“I’ve got one of a parrot somewhere; I must find it,” said he.
“Âwali, muk man dik o rokerin-tshiriklo” (Yes, let me see the talking-bird), I replied, and in a minute or two he handed me a really clever sketch.
These two Gypsies had just come down from Scotland, where they had been travelling during the summer months, and we got talking about Kirk Yetholm. The Blythes, related to old King Charley Faa, were acquaintances of theirs. It appears that one of the King’s sons named Robert, a rollicking fellow, was fond, as Gypsies are, of practical jokes, and some of his escapades are still remembered in the Border Country. One of Fennix’s tales about this fun-loving Faa may well find a place here.
One spring morning Bobbie started off on a foray with some of his pals. The air was clear, and a soft wind was blowing over the Lammer-moors on whose slopes the lambs were gambolling. The Gypsies had walked a few miles, and the mountain air had sharpened the edge of their appetites. Looking round for a farmhouse or a cottage where they might ask for a kettle of boiling water to brew their tea in the can—such as few of the Faas would ever travel without—Bobbie was the first to espy some outbuildings, at the back of which stood a shepherd’s cottage, and, taking upon himself to be spokesman, he bravely started off for the cottage, the men resting meanwhile at the foot of the hill. As he approached the door, a fine savoury smell greeted Bobbie, making him feel ten times more hungry than before. He knocked gently at the door, which stood ajar, but no one came, and all was quiet within. He repeated his knock, and, taking a step forward, found the kitchen empty. Before the fire stood a tempting shepherds-pie of a most extraordinary size, and its appetizing steam quite overcame any scruples which otherwise might have lurked in the heart of Bobbie Faa. Not for one moment did he hesitate, but, nipping up the dish, he speedily ran down the hill with the pie under his arm. Not knowing how he had come by it, his mates could scarcely believe their eyes when he laid the pie on the grass, and they praised the gude-wife who had so kindly given them such a feast. When the dish was empty, he gave it to a pal, telling him to take it back to the gude woman and say how much they had enjoyed the pie. It happened to be a sheep-shearing day, and the shepherd’s wife had gone to call her husband and his fellows to their dinner. She had just returned to the kitchen when the Gypsy lad arrived with the empty dish, and on handing it back to her with smiles and thanks, a torrent of abuse was poured forth on the poor boy’s head, as the woman now grasped the situation and became aware of the fate of her pie. Just then her husband and the other shearers appeared round the corner, and, hearing what had befallen their dinner, the infuriated men seized the lad and gave him a sound drubbing.
CHAPTER X
PETERBOROUGH FAIR
The twentieth century has witnessed a remarkable revival of certain old-time pleasures in the form of pageants and pastoral plays, folk-songs, and dances, but it should not be overlooked that in our midst still linger those popular revels, tattered survivals of medieval mirth, called pleasure-fairs, held periodically in most of our old country towns. It is true, these ancient fairs are not what they were, Father Time having laid his hand heavily upon them, with the result that not a few of their features which were reckoned among our childhood’s joys have vanished.
Gone are the marionettes, the wax-works, the ghost-shows. Departed, too, are many of the mysterious little booths, behind whose canvas walls queer freaks and abnormalities were wont to hide. Perhaps, however, when the travelling cinema has outworn its vogue, the older “mystery” shows will reappear by the side of the Alpine slide, the scenic railway, and the joy wheel.
Still renowned for their wondrous gaiety are a few of our larger fairs, whither huge crowds flock by road and rail for a few hours of rollicking carnival. I have in mind such events as Barnet September Fair, Birmingham Onion Fair, the October merry-makings at Hull, Nottingham Goose Fair, and the like, but even these, owing to a variety of reasons, are now of shrunken dimensions.
Fairs of whatever sort are generally occasions of friendly reunion, not only for show-people and gawjê visitors, but also for Gypsies who love to forgather on the margins of the fair-ground, or upon an adjacent common, where they compare notes and discuss the happenings since their last meeting.