Gypsies, as all the world knows, are fond of the hedgehog.
They do not keep him as a pet. They eat him, and roast hedgehog accompanied with sage and onions is a dish for an episcopal table. I never see one of these prickly fellows without being reminded of several experiences.
Once in passing along a town street on my way to the Archdeacon’s Visitation, I noticed not far ahead of me an elderly woman stepping out with a swinging stride. Her face I could not see, but she wore a tattered shawl about her shoulders, and her black hair was done up in small plaits like a horse’s mane at fair-time. “Gypsy,” said I to myself, and, hastening alongside, I greeted her in the Romany tongue. The words had a magical effect. Instantly she wheeled round and scanned me up and down with a puzzled air. There before her, wearing an orthodox collar and black coat, stood a parson who nevertheless talked like a Gypsy. Now in common with some ladies of high degree, nearly all Gypsy women enjoy a whiff of tobacco smoke. This old lady, however, declined a gift of the weed on the ground that “the brantitus” had troubled her of late, but she gladly stepped with me into a snug coffeehouse close by, where over our steaming cups we conversed aloud in the Gypsy language, to the complete mystification of the prim-looking manageress whose curiosity kept her hovering near. What that good woman’s thoughts were, I have not the faintest idea. I only know that she seemed amazed at the sight of a Gypsy in easy intercourse with a simple-looking cleric who appeared to be enjoying himself. Both, too, were speaking a queer-sounding language understandable to each other, but utterly incomprehensible to the listener. What could it all mean? Well, Gypsies at anyrate are not without a sense of humour; indeed, no one enjoys a bit of fun more than they. Taking in the situation at a glance, my Gypsy companion gave me a sly look, and, waving her hand playfully, exclaimed, “Never mind him, missis, he’s nobbut an Irishman, and can’t a boy and his mither talk a word or two in their own language?”
On my taking leave of the Gypsy mother, she bestowed this benison upon me: “The Lord love you, my son, and may you always have a big hedgehog in your mouth.”
Hedgehog, as I have said, is a dainty dish with Gypsies, and the old woman was no more than kindly wishing that there might ever be a titbit ready to slip into my mouth.
I am not likely to forget the occasion of my first actual taste of this Romany delicacy.
Charley Watland (brother of “Durham” Mike), a wide traveller, had told me much of the delights of a certain old-fashioned Midland horse-fair, concluding one of his glowing descriptions by inviting me to meet him in mid-September at this fair. Thus it came to pass that I set out one fine morning with my face towards the distant hills of Leicestershire. Of the day-long journey, I am now concerned only with its closing scenes. Pushing up a long, tiring hill, I spied over a hedge in the dusk two or three vâdê (living-vans), some low tents with flickering fires before them, and dark figures moving to and fro. With what energy I had left, I climbed over a fence and made straight for the Gypsy fires. A tall Romanitshel, leaning against a tree-bole, was singing snatches of a song in which I caught the words Beng (Devil) and puri-dai (grandmother), but, on seeing a stranger approach, he ceased. The Romany greeting, which I flung on the evening air, caused a stoutish woman to thrust her head from the doorway of the nearest caravan.
“He’s one o’ the Lees, I’ll be bound. He talks like ’em. He’s come back from over the pâni” (water). Which, being interpreted, meant that I was a “lag’s” boy returned from over-sea. The idea tickled me so that I laughed outright.
Beside the fire which was burning brightly at the feet of the tall Gypsy man, children and dogs were rolling over one another in perfect happiness, and at my elbow a lad, peering into my face, exclaimed—
“I’ll swop diklos (kerchiefs) with you, rai.”