Preferring to act upon the carpe diem principle, I returned with my camera as expeditiously as I could, and though but an hour and a half had elapsed, alas! my birds had flown. Homewards I trudged, a joy-bereft soul for whom the world had suddenly grown empty.
This leads me to remark that the Gypsies are far from easy to photograph. The degree of friendship does not enter into the problem. I have known strangers to pose readily, while old friends have doggedly refused to be “took.” Once a friend and I had talked one of the reticent Herons into a willingness to be photographed. Yes, on the morrow he would be “took.” But with the morrow his mood had changed. “No, raia, not for a thousand pounds.”
I remember photographing a Gypsy girl under curious conditions. Said I, as she sat upon the grass—
“You’ll allow me to take a little picture? Your hair is so pretty, and you have a happy face.”
But, no, my words were wasted. Bad luck followed that sort of thing, a cousin of hers had died a fortnight after being “took.”
“But isn’t there some charm for keeping off bad luck?”
Looking thoughtful for a moment, she replied—
“Oh yes, if you’ll give me a pair of bootlaces, you can lel mi mui (take my face) as many times as you kom” (like).
I had a pair of laces, but they were in my boots. Nothing daunted, however, I went off to a shop in the village half a mile away, and was soon back again presenting the laces to the girl with an Oriental salaam.