It was a Roumanian gypsy tribe; one of many that have come over to this country in the last decade. But the people went about in the quietest possible way, which I knew was not at all their custom. "Have they taken on manners?" I wondered. Children of the neighborhood, and even grown-ups, began to assemble around the wagons. They stood at a distance. A mother warned her over-curious little boy: "Don't go too near, dearie! Gypsies steal children." As the woman spoke two little boys of the tribe climbed out from one of the camp wagons. "Look at these white children!" exclaimed several people. "Surely, stolen children." The features of the children were distinctly of a Roumanian cast. A young gypsy woman followed the little ones to a tent. * * * * * From inside the wagon broke out a loud cry that was drowned in the wails and groanings of the people in every wagon and tent. The curious throng assembled about the camp now widened the circle. The gypsy litany of the dead was officiated. In funeral rhythm the dead one's virtues were enumerated one by one, while others made incantations to chase the evil spirit. "Leave us! If thou hast come through the chimney, leave through the chimney; and if through the door, evil one, leave the same way!" "That thou be fed burning stones from now until eternity. That thy thirst be quenched only with the blood of thy own kin." The same incantations were repeated for more than a half hour. They ceased abruptly, at the sound of a gong. The evil one had departed. Slowly, in single file, the gypsies descended the steps of the wagon and bowed very low westward, to the setting sun of an early autumn day, before going each one to his own tent. * * * * * The circle of the curious neighbors had widened very much when I approached an old gypsy and asked him who had died. He turned full face as he said: "Our Chief, Yorga, our Chief. We would want to bury him under a tree near a river--but can we do as we please in this country? Tell me, stranger." Like the drippings from a burning candle the tears fell from the man's eyes as he spoke to me. On the wooden cross over Yorga's grave I have carved with my pen-knife the name of the dead one. In the fall of every year his tribe comes to the burial grounds, and each one cuts out a piece of cloth from his best garment and leaves it there as an offering to the dead Chief. And the old gypsy told me: "A great man was Yorga. A king among men. His mother was killed by her father when Yorga was born, because she was the daughter of a great Roumanian boyar, and the child, fruit of a secret love, was the son of a gypsy. But the child was allowed to live, so beautiful