There are many varieties in the form of the patrin, for no two families use exactly the same sign. I have heard Gypsies who were about to separate into parties, discussing the particular form of patrin to be used by the advance guard, so that those who were following would know exactly what to look for, and whereabouts on the roadside they might expect to find it.
A Suffolk friend, whilst sitting unobserved on a fence in the twilight, watched some Gypsies laying a patrin formed of small elm twigs, their tips indicating the direction taken. A peculiar form of patrin I once saw was a wisp of grass tied round a sapling in the hedgerow.
For myself, I never see a patrin on the roadside without recalling Ursula’s pathetic story in The Romany Rye. Readers who know their Borrow will remember how the woman followed her husband for a great many miles by means of his signs left on the wayside.
Between Kneesall and Wellow a halt was made, and, having lit a fire of sticks under the shadow of a wood, we warmed some stew in a black pot. As we sprawled on the grass, a fox dashed across the road with a rabbit dangling from its jaws, and Jonathan shouted in the hope of making Reynard drop the bunny, but in vain. Then I told him how once I saw a fox capture and kill a rabbit on the slope of a warren. He was about to trot off with his prey when I gave a lusty shout which made him halt and look round at me for a moment. Seeing that I was quite a hundred yards away, Reynard dropped the rabbit, scratched a hole, and buried his capture, carefully spreading the loose earth and stones over the place with his sharp nose. Then he made for the woods. Now, though I searched diligently for that buried rabbit, I could not for the life of me discover it, the entire surface of the warren-slope being so dotted over with recent rabbit-scratchings strewn with small stones.
While Jonathan was making some small repair of the harness, I drew from my pocket a few newspaper cuttings and letters, in one of which was a dialogue between two Gypsies, a tiny boy and an aged man, who had met upon the road—
“Boy. Sâ shan, baw, has tuti dik’d mi dadus ke-divus?
Man. Keka, mi tshavo, mandi keka jins tuti’s dadus. Sî yov a bawro mush wiv kawlo bal?
Boy. Âwali, dova sî mi dadus, tatsho.
Man. Has yov a pair o’ check rokamiaw?
Boy. Âwa, dova’s mi dadus.
Man. Has yov a loli baiengri wiv bawrê krafnê?
Boy. Âwa, dat’s mi dadus, feth.
Man. Dawdi, mandi dik’d lesti tălê o drom odoi a-mongin a puri pair o’ tshokaw to tshiv oprê lesti’s nongê pîrê.
Boy. Dova sî keka mi dadus, at all.”
Translation.
“Boy. How do, mate. Have you seen my father to-day?
Man. No, my boy, I don’t know your father. Is he a big man with black hair?
Boy. Yes, that’s my father, sure.
Man. Has he a pair of check trousers?
Boy. Yes, that’s my father.
Man. Has he a red waistcoat with big buttons?
Boy. Yes, that’s my father, faith.
Man. Lor, I saw him down the road there a-begging an old pair of boots to put on his bare feet.
Boy. That’s not my father at all.”
“A bit o’ the old style, I call that,” was my companion’s comment.
After we had yoked in and were about to start off, my old Gypsy pulled out his handkerchief to catch a sneeze on the wing. He was successful, and, unnoticed by him, a little wooden animal fell to the grass. On picking it up, I handed back to him a dog with a tail broken off and one foot missing, and he grabbed at it excitedly, saying—