Then we heard scratch, scratch wildly at work, and presently Zachariah’s voice: “I can’t stand it! I cannot stand it any longer; these skeato’s will kill me!”
We must say our sleep was sound and undisturbed until half-past 6 o’clock. Much rain had fallen in the night. It was the first of July. Noah lighted the fire, and boiled the water. Two men came to our camp and had some brandy whilst we conversed with them in broken Norwegian. One was a traveller from Christiania. We told them that if they came again we should play our music at 8 o’clock in the evening. As we took our breakfast of tea, bread and butter, and potted meat, stray parties of peasants watched us with much interest. We gave several small children some biscuits. An intelligent peasant came and asked a variety of questions about the donkeys. Another brought his wife and children. A large party came before our dinner at 1 o’clock, and a short stout, well-dressed man, with a turban cap, discussed in an animated manner various matters connected with the donkey race. Their voices seemed constantly to mingle with our ideas as we wrote a letter to the gipsies’ friends, in which Esmeralda inclosed some beautiful wild flowers.
We sent Noah and Zachariah to the river to fish for dinner. When they were gone, a peasant boy came up with a large sack of hay, which he gave the donkeys. We were touched by his attention; for some time he silently watched them. Before he left we gave him a copy of our gipsies’ Norwegian song. He took us by the hand, and looked with such a kindly expression in our face, that we could not help feeling that the world, after all, was not so bad as we had thought it. As a substitute for vegetables, crystals of citric acid, dissolved in water, were occasionally taken by ourselves and the gipsies. Noah and Zachariah were full of fun when they came back from fishing at 1 o’clock, having caught six small roach and perch.
“Ha! ha!” laughed Zachariah, “Mr. Smith, I know some good flies for my fishing this evening. All right, sir;” and he danced a war dance on the turf till he fell backwards over a birch tree stump, to the great amusement of himself and the peasants who were watching us with continuous interest.
We had tea, fish, and balivas (gip. for bacon) for dinner. Sugar was a source of difficulty. In putting the sugar first into each pannikin before the tea was poured out, Zachariah was not considered an example of economy. Not that we were inclined to limit very strictly his penchant for it, but we were not sure where we might be able to get more when our stock was finished.
Esmeralda was busy. We were writing. Noah therefore officiated, whilst Zachariah, with a look of injured innocence, stood by, and said—
“I shall not have anything more to do with the goodlo” (gip. for sugar); a resolution we entirely agreed to.
Still Zachariah often had more than any of us, which he would occasionally acknowledge with “Thank you, sir,” “God bless you,” “Quite enough, sir,” as he stirred it up in his pannikin with an air of extreme satisfaction.
The bacon and fish at dinner were excellent; we hardly knew which was best. A peasant boy brought us a bundle of sticks for our fire. The sun became exceedingly hot. Esmeralda and myself went and sat in some shade near our tents. Zachariah found a shady corner under some rocks. Noah first looked out a few things in his tent for Esmeralda to wash. Then he afterwards stood in the shade of a birch tree, blacking his boots, and observed to Esmeralda—
“I shall not help my wife as Mr. Smith does you.”