Yet another tale from the “tents of Egypt”—
John Chilcot wasbitshado pawdel(transported), and his wife took it so much to heart that she would sit on the tent floor cutting up straw into pieces about an inch in length. At last she could endure it no longer. She craved for the sight of her husband, so shetshor’dtshumani(stole something), and was sent away too. The strange part of the story is, that the same farmer who employed Chilcot on his farm in Van Diemen’s Land, went and hired John’s wife when she was sent out there. The woman came to John’s cottage one day about sundown, and, looking through the open door, she saw him lacing his heavy boots, as he muttered to himself, “I musttshiv mi tshokaw oprêan’jaw tedik de bokrê” (I must put my boots on and go to see the sheep).
“Âwa,mi mush,tshiv len oprêandkèr sig” (Yes, my man, put them on and make haste). John looked up, and, seeing his own wife standing there, opened his arms and she dropped into them. The two worked together for months without the farmer knowing who the woman was, then one day John told him that she was his lawful wife, and they lived together till their time expired, when they came back to England.
A story is told of one of the old Herons who had been transported, and, his term having expired, he wrote to his wife and family in England asking them to send fifty pounds. This they did, and a reply was received announcing the time of his arrival at a certain port. As a means of identification, he promised, on landing, to carry a small bundle of sticks on his right shoulder. His sons met him, and according to his promise he had the sticks on his shoulder. Now these sons were only tiny children when their father had been sent away, and did not remember what his features were like, but of course they were willing to accept him as their father, and rejoiced accordingly. Then came the meeting between the old man and his wife. But so completely had his features changed during the long years of absence that she failed to recognize him as her husband, even though he pointed to his old bottlegreen coat still in her possession. It is said that he turned away sorrowfully, and died soon after of a broken heart.
Moses Heron was on the Thames in a convict ship going to Australia forgrai-tshorin (horse-stealing). Some of his relatives went out in a boat to see the last of him, as his ship was anchored off shore. Moses took out his knife and cut hisdiklo(kerchief) from his neck and threw it overboard for them to take the knot back to his sweetheart. He cut thediklofrom under his ear so that the knot was undisturbed but remained just as he had tied it.
Stories of this character might be multiplied indefinitely, but the instances given will suffice to show how pathetic are the annals of the Gypsies.
In a lecture delivered before the Leeds Philosophical and Literary Society, my friend, Mr. R. A. Scott Macfie, has justly estimated the character of the Anglo-Romanitshels of to-day.
“In Great Britain the Gypsies are at present exposed to a petty persecution, inflicted ostensibly for their good by illogical persons, who pretend to believe that they live unnatural lives and should be driven into town slums for the benefit of their health and morals. They are harassed by prosecutions on such curious pretexts as sleeping-out, overcrowding (in tents every inch of which admits the free passage of God’s fresh air), possessing no dustbin, or neglectingto provide a proper water supply for their habitations. Yet, on the whole, in this country they have for the last century received less unpleasant attention and more sympathy than elsewhere, and it is very noteworthy that they have responded to this kindness by adopting the civilized conception of their duty towards their neighbour. I have many hundreds of press cuttings from British newspapers published during the last few years. They prove that the Gypsies of this country are never guilty of the greater crimes. The majority of the convictions are for almost inevitable offences, such as halting in the road or allowing horses to stray. Gypsies have, of course, rather primitive views as to rights of property, especially in respect of what grows or moves upon the earth in a more or less wild state, yet, while there are an appreciable number of instances of poaching, fortune-telling, and of certain traditional Gypsy swindles, most of the cases of so-called theft are very insignificant petty larcenies—a handful of fruit taken from an orchard, a few swedes from a field, or a stick or two from the hedge. So conspicuous is the law-abiding character of the British Gypsies in my records, and in my personal experience, that I do not hesitate to assert, that, in spite of their reputation, they are as superior in honesty to the lower classes of our native population as they are in morality and cleanliness.”
TheGypsies are an imaginative folk, delighting, like children, in romances and romancing; and if one may judge from the array of folk-tales[256]already collected from them, these wanderers appear to possess the gift of story-telling in generous measure. To this day, in Eastern Europe, the Gypsies still pursue their ancient rôle of tale-telling, mystifying their hearers with stories which perhaps they brought out of India many centuries ago. Here, in the West, no one can mingle intimately with members of the Gypsy clan of Wood, amid the mountains of Wales, without feeling the charm of the wonderful tales handed down to them from their forelders.
Sometimes I have seen the beginning of a folktale in a fragment of narrative reeled off by a Gypsy on the spur of the moment.
A London Gypsy had been fiddling for my delectation, and, when he ceased, I asked him quite casually why, being a Gypsy, his hair was fair? Without a moment’s reflection he replied, “I’ll tell you why my hair is fair. One winter night I sleptwith my head outside the tent, and of course my hair froze to the ground. When I woke in the morning I shouted for help, and my daddy poured boiling water on my hair to get it loose. That’s why mybalispawni” (my hair is fair).
An impromptu “lying tale” intended to amuse.
Groome, in hisGypsy-Folk Tales(Introduction, p. lxxxi.), notices the same sort of thing in a fanciful outburst on the part of a Gypsy girl. “She had been to a pic-nic in a four-in-hand, with ‘a lot o’ real tiptop gentry’; and ‘reia’ (sir), she said to me afterwards, ‘I’ll tell you the comicalist thing that ever was. We’d pulled up to put the brake on, and there was apuro hotchiwitchi(old hedgehog) come and looked at us through the hedge, looked at me hard. I could see he’d his eye on me. And home he’d go, that old hedgehog, to his wife, and “Missus,” he’d say, “what d’ye think? I seen a little Gypsy gal just now in a coach and four hosses,” and “Dâbla” she’d say, “sawkûmi’asvâdê kenaw” (Bless us, every one has carriages now).’”
Years ago I used to hear our English Gypsies speak of a certain Happy Boz’ll, a Gypsy given to romancing about his own affairs. He was always the hero of his own stories, and to this day, among our Gypsies, a Happy Boz’ll tale is a synonym for a “crammer.”
It was once my good fortune at Lincoln Fair to come upon a van-dwelling horse-dealer, close upon his eightieth year, whose early days were spent inthe company of Happy Boz’ll, and from him I obtained the tales given below:—
Old Happy had a donkey, and one day it was lost. Up and down the green lanes the Gypsy searched for the missing animal and found it not. At last, as he was wandering under some trees, he heard a familiar noise overhead. The sound came from the top of a big ash tree, and sure enough, when Happy looked up, there was the old donkey among the topmost boughs.
“What are you doing there?” shouted Happy.
