And the Wanderer is steered up a narrow lane and safely landed in a tiny meadow, o’ergrown with rank green grass and docks and sheltered with fine elms and ashes. And here we lie to-night.
Supper will soon be ready. I shall have a ride on my tricycle; there is always something to see; then beds will be made, shutters put up. I will read and write, while Foley in his cabin will write up his road-log, and by eleven every one on board will be wrapped, we hope, in dreamless slumber.
This then is a true and faithful account of one day in the life of a gentleman gipsy. Quiet and uneventful, but very pleasant, almost idyllic.
Do you care for the picture, reader?
Chapter Twelve.
At Durham—The British Miner at Home—Gosforth—Among Northumbrian Banks—Across the Tweed.
“March! march! Ettrick and Teviotdale,
Why, my lads, dinna ye march forward in order?
March! march! Eskdale and Liddesdale,
All the blue bonnets are over the border.
Many a banner spread flutters above your head;
Many a crest that is famous in story;
Mount and make ready then,
Sons of the mountain glen:
Fight for your Queen, and the old Scottish glory!”
July 11th.