The
sound of music is always attractive; for, wherever there is music,
there is good-humour, or good-will. We passed along a footpath, and
had a peep through a break in the hedge, at the musician and his
party, when the Oxonian gave us a wink, and told us that if we would
follow him we should have some sport.
It proved to be a gipsy encampment, consisting of three or four little
cabins, or tents, made of blankets and sail-cloth, spread over hoops
that were stuck in the ground. It was on one side of a green lane,
close under a hawthorn hedge, with a broad beech-tree spreading above
it. A small rill tinkled along close by, through the fresh sward, that
looked like a carpet.
A tea-kettle was hanging by a crooked piece of iron, over a fire made
from dry sticks and leaves, and two old gipsies, in red cloaks, sat
crouched on the grass, gossiping over their evening cup of tea; for
these creatures, though they live in the open air, have their ideas of
fireside comforts. There were two or three children sleeping on the
straw with which the tents were littered; a couple of donkeys were
grazing in the lane, and a thievish-looking dog was lying before the
fire. Some of the younger gipsies were dancing to the music of a
fiddle, played by a tall, slender stripling, in an old frock-coat,
with a peacock's feather stuck in his hat-band.
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