“I’m gathering a bundle of sticks for your fire.”
And saying this, the donkey climbed down with a bunch of nice ash sticks.
Black as a Boz’ll. Photo. Fred Shaw
At one time Happy, who was a tinker and grinder by trade, possessed a grinding-barrow made out of a whole block of silver, and whenever he was thirsty he had only to chop off a lump of silver and go to the nearest inn to get as much ale as he could carry. In course of time his barrow grew smaller, and there came a day when Happy had no barrow at all. He had swallowed it.
One day Happy’s wife, Becky, said to him—
“Go and get a bucket of drinking water.” Away he went to the spring, and, having filled the bucket, he paused to take a drink from it, and going on again he stumbled and spilt the water. When he got home he appeared before his wife with an empty bucket in his hand.
“Why haven’t you brought the water?” asked Becky.
“Well, my blessed, I filled the bucket right enough, but on the way back the water started a-laughing at me, and I couldn’t carry it no furder. Ay, the water laughed itself out of the bucket, it did—every little drop of it. There, now I’ve told you.”
Another time Happy was crossing a field, and seeing a sack filled with something he went up and examined it, and there, if it wasn’t full of eggs. He picked up the sack and carried it away on his back, and never cracked one of them.
Happy was once walking beside a hedge, cracking nuts. He had pockets and pockets full of them, and he happened to fling a nutshell over the hedge, and it hit a wery fine hare and killed it. Wasn’t that strange now?
Happy never owned a wagon. He and his wife travelled all their lives with a pack-donkey and a tent. One night their tent took fire, and in a little while they had nothing left in the world save the donkey and its blinkers. The next morning, as they crept out from under the hedge, Happy said to his wife, “We shall have to beg wery hard to-day.” By the evening they had done so well that they had provided themselves with an entirely new outfit. Under the hedge stood the finest tent you ever saw.Inside it were new blankets, new bedding, new everything.
“Well, my Becky, how do you like it?”
“We haven’t done so badly after all, my Happy. We’ve got a better tent and a better supper than we had last night.”
“And I’m thinking, my Becky,” said Happy, laughing softly, “that it’s wonderful like getting married again.”
Happy was once going along a road over the Peak o’ Derby. He hadn’t gone far before he saw a cart full of the very best china, delicate stuff all coloured and gilded, and between the shafts stood a fine horse with silver-plated harness. There they were on the wayside grass and nobody with them. Happy lit his pipe and waited a bit to see if their owner came along. But nobody came. So he led the horse and cart to an inn just round the bend of the road, and asked the landlord if he knew who was the owner, but he didn’t know. On and on went Happy, up hill and down dale, inquiring everywhere for the owner of the horse and pot-cart, but nowhere could he light on the gentleman, though he nearly broke his heart with anxiety in trying his best to find him.
Happy one day took his dog a-hunting. Two hares started up, but the dog couldn’t run after both of them at once. Just then, however, the dog ranagainst a scythe-blade and cut itself in two. One half of the dog ran after one hare and caught it. The other half of the dog ran after the second hare and caught it. The hares were brought to Happy’s feet. Then the two halves of the dog came together again. And the dog died. Happy took off the skin and patched his knee-breeches with it. Just a year afterwards, to the very day, his breeches burst open and barked at him.
May12.—Just as I stepped out of the train at Corwen, thick vapours, blotting out the mountains, made up their minds to let down rain. Five years before, on landing at the same station, it was only to find a tornado howling over the land and heavy rain falling. That wild night I’m not likely to forget in a hurry. . . .
At last, after an hour’s wait in a snug hostelry, I set off along the Holyhead Road, having a certain encampment in my mind’s eye. At the “Goat” Inn, where the by-road turns off for Bettws-Gwerfil-Goch, I made inquiry for the said camp, but the landlord only shook his head. One of his daughters, however, hearing my question, said she knew where it was, and coming with me to the door indicated the whereabouts of the caravans of my quest. By now the rain had ceased, and, in a few moments, round a bend in the highway, the outline of a Gypsy tent, with a caravan and a tilt-cart standing near it, caught my eye against a row of twisted oaks in a waysidefield. On entering the camp there were hearty greetings from Gilderoy Gray and Oli Purum, his travelling pal. The ruddy glow in the fire-bucket made the tent’s interior an inviting spot for tea, and there was plenty of fun that evening. Outside: the dark night with a roaring wind in the oak trees. Within: a wood-fire lit up the red blankets stretched over the curved tent-rods, and upon a well-made couch of straw (covered with rugs) we reclined. Oli was in fine form for tale-telling, and his pipe often went out. Gilderoy, too, had heaps of things to tell. Was ever a lover of the road better stocked with anecdotes than he?
In the tilt-cart I made my bed, and slept as soundly as a dormouse.
May13.—At 5 a.m. the sun was shining gloriously upon the mountains. Wash and breakfast in the open air. In the forenoon we three took the hilly road leading to Bettws-Gwerfil-Goch. A light breeze from off the mountains carried the smell of spring everywhere. The birds were all a-twitter in the leafing woods. Blue speedwells, white stars of stitchwort, bee-haunted gorse bloom—all turned to salute the sovereign sun glowing down upon the land. Gilderoy, ever a good walker, was soon pegging on ahead; then at a stile in a hedge he would wait until Oli and I came up. Just below the village of Bettws-Gwerfil-Goch, we stood on thepuri porj(old bridge) and watched the trout leap in the vandyke-brown pools of the river Alwen. On to the “Hand”tavern, my ideal village inn. George Borrow saw the interiors of many such houses during his tramps through “Wild Wales.” Nor are we likely to forget the kindness we received at the home of a certain great Scholar-Gypsy and Gypsy-Scholar, perched upon a high point commanding a magnificent landscape.
Oli Purum. Photo. Fred Shaw
About tea-time a jolly face appeared at our tent door, announcing the arrival of Gil’roy’s brother Jim, and, just as dusk was enfolding the scene, a merry boy came bounding into the camp. This was Deborah Purum’s Willy, who told us that Bala Fair was to take place on the morrow. Lively indeed was our camp this evening, for had not our company increased by two? Resolving to set off in good time toward Bala in the morning, we slipped into our beds about midnight, and soon forgot to listen to the owls hooting mournfully in the woods.
