Wanderer when she sees a crowd of schoolchildren, pitch these apples out, and laugh and crow to witness the grand scramble.
But some sights and scenes that present themselves to us on the road are so beautiful, or so funny, or so queer withal, that merely to laugh or crow would not sufficiently relieve the child’s feelings. On such occasions, and they are neither few nor far between, she must needs clap her tiny hands and kick with delight, and “hoo-oo-ray-ay!” till I fear people must take her for a little mad thing, or a Romany Rye run wild.
Such are the joys of gipsy life from a child’s point of view.
She eats well, too, on the road; and that makes me happy, for I must not let her get thin, you know. Probably she does get a good deal of her own way.
“You mustn’t spoil her,” ma said before she left. I’ll try not to forget that next time Inie wants another pineapple, or more than four ices at a sitting.
My great difficulty, however, is with her hair of a morning. She can do a good deal for herself in the way of dressing, but her hair—that the wind toys so with and drives distracted—sometimes is brushed out and left to float, but is more often plaited, and that is my work.
Well, when a boy, I was a wondrous artist in rushes. Always at home in woodland, on moor, or on marsh—I could have made you anything out of them, a hat or a rattle, a basket or creel, or even a fool’s cap, had you chosen to wear one. And my adroitness in rush-work now stands me in good stead in plaiting my wee witch’s hair.
Hurricane Bob is extremely fond of his little mistress. I’m sure he feels that he, too, has—when on guard—an extra responsibility, and if he hears a footstep near the caravan at night, he shakes the Wanderer fore and aft with his fierce barking, and would shake the owner of the footstep too if he only had the chance.
Our first bivouac after leaving London was in a kindly farmer’s stackyard, near Croydon. His name is M—, and the unostentatious hospitality of himself, his wife, and daughter I am never likely to forget.
I will give but one example of it.