"THESE LONELY MOUNTAIN-DWELLERS" (p. [47]).
Fleeting visions of the wilds, wraiths come back from solitudes of which we know naught. The men with brooding faces and far-seeing eyes, the animals with hanging heads, come towards one out of the distance, pass, move away, and are gone ... leaving behind them on the road thousands and thousands of tiny traces that wind or rain soon efface....
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There is a wandering people known in every land—a people surrounded by mystery, whose origin has never been clearly established, a people that even in our days are nomads, moving, always moving from place to place. Wherever they stray, the gipsies are looked upon with mistrust and suspicion; they are known to be thieves; their dark faces and flashing teeth at once attract and repel. There is a nameless charm about them, and yet aliens they are wherever they go. Every man's hand is against them; nowhere are they welcome, ever must they move on and on homeless, despised, and restless, wanderers indeed on the face of the earth.
Yet there are places in Rumania where those gipsies have settled down on the outskirts of villages or towns.
There, in the midst of indescribable filth and disorder, they are massed together in tumble-down huts and dug-outs, half-naked, surrounded by squabbling children and savage dogs. Their hovels are covered with whatever they can lay hand upon: old tins, broken boards, rags, clods of earth, torn strips of carpets; no words can render the squalor that surrounds them, the abject misery in which they swarm.
I have never been able to discover if always the same gipsies live in these places, or if, after a time, they move on, leaving their nameless hovels to other wanderers, who for a time settle down and then depart, making place for those who still will come.
I am inclined to think that in some cases these settlements are refuges where the wandering hordes seek shelter in winter, when snow-drifts and bitter frosts make the high-roads impracticable. Yet also in summer have I seen families grovelling about in these sordid suburbs.
Infinitely more picturesque are the gipsy-camps. These strange people will pitch their tents in all sorts of places. On large fields used for pasture, on the edge of streams, sometimes on islands in the midst of river-beds, or on the border of woods.