A Gypsy Harpist. Photo. W. Ferguson
May14.—A white mist on the mountains foretold a fine day, and by 6.30 we were breakfasting on trout and bacon done over a wood fire. Then harnessing the mare to the tilt-cart, we all climbed aboard, and away we rattled towards Bala. The wayside woods were empurpled with hyacinths, and on the hedge-banks little bushes of bilberry hung out their crimson flowers. Oli Purum, who is half a Welsh Gypsy, could tell us the very names of the families who had camped round the black patches on the roadsides. Springing off the cart, he would examine the heaps of willow-peelings with a criticaleye. “Âwa, (yes) I thought so. It’s some of the Klisons (Locks) that’s beenhatshinakai(stopping here).” A splendid trotter, our mare made light work of pulling the tilt-cart over those seventeen miles down the vale to Bala. Of course we were all wondering as to the Gypsies we might see at the fair. What a crowd of farm-folk we found filling the streets on our arrival. Just in front of the “White Lion” hostelry, I saw a potter-woman standing before a spread of crockery of all shapes and sizes on the side of the road, and, curiously enough, I had once met her son, Orlando Fox, at Bristol.
Little did we dream, however, of the surprise awaiting us here in Bala. Elbowing our way through the dense crowd, it was Gilderoy who was the first to exclaim, “Dik odoi” (Look there), and turning our gaze that way, there, sure enough, was a very dark old Gypsy with grizzled locks and glittering black eyes. His garments were weathered by long wear amid the mountains, and in him I recognized the patriarchal Matthew (a descendant of Abraham Wood) whom I had met some years before.
The Woods preserve many stories of Abraham, their earliest known progenitor, who flourished about the beginning of the eighteenth century. Entering Wales from Somerset, he brought with him a violin, and is supposed to have been the first to play upon one in the Principality. According to tradition, “He always rode on a blood-horse, would not sleep in theopen but in barns, wore a three-cocked hat with gold lace, a red silk coat, a waistcoat embroidered with green leaves, had half-crowns for buttons on his coat, sported white breeches gaily decked with ribbons, pumps with silver buckles and spurs, a gold watch and chain, and two gold rings.” Many of Abraham’s descendants are excellent players on the harp, and all, without exception, speak pure, deep, inflected Romany, akin to the beautiful musical dialect spoken by the Gypsies of Eastern Europe. Angling all summer, fiddling or harping all winter, such is the life of the Gypsy Woods of Wales.
It was with joy that we rambled with Matty along the shore of Bala Llyn, a glittering mirror in the sunshine broken only by rings made by rising fish. The windless day of summerlike quality induced our little party to loiter by the lake, and when at length we turned to come away, there on the road stood a Romany lass with her little brother, as merry a pair as ever wore Gypsy togs. To me it was very delightful to hear their fluent Welsh Romany.
There was no difficulty in persuading Matty to accompany us to our camp at Maerdy. He seemed only too glad to escape into the sweet open country after the close atmosphere of the town streets. And how the mare did travel after her feed and rest! On and on up the mountain road we went, startling the horned sheep on the unfenced roadsides. Now and then Matty would point out the spots where his old folks used to camp. Well away from the town, wetook a bite of bread and cheese at a tiny white inn backed by a strip of pine forest, from whose shadows darted a grey sheep-dog almost wolf-like in its leanness of figure and sharpness of nose. What a penetrating bark it had too!
A few more miles of rough road, with here a lone farm and there a cottage with lumps of white spar on its window-ledges, brought us once again to the “Cymro,” Maerdy, where we encountered a funny horse-breaker, reminding one of Borrow’s gossipy ostlers. Oli Purum’s tricks here “took the cake,” and to the delight of his audience he kept up a constant stream of them.
To-night we felt that fate had been extraordinarily kind to us, as by the fire we sat listening to Matty’s weird tales and to Oli’s rendering of “The Shepherd of Snowdon” and other Welsh airs on his violin. A rare stock of tales has Matty—stories replete with enchanted castles, green dragons, witches, ghosts, and the hero is nearly always a clever Gypsy named Jack. Matty is Oli’s cousin, and it is charming to see how happy they are together.
To me this is a holiday indeed. The utter absence of conventionality, and the diversions of the Gypsy life, are as balm to one’s nerves.
May15.—To-day is another blue and golden foretaste of summer. Along the banks of the Alwen, dodging in and out among huge boulders, climbing fences, scrambling through the masses of flowering gorse and broom, Gilderoy, Matty, and I made ourway to Bettws-Gwerfil-Goch. In the old inn, a cool retreat after the broiling sunshine in the wooded valley, we sat awhile. Years ago I saw Matty and his sons dance on the blue-stone floor of this room, just after the New Year had come in—a time when all Welsh folk are merry with fiddle and song.
A Happy Pair. Photo. W. Ferguson
On getting back to our camp in the early evening, all hands set to work, some gathering sticks, others fetching water, and soon the supper was spread inside the roomy tent. Tales and talk till the late-rising moon glinted through the holes nibbled by field-mice in the tent blankets. Then to dreamland.
A Chat by the Gate. Photo. W. Ferguson
May16.—This morning I find thin ice on a pail of water standing in the open. How bracing to complete your toilet in the cool air from the mountains. See with what tenderness the sunlight colours the rocks up there by the hillside farmstead. For the first time since coming into Wales I hear the cuckoo calling in the woods. High up on the slope I see a black horse dragging a hurdle with thorn boughs weighted by stones—a primitive harrow. I’ll have a scamper down the road through the keen air of morn, before the sun has drunk up all the dew.
After breakfast I go a-fishing. Home in the afternoon to find some of the Gypsy Locks coming down the Holyhead Road with their carts and ponies; a delightful party, and muchrokerben(conversation) followed.
A little later Gilderoy and I drive in the tilt-cart to Corwen to fetch Fred o’ the Bawro Gav.This means more fun for us round the evening fire. When depressed in days to come, I want to remember that flow of Gypsy mirth away there under the shadow of Cader Dinmael, while the oak-groves outside our tent whispered in the rising wind of night.
May17.—Farewell, tent and caravan and tilt-cart. Farewell, old pals beside your smoking fires. Farewell, sweet Wales and your beautiful mountains. To-day I return to civilization.
Oli Purum drove me to Corwen station, and by night I am at home again on the Wolds of Lincolnshire.
September27.—We are at Sedbergh, a little grey town at the foot of the Yorkshire Fells. Stone walls, narrow streets, old inns—all have their outlines softened by the mellow shadows, half-golden, half-brown, stealing over the place this afternoon. Looking out from a tavern window I experience a thrill. There in the street stand two vehicles, avâdoand a tilt-cart, with sleek horses between their shafts. That tilt-cart I should know anywhere, for under its weathered hood I have dreamt happy dreams.
