“I wouldn’t nasher (lose) that for a deal.”
This little fetish I remembered to have seen on a former occasion. Jonathan had put it on the top of a gatepost and was talking to it, as he puffed a cloud of tobacco smoke. For some reason, he was never willing to discuss the subject.
Pursuing our journey, we came to the little town of Ollerton, and after a halt at one of the inns we travelled onward through Edwinstowe until we reached a tract of ferny, heathery country, where we drew up, unyoked and unharnessed the horse, and in wonderfully quick time had our little tent erected. You have sometimes heard people say, “Poor Gypsies,” yet if you had travelled with them, as I have, you would hear it said, “Poor gawjê (gentiles), we feels sorry for ’em, cooped up in their stuffy houses.”
There is nothing so healthy as a tent under the open sky, with the wind blowing freely around you and the birds singing their canticles in the woods hard by. I speak from experience in regard to tent life, for under Jonathan’s tuition I learned long ago how to construct a Gypsy’s tent of ash or hazel rods thrust into the ground and their tapering ends bent and fixed into a ridge-pole, the whole being covered with coarse brown blankets pinned on with stout 3-inch pins. (The Gypsies use the long thorns of the wild sloe, or thin elder skewers.) In such a tent I have slept nightly for many months in succession. It is grand to sit at your tent door, building castles in the air, which at any rate cost very little in upkeep.
Bosky Sherwood with its oaks and birches and uncurling bracken stretched away towards the west, and, strolling along the unfenced road, lo, an old woman with her apron full of sticks was seen coming down a glade. She turned out to be Rachel Shaw, whom we accompanied to where, round a corner, the camp of the Gypsy Shaws lay within a secluded alcove. This was a pleasant surprise. Here, by the fire, sat Tiger Shaw and his three grown-up daughters, fine strapping girls. I had often heard of “Fiddling” Tiger, whose children were said to be excellent dancers. It was said of their father that he could play tunes by thumping with his fists upon his bare chest. We sat chatting with them till the moon rose, a full golden disk, over the woods. The night air was sweet with forest smells exhaling from bursting oak-buds and sheets of wood hyacinths. A rare place for owls is Sherwood, and more than once as we sat there, a broad-winged bird came out of the black shadows and flew away hooting down the road.
Old Tiger, who hails from the Low Country between Lynn and St. Ives, remembers when the “Jack o’ Lantern” used to flicker by night in those parts in the days of his childhood, and of ghost tales he has a rich store. One of his best tales is the ghost of the haystack, which I give in my own words.
“One night a Gypsy and his wife went to take some hay from a stack at the back of a mansion. As they were getting it, they looked up and saw on the top of the stack a wizened old man wearing a three-cornered hat, a cut-away coat with silver buttons, knee-breeches, silk stockings, buckled shoes, and by his side hung a curious sword. At this sight they stood amazed, then, gathering courage, the Gypsy woman looked up and said—
“‘If this is your hay, sir, may we take a handful for our pony?’
“The figure on the stack never spoke, but nodded his head, so they took a lot, and, departing, left a trail of hay reaching from the stack to the camp. Next morning the squire of the mansion came along.
“‘You rascally vagabonds, you thieving rogues, how dare you steal my hay? If you had asked me, I’d have given you some.’
“‘But we did get leave.’
“‘How so?’
“Then they described the gentleman on the stack, giving the details as already told. At this the squire turned deathly pale, and laid hold of a fence to steady himself.
“‘Why, you’ve seen my old grandfather who has been dead years and years, and if he gave you leave, you can get as much of that hay as you please.’
“And you may be sure they did.”
The first grey light of dawn was creeping down the road and waking the life of the woods, when we were called from our slumbers by a cheery “Hello,” and Jonathan sprang up to receive his nephew, who had already drawn his vâdo upon the grass; indeed, before we had dressed, Charley had gathered sticks for the breakfast fire, and by the time that our meal was finished, the sun was gilding the tree-tops. Now we were ready for the departure, and, moving along the road, we found the Shaws also taking the drom (road). By the side of the vâdo walked Tiger’s girls, their loosened hair blowing in the wind, and going along they gathered the yellow cowslips.