“What would you call that in Romanes?” (Gypsy).
“Why, a kuskti-dikin rakli (a good-looking girl), to be sure.”
“Keka, keka (no, no), I don’t mean that. What’s our word for ‘picture’?”
“Dikamengri.”
“Keka, that’s the word for a looking-glass.”
“Well, what would you say?”
“Stor-dui-graph” (Four(4)-two(2)-graph, hence photograph).
The Romany tongue is plastic, and a Gypsy will playfully coin new words in this fashion. As a Gypsy once said, “There’s always a way of saying a thing in Romanes, if you can find it out.” Certain it is, if a Gypsy has no old word for a thing, he will not be long in coining a new one.
Entering the Spring Bank Cemetery together, my companion pointed out the grave of Yoki Shuri, the faithful consort of Ryley Boswell (or Boss), and upon the neat stone I read this inscription, “In memory of Shorensey Boss, who died Jan. 18, 1868, aged 65 years.” From a bush planted on the grave I plucked a sweet white rose.
Further, I learned from my companion that Old Ryley’s son Isaac, commonly called “Haggi,” had died in Hull only a few years previously. Like his brother Newton, he too had visited Australia, and, returning to this country, had settled in Hull, and was daily seen in the streets with a grinding-barrow. A girl whom Haggi brought with him from Australia told me (this was a few years later) that when as a child she was naughty, Haggi would frighten her by saying, “If you’re not good, Old Ryley will get you, and he’ll maw tut” (kill you).