“I say, pals, we must be stirring. Come along,” exclaims Gilderoy Gray, rising from his corner on the smooth-worn settle. We follow our leader into the street, and, boarding those vehicles, we are not long in getting clear of Sedbergh town. Bound for Brough Hill Horse-Fair, our party of six never hada gayer prospect. Here we are on the road again—Gil’roy, Merry Jim, Fred o’ the Bawro Gav, Oli Purum, his son Willy, and the Gypsy’s Parson. . . .
But even the brightest of September days must wane, and soon to right and left of us dark ridges lift themselves against the fading light. Our first stage is a short one. Nightfall sees us pull up at Cautley Crag, where we seek a stopping-place in the small croft adjoining the lonely white inn on the roadside. However, the gate proves too narrow to admit our carts, so we draw upon the wayside turf, under the shelter of a stone wall. Nimble as ever, Oli erects the red blanket tent in the croft, and Willy busies himself in building a good fire. When an abundance of brown bracken has been laid down in the tent (no fresh straw is to be had), the customary rugs are spread and we sit down to supper. Pipes and chatter make the evening hours fly. There is so much Gypsy news to talk over. At last, having placed a warning lantern, like a pendant star, on one of the carts, we tumble into our beds and quickly fall asleep.
September28.—A keen, clear autumn morn making you feel how good it is to be alive. After pottering about the camp, Gilderoy and I wander along the bank of the roaring Rawthey, while Jim and Fred, lured by the shine and glamour of the sunlit mountains, set off across the dewy moor for a closer look at the “Spout,” as the waterfall up the dingle is described on the map. Down by the plank-bridge I stand and look at the fells all a-shimmer in the sun.Far up beyond the region of stone walls, built (says our Oli) in the days when labourers received a wage of a penny a day, one’s eye follows the forms of mountain ponies, horned sheep, and a couple of shepherds roaming with their dogs. Nearer, on the river-bank, are small companies of geese preening their feathers in the sunshine. I hear from our landlord that prowling hill-foxes sometimes snap up a goose on the moor. . . .
Breakfast over, we were busy packing when some of the Whartons (Oli’s relations) passed by in their light accommodation cartsen routefor Brough Fair, so Oli and Willy must needs rush out to gather the latest news of the road. This meant a trifling delay in our getting off, for Gypsies are loquacious. However, by 9.30 we were once more “on travel,” feeling blithe as larks. Rumble-rumble went the wheels on the road, and all was going as merry as a marriage bell until a single magpie flitted across our track. Observing the bird of ill-omen, I quoted the old-time ditty—
“One for sorrow, two for mirth,Three for a wedding, four for a birth.”
“One for sorrow, two for mirth,Three for a wedding, four for a birth.”
“That’s only an old woman’s tale,” quoth the Gypsy, flicking the horse’s glossy back with the ends of the reins. Yet, a mile or so farther on, Oli was the first to discover that the horse had cast a shoe. Handing over the reins, the lithe Gypsy went off at a trot, and not long after he came up flaunting the lostshoe, just as the smith at Court Common was ready, tools in hand, to put it on.
’Neath Cautley Crag. Photo. Fred Shaw
Under the lee of a wood of bronzed beeches we made a stick fire to warm the stew-pot, while the smith replaced the shoe amid an interested group of yokels who had popped up from goodness knows where.
The wonderfully transparent atmosphere of this region appears to possess magnifying powers, for even the poultry on the distant knolls assume the forms of huge birds, and as for the gaunt lady who sat “taking the air” on a lonesome bench half a mile away, she would have passed right enough for the wife of Goliath, if that celebrity ever possessed a missis.
In a locality like this, romance and poetry meet one at every turn. A commonplace duck-pond in a grassy hollow does not, perhaps, suggest the glamorous things of life; yet the small tarn lying before us in the sunshine is the subject of a curious local legend. Here, says tradition, you are treading upon fairy ground, for in this dimple in front of the beech wood you have abottomless pool!
A Bottomless Pool. Photo. Fred Shaw
As for yon grey house amid the trees on the common’s upper edge, well, the man for whom it was built lived in it but a day and died, and over the doorway somebody has inscribed the text, “Occupy till I come.”
Soon after quitting the common, Wild Boar Fell begins to mark the skyline on our right, and now all around us lies a realm of strewn rocks—
“Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly hurled,The fragments of an earlier world.”
“Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly hurled,The fragments of an earlier world.”
A stiff push up the inclines brought us at last to the high point from whence the road dipped into the long straggling town of Kirkby-Stephen. Verily the place seemed to have dropped asleep in the September sun. With as little delay as possible we held on our way until, by 5 p.m., we had made Warcop and had pitched behind the farmhouse where we had stayed on previous happy occasions.
With all hands to work, the tent was put up in record time, and as the ruddy sundown tinged the tree boles near our camp, we gathered round the fire for the evening meal. Thus closed a superb summerlike day.
September29.—Somewhere about 7 a.m. a whiff of tobacco smoke comes curling pleasantly round the edge of our bunk in the tilt-cart, and I become aware that my bedmate, Fred o’ the Bawro Gav, is dressing. “There’s a heavy dew this morning,” says he, turning back the coverings at the entrance of the cart; and in a little while I am up and washing outside, and perceive for myself that the cobwebs on the hedge are delicately jewelled with drops of dew. “Look at the calves,” says Fred, “pretty fellows, aren’t they?” My companion has quite a farmer’s eye for things, and as a weather-prophet he rarely makes a mistake. Overhead low clouds are rolling, or rather masses of dove-coloured mist, with patches of blue sky showing between, and already the mountains rising to the north are richly bathed in sunshine.
During the forenoon Gilderoy, Fred, and Istretch our legs in a stroll upon the sunlit “Hill,” where the Gypsies are encamped in considerable numbers for the morrow’s great horse-fair. Many familiar faces greet us on every hand. Now it is Pat Lee who springs out from a group and nearly twists off Fred’s hand, so vigorous is the shaking it receives, and now I am honoured by an invitation to test the weight of Femi Coleman’s new baby. From the doorway of a gorgeousvâdoSophia Lovell thrusts out her black poll and inquires after our Oli. In this manner, with many variations, we make our way between the camps, and our ramble proves enjoyable in every way.
A Wandering Minstrel. Photo. Fred Shaw
Going back to the wagons at Warcop, we drop into an inn, and by a bit of luck it happens that a “character” is present in the person of “Fiddling” Billy Williams, the wandering minstrel, who at our request takes his brown violin from a bag on his back and plays some lively airs, and Oli and Willy Purum, who have turned up, dance cleverly to a tune or two on the smooth-worn, blue-stone floor. But Old Billy—I cannot take my eyes off him. Look at his weathered coat (a gift from Lord Lonsdale) which in the course of years has lost its nap and shows here and there patches of a ruddy lower layer; surely the nondescript garment suits the grizzled old wanderer to perfection. Watching him closely, I observe that he has a very passable acquaintance with the Gypsy tongue, so, edging towards him, I drop a deep sentence into his ear. How he starts! “You know something,” says he. Then he goes on to tell me that as a boyhe travelled with no less renowned a personage than John Roberts, the Welsh Gypsy harpist. Here’s a find. Who ever expected to meet a pupil of Old Janik’s in a remote Westmorland inn? Billy says that Roberts taught him how to “scrape music off these things,” twanging the fiddle-strings with a forefinger, and smiling sweetly as he does it. For myself, I count this meeting with Fiddling Billy one of the “events” of our trip.
In the evening we again rambled on the “Hill” to see a memorable sight—hundreds of Gypsy fires with rings of dark figures squatting around the blazing logs. A feast for the eyes of a lover of the nomads was this array of firelit faces set against a background of caravans, stone walls, and mountains.
September30.—A fine morning with a cool wind blowing from the east. As we sat at breakfast, a clatter of hoofs on the road announced belated arrivals for the fair. Early in the forenoon we found ourselves in the thick of the crowd, which, to me, seemed as big as ever on Brough Hill. Once upon a time this fair used to last a whole week, much more indeed for the Gypsy element, but nowadays the last day of September and the first day of October are the only recognized dates. Droves of fell ponies took up a large space on the fair-ground. A few heavy horses and a sprinkling of “bloods” met the eye at times. For one thing we could see our Gypsy friends busy upon their “native heath,” for where is a Gypsy at home if it is not at a horse-fair?
As evening approached, an ugly bank of inky-black cloud came over the mountains, and the wind in rude gusts began to wail, Valkyrie-like, in the tree-tops, and to shake our wagons in a way that reminded one of a night at sea. Thus the day which had opened so gaily ended in real “Brough weather.”
An authority on that local phenomenon known as the “Helm” wind writes: “The field of its operation extends from near Brough for a distance of perhaps thirty miles down the Eden Valley towards Carlisle, and is sharply restricted to the belt lying between the Pennines and the river; never, on the one hand, being encountered on the actual summit of the range, and never, on the other, crossing the water. Bitterly cold, it rushes like a tornado down the slope, and works havoc in the valley below. If the “Helm” happens to blow during the fair, the proprietors of scores of refreshment tents may usually bid farewell to all the canvas they possess.”
Brough Hill Horse Fair. Photo. Valentine
The Gypsies, to whom I have ever mentioned the “Helm” wind at Brough, invariably shrug their shoulders, as if it were an old friend, and not a very welcome one at that.
October1.—We were all afoot in good time this morning, six o’clock or thereabouts, and right glad we were to see the sun breaking through the mists over Brough Fox Tower. Taking a halter apiece, Fred and I went to fetch the horses. Breakfast; then we packed, and away we went. “Good-bye, old camping-place,” we said, as the wagons reached theMusgrave ramper, for very pleasant had been our sojourn by the spreading trees beyond the old farmhouse. On the way to Kirkby-Stephen, many light carts rattled past, going south, and, after the stiff pull out of the town, it was good to be once more on the open road with the keen mountain air blowing on our faces from over wide leagues of rocks and heather.
By early evening we had reached Cautley, where, as before, we drew on to the strip of wayside turf, and in quick time a couple of plump fowls were roasting in the black pot over a wood fire. To watch Oli prepare and cook those fowls was an object-lesson to be remembered. Bravo, Oli, our Romany chef!
Realizing that this was our last evening in the wilds, we were in no hurry to get between the blankets. So we stretched out the tales, and meandered leisurely through the fields of reminiscence, while the cloud of tobacco smoke grew denser around us, and the stars o’ night shone more and more brightly over Cautley’s black crag.
October2.—Up at seven to find the sky almost free from clouds and holding out the promise of a brilliant wind-up. After breakfast we set off for Lancaster, near whose castle we parted; and now, over fireside pipes, my notebook and its jottings possess the power to make every sight and sound of the journey live again.
Areyou seeking a recipe for youth? Go a-Gypsying. Forth to the winding road under the open sky, the Gypsies are calling you. Scorning our hurrying mode of life, these folk are content to loiter beneath the green beeches, or in the shadow of some old inn on the fringe of a windy common. Like Nature herself, these wildlings of hers overflow with the play-spirit and therefore remain ever youthful. To rub shoulders with them, I have found, is to acquire a laughing indifference to dull care and all its melancholy train. Whoever then would grow light-hearted and become just a happy child of sun and star and stream, let him respond to the call of the road: let him go a-Gypsying.
Long ago I observed that during the pleasanter months of the year a few families of wanderers were generally to be found encamped upon a secluded waste—which I will call Furzemoor—where, by the courtesy of the owner, they were allowed to remain as long as they pleased. They resorted thither, so it seemed to me, to recuperate from the effects of theirwinter’s sojourn upon the city ash-patches hemmed in by unsavoury gas-lit streets.
One April afternoon, following close upon a lengthy stay in London, I remember how blithely I tramped along the grassy cart-track, which, after winding between hedgerows full of green sprays, sweet odours and tinkling bird-notes, emerged upon rugged Furzemoor—one of those few places which in after years become for you backgrounds of dream-like delight by reason of the memories associated with them. Is it not to such spots that the fancy turns when the mood of the commonplace hangs heavily upon you, and any shred of adventure would be more stirring to the heart than “the cackle of our burg,” which is too often mistaken for “the murmur of the world”?
No matter how often I came, the moor had ever the power to stir one’s imagination anew by its suggestive atmosphere of the remote, the aloof, the wild; and having paused at the end of the lane to renew old recollections, I went forward and peered over the edge of a declivity fringed with bushes of furze in golden flower. Ah! there below the slope, kissed by the warm sun and fanned by the breath of spring from off the heath, lay the brown tents, tilt-carts, and smouldering fires of a Romany camp, looking strangely deserted save for a girlish figure reclining near one of the fires over which a kettle was slung. Pushing between the bushes, my blundering feet loosened some large stones which rolleddown the bank with a rattle, causing the girl to look sharply over her shoulder, and simultaneously from her red lips came a warning whistle, a shrill penetrating note first ascending then dropping again. I had heard that whistle of old and knew well its significance. In response thereto a Gypsy man appeared from behind the tents, his keen eyes gleaming with recognition. “Hey,rashai, we’s been a-talking about you lately. Only last night I was saying, p’raps our pass’n will be coming to see us one of these days, and here you are!”
Such was the greeting I got from Gypsy Sam, who now wheeled about and walked me off to a sandy hollow where his wife Lottie and her bairns sat by the fire. On catching sight of me, the children—a black-eyed troop—raised a shout of welcome, and, like little savages, soon began tugging at my coat tails. After an absence of several months from the camping-place this was a joyful meeting, and I guessed that my friends had much news to tell.
Gypsy Children. Photo. Illustrations Bureau
“It’s no use pretending to offer you a chair,” said Lottie, giving my hand a hearty shake, “for we haven’t got one. If there’s anything I does detest, it’s chairs. The nasty things make sich draughts about ’ur legs.” So, squatting on the ground, I awaited the unfolding of the family budget.
There was a touch of the Orient on every side. Stuck in the wind-rippled sand under a bold wall of rock were curved tent-rods with brown blankets pinned round them. Between the golden furzeclumps a lean horse and a shaggy ass ripped the grasses. A greyhound lay asleep under a tilt-cart upon the shafts of which sundry gay garments were hanging to dry. Upon this picture my eye rested with pleasure.
Now Gypsy Sam ignites his tobacco by scooping up a red ember with the bowl of his pipe. His wife does the same, and I follow suit.
“A prettier place is this,” quoth Lottie, “than when you see’d us under that ugly railway bank at Hull.”
Verily the Gypsies are possessed of an æsthetic sense, and their roving eyes grow wistful as they take in the beauty of the distant hills and the sun-gleams lighting up grassy knolls and spindly fir-trees rising from patches of sand.
“You remember thatpawno grai(white horse) of ours?” says Sam. “Well, we lost him a little while back. A bit ofwafro bok(bad luck) that was for us. We was stopping at a place with nasty bogs around us, and one stormy night thegraigot into one of ’em unbeknown to we, and i’ the morning we found him with no more than his nose sticking out. Of course he were dead as a stone. Then there was thatkawlo jukel(black dog) what you saw at Hull—brother to this one under the cart—he got poisoned up yonder by Rotherham. I reckon a keeper done it as had a spite agen us. I wouldn’t ha’ parted with that dog for a good deal; he’s got us many a rabbit.”
The steaming splutter of the kettle suggests ameal, which is soon spread in winsome style. Meanwhile, from another fire hard by, a black pot is brought, and a savoury stew is followed by tea and slices of buttered bread with green cresses fresh from the brook. As Lottie lifts the silver teapot to pour out tea, I cannot help admiring the lovely old thing, and the Gypsy sees my appreciation.
“Yes,” (holding it up in the sunlight), “it’s a beauty, ain’t it? Did you ever hear of my Aunt Jōni’s quart silver teapot? Squire Shandres used to fix greedy eyes on it whenever he come down to the camp, but my aunt wouldn’t part with it, not likely. You won’t remember Jōni, of course. A funny old woman she were, to be sure. There was one thing I minds her a-telling of us. She’d been out with herkipsi(basket) but it weren’t one of her good days, and by night her basket was nearly as heavy as when she’d set out. Twopence was all she’d made, as she passed through three or four willages, tumble-down sort of places, where the house walls were bent and the thatches of the cottages were sinking into the rooms underneath ’em. At one of these cottages as stood in an odd corner, Jōni stopped to knock. Two steps led up to a green door with a bird-cage hanging outside. She waited a minute, but as nobody came she gave two more raps and tried the door. It was bolted. After that she heard sounds inside, a muttering voice came nearer, and slip-slap went the shoes, as an old woman opened the door. Talk about ugly, she was that, if you like; and there was hair growing on her lip andchin. Fixing her black eyes on Jōni, she scowled and scolded, and, pointing a finger at her, she cursed poor Jōni, and for ten days afterwards my aunt couldn’t speak proper. Whenever she tried to talk, she could only groan and bark and moo like the beastses, and it wasn’t till after the tenth day that she were herself at all.”
From witches it was not a long leap to wise men.
Said Lottie, “Did I ever tell you about the wise man of Northampton? Well, it was one time as I’d had wery bad luck indeed with my basket. I couldn’t sell nothing at all in the willages agen that town, but I know’d agozvero mush(wise man) as lived there, so I went to see him, and he give me a rabbit’s head and a cake of bread. ‘Now,’ says he, ‘go you and call at the places where you’ve took nothing, and you’ll take money at all of ’em.’
“And what he told me came true, every word of it. I’ll take my sacrium oath it did. That theregozvero mush(wise man) could tell the names of folks as had stolen things, and he coulddûker(tell fortunes) like one of us. He could tell folk a lot about theirselves by rubbing his hand over the bumps on their heads, and he could read the stars like a book, and find out things by the cards and by the crystal. He was sort of friendly with our people, and they liked him, but they would never go near a witch if they knew it.”
It has been truly said, “No one is fond ofGypsies, but is fonder of Gypsy children.” Grave-eyed pixies, at once bold and reserved, these quaint little sprites are simply irresistible. When the meal is over, I stroll off with a party of these romping rascals towards a gorsy hollow which the sun warms into a gayer gold. Asking the children if they would like a tale, and what sort? Answer comes, “Amuleno gudlo” (fairy tale).
“How long?”
“A mile long, in course.”
Into my tale creeps a ghost, and when I had done, little Reuben says—
“I know something aboutmulos(ghosts). One time a man was killed by a bull at the corner of the lane down yonder, and we allus hurries past that place for fear ofdikin hismulo” (seeing his ghost). “And then there was two Gypsies as father once know’d. They begged some straw from a farmer and put it in a little shed for to sleep on. Then they went into the willage to buy a loaf, and when they got back they found the straw had gone. A little ways off they see’d a woman running away with the straw, but ’stid of follering her they went straight to the farmhouse where they’d got leave to sleep in the shed, and they told the farmer about the woman, and he says—
“‘Why, that’s my old woman as died ten year ago.’ My word, those Gypsies soon began to look out for a sleeping-place somewhere else. Yes, we knows a lot aboutmulos.”
“What’s that noise?” asked one of the girls, springing up.
“Come awaytshavê(children). Come away, sir. Don’t you hear that nasty littlesap” (snake)?
From among the mossy stones near at hand came a hissing sound, and there, sure enough, was a small viper wagging his black-forked tongue at us. We got up and moved nearer the camp.
“Norfolk’s the place for sarpints,” said one of the boys; “I once see one with a frog in its mouth. Lor, how the poor thing did squeal. There’s lots of lizards about here, and they say that ahotshi(hedgehog) will eat ’em, but if I thoughtthatI’d never touch no morehotshis’long as I live.”
I told the children of a little incident which had happened on my way to Furzemoor, how I had cycled into a family of weasels crossing the road but didn’t run over any of them, and, dismounting, I banged one of the little fellows with my hat. He lay still, and I thought he was dead, but when I turned my head for a moment he was gone like a flash. Lottie, who had drawn near and was listening, remarked—
“It’s bad luck to meet a wezzel on thedrom(road), but if there’s anything we does like to meet, it’s the Romanytshiriklo(bird),” which I knew to be the pied wagtail, the foreteller of coming Gypsies.
“When we sees ourtshirikloon the road, and it flies, we knows we are going to meet Gypsies who’ll be akin to us, but if it only runs away, the travellers coming will be strangers. One day me and my manwas on thedromand we see a young hare tumbling over and over in front of us. That’s a sign as means ill, and, sure enough, a few days after we heard tell of the death of my man’s uncle ’Lijah. Talking about meeting things, I’ve heard it said that if you meet two carts, one tied behind t’other, you’ll soon go to prison.”
The strains of a fiddle now proceeded from where Sam sat alone by the fire, and we joined him. As the sun was going down one of the girls proposed a dance, and soon a merry whirl of Gypsy elves enlivened the camp. By the fireside, reminiscences came crowding into Sam’s brain.
“Many’s the time, as you know, we’ve draw’d on to this place, and I takes good care to be friendly with all the keepers round here. I never meddles wi’ nothink, you see, so we never gets across wi’ ’em. Ay, but I minds when I didn’t used to be so pertikler. See that oak wood up yonder? In my young days me and my old mammy got leave from a keeper to gather acorns in that wood. Us used to take ’ur sacks and fill ’em with acorns and sell ’em to a man as we know’d. And mam ’ud warn me not to meddle with the rabbits, lest we should be forbid to stop on here. One afternoon mam had half-filled her sack, and when her back was turned, I tumbled the acorns out, and slipped into the sack three rabbits as I’d knocked over, and I put the acorns back on the top of ’em. I was a good big lad then, and, my, wasn’t I frit when I see the keeper coming withhis dog. When he got up to us, he and mam got a-talking, and I see the dog sniffing round the bag. The keeper, thinking that there was only acorns in it, shouts to the dog, “Come away there.” But the dog stuck there, and I was trembling in my boots for fear we should get into trouble. Howsiver, the keeper kept calling the dog off, and soon they goes away. Then I nips up the bag and trots off home with it, and when I told mam about it afterwards she gave me a downright good scolding and begged me never to do it no more.
“Our old folks allus travelled with pack-donkeys, and they had one donkey as was a wery knowing animal. I’ll tell you one thing it did. We was stopping in a lane of a summer’s evening, and ourfoki(people) was smoking afore the fire under a hedge with the children playing round, and everybody was as happy as the Lord in Heaven, but all at once ourmaila(donkey) comes and pokes its head atween daddy and me, and I taps it on the nose, playful-like, to send it away, but it comes back, and it was that restless and fidgety, poking and pulling at us—it wouldn’t be druv off. My mammy had been watching it from the tent, and she come up and says—
“‘Thatmailaknows summut, I reckons.’
“‘Ay, it’s a sign sure enough,’ says daddy. And the donkey still kep’ on poking and pulling at us. Long and by last dad says—
“‘We’d better clear out of here,’ for he thoughtthere was summut queer about the donkey’s goings on. Well, we pulled up the tent rods and packed ’ur things, and we’d only just got out of the lane when two horsemen come along and began inquiring about a little pig as was missing from a farm. They made us unpack, and they searched through everythink, but, of course, they couldn’t find nothink agen us, and they goes their way and we goes ours. And that night, after we had settled down in an old quarry a bit furder on, my daddy beckoned me and took me to a deep hollow full o’ dead leaves, and, scrabbling among ’em, he takes out—what do you think? The nicest littlebawlo(porker) you ever see’d, and we gets it safe home. That donkeydidknow summut after all. Ay, them were the old times. Things is wery different now.
“If you come here to-morrow you’ll mebbe walk up with me to the planting on t’other side of yon beck. Theraias this land belongs to lets metshin(cut) all thewuzen(elder) I wants. My old daddy used to say—
“‘You should never lay a chopper to a tree wi’out first axing the fairies’ leave,’ but folks forgets to do it now.”
The eyes of my friends here began to turn frequently in the direction of the cart-track. Indeed, when their eyes were not looking that way it seemed to me that their minds still were. Nor was this expectancy to go long unsatisfied, for soon there appeared in the sunken lane a black chimney toppinga green-hooded vehicle, a light cart bringing up the rear. These Gypsies turned out to be a married son of Sam, with his wife and family. Here was a jolly arrival. With surprising rapidity the horses were unyoked, and the newcomers were gathered round their parents on the grass. Off to a well-known spring run the girls to fill the kettle and a bucket or two, and the boys scamper off towards a spinney to return with an abundance of dead wood. Then how the fires crackle and spurt, and in next to no time the steam is puffing from kettle spouts.
Feeling ten years younger for my visit to the Furzemoor Gypsies, I climbed up the deeply-rutted lane on the way to the distant railway station, and, as I turned for a last look, brown hands were waving, andkushto bok(good luck), which is the Gypsy’s “good-bye,” was shouted after me. On my part I felt a strong tugging at the heart when, at a bend in the lane, I caught a farewell glimpse of the domed tents, upcurling blue smoke, and happy Gypsies among the golden gorse.
As In
â
alms (âms).
a
aloe (alô).
aw
all (awl).
ê
ale (êl).
è
air (èr).
e
ell (el).
î
eel (îl).
i
ill (il).
ô
old (ôld).
o
olive (oliv).
û
ooze (ûz).
u
book (buk).
ù
ulcer (ùlsa).
As In
ai
aisle (ail).
oi
oyster (oista).
ou
ounce (ouns).
The following are pronounced as in English:—
b, d, f, h, k, l, m, n, p, t, v, w.
v and w are, as a rule, easily interchangeable.
As In
y
yes (yes).
r
roam (rôm).
ch
loch (Scottish loch).
s
ass (as).
sh
shin (shin).
tsh
chin (tshin).
z
zest (zest).
zh
pleasure (plezhur).
j (dzh)
jest (jest).
g
gate (gêt).
ng
singer (singa).
ngg
finger (fingga).
th
thin (thin).
dh
then (dhen).
Romany.
English.
Adrê
In, into, within.
Akai
Here.
Apopli
Again.
Aprê
On, upon.
Av
Come.
Âva, âvali, âwa, âwali
Yes, certainly, verily
Avrî
Away, out.
Bâ
Stone, sovereign (£1).
Baiengri
Waistcoat.
Bal
Hair.
Balovas
Bacon, ham.
Barvelo
Rich.
Baw
Comrade, mate.
Bawlo
Pig.
Bawro
Great, large.
Bawro-Gav
London.
Beng
Devil.
Besh
Sit, rest, lie.
Bîbi
Aunt.
Biken
Sell.
Bita
Little.
Bitshado
Sent.
Bitshado-pawdel
Sent over, transported.
Bok
Luck.
Bokro
Sheep.
Bokro-mas
Mutton.
Bongo
Crooked, lame, wrong.
Boshomengro
Fiddler.
Bouri
Snail.
Bouri-zimen
Snail-broth.
Bûdika
Shop.
Dâbla
Exclamation of surprise.
Dadus
Father.
Dai
Mother.
Dawdi
Exclamation of surprise.
Delaben
Gift.
Del-aprê
Read.
Didakai
Half-breed Gypsy.
Dik
See, look.
Dikamengri
Picture, looking-glass.
Diklo
Kerchief.
Dinelo
Fool, simpleton.
Diri
Dear.
Divus
Day.
Dosta
Enough, plenty.
Dova
That.
Drom
Road.
Dûi
Two.
Dûker
Tell fortunes.
Dûkeripen
Fortune.
Dûvel
God.
Fôki
People.
Gad
Shirt.
Gawjikeno
Belonging to gentiles.
Gawjo
Alien, gentile, anyone who is not a Gypsy.
Gav
Town.
Gèro
Man.
Gozvero
Cunning.
Grai
Horse.
Gudlo
Tale, noise.
Guno
Bag, sack.
Hatsh
Stop, camp.
Hatsh-oprê
Arise, get up.
Haw
Eat.
Hawben
A meal, food.
Hĕro
Leg, wheel.
Hokano
Lie, trick, swindle.
Hora
Penny.
Hotsherdo
Burnt.
Hotshiwitshi
Hedgehog.
Jaw
Go.
Jin
Know.
Jiv
Live.
Jukel
Dog.
Kai
Where.
Kanengro
Hare.
Kani
Hen.
Kawlo
Black.
Ke-divus
To-day.
Kek, keka
No, not, never.
Kel, kèr
Do, make.
Kèr
House.
Kipsi
Basket.
Kisi
Much.
Kitshima
Tavern, public-house.
Klîsin
Lock.
Kokero
Self.
Koliko
To-morrow.
Kom
Love, like.
Kon
Who.
Konaw
Now.
Kongri
Church.
Kopa
Blanket.
Kosht
Stick, wood.
Kova
This, thing.
Krafni
Button.
Kuro
Cup, glass, mug.
Kushto
Good.
Laj
Shame.
Latsher
Find, pick up.
Lav
Word.
Lavengro
Word-man, linguist.
Lel
Get, take.
Len, lendi
Them, their.
Lesti
Him, his.
Levina
Beer.
Lil
Book, paper.
Loli
Red.
Lova
Money.
Maila
Donkey.
Man, mandi
I, me.
Mas
Meat.
Masengro
Butcher.
Maw
Don’t.
Maw
Kill, slay, murder.
Mî, mîro, m’o
My, mine.
Mokado
Unclean.
Mokto
Box.
Mol
Wine.
Mong
Beg, pray, request.
Monûshni
Woman, wife.
Mûi
Mouth, face.
Mûk
Let, allow, leave, lend.
Mûleno
Ghostly, fairy, supernatural.
Mûlo
Dead, ghost.
Mûlo-mas
Carrion.
Mûmeli
Candle.
Mumpari, mumper
Low-class traveller.
Mumpli
Nasty.
Mûsh
Man.
Mûskro
Policeman.
Nasher
Lose, waste.
Nongo
Naked, bald, bare.
O
The.
Odoi
There.
Oprê
On, up, upon.
Ora
Hour, watch.
Pal
Brother.
Pâni
Water.
Pariko
Thank.
Patrin
Trail, sign, leaf.
Pawdel
Across, over, beyond.
Pawni
Fair, white.
Pen
Sister.
Pen
Say.
Peser
Pay.
Petulengro
Smith.
Pîro
Foot.
Pogado
Broken.
Poger
Break.
Porj
Bridge.
Posh
Half.
Praster
Run.
Pûker
Tell.
Pûkinger
Magistrate.
Pûri-dai
Grandmother.
Pûro
Old.
Pûrum
Leek.
Pûtsh
Ask.
Pûv
Field.
Pûvengri
Potato.
Rai, raia
Gentleman, sir.
Rakli
Girl.
Rashai
Priest, parson.
Rat
Blood.
Rat, rati
Night.
Rawni
Lady.
Rinkeno
Beautiful.
Rokamiaw
Trousers.
Roker
Talk, speak.
Rokerben
Conversation, speech.
Rom
Husband.
Romanes
Gypsy-wise, Gypsy language.
Romanitshel
Gypsy.
Romano
Gypsy.
Romer
Marry
Rûp
Silver.
Sâ
How.
Sal
Laugh.
Sap
Snake.
Saw
All, everything.
Sawkûmi
Everybody.
Sawla
Morning.
Shan
Are.
Shûkora
Sixpence.
Shûn
Hear.
Shushi
Rabbit.
Sî
Is.
Sig
Quickly, soon, early.
Sô
What.
Sos
Was.
Stari
Star.
Staruben
Prison.
Stor
Four.
Swêgler
Pipe.
Ta
And.
Tâder
Draw.
Tălê
Down.
Tan
Tent.
Tâno
Young.
Tatsheno
True, genuine.
Tatshipen
Truth.
Tatsho
True.
Te
To.
Tem
Country, land.
Tîro
Your.
Tôv
Wash.
Trash
Frighten.
Trin
Three.
Tshai
Lass, daughter, girl.
Tshavo
Son.
Tshib
Tongue, language.
Tshikli
Dirty, foul.
Tshin
Cut.
Tshiriklo
Bird.
Tshitshi
Nothing.
Tshiv
Put.
Tshokaw
Boots.
Tshor
Steal.
Tshordo
Stolen.
Tshori
Poor.
Tshovihawni
Witch.
Tshûmani
Something.
Tshûpni
Whip.
Tû, tût, tûti
You.
Tûv
Smoke.
Tûvalo
Tobacco.
Vâdo
Caravan, cart.
Vâva
Another.
Vast
Hand.
Vel, wel
Come.
Wafodû, wafro
Bad.
Wesh, vesh
Wood, forest.
Wûser
Throw.
Wûzen
Elder.
Yek
One.
Yog
Fire.
Yoi
She.
Yôra
Egg.
Yov
He.
Zimen
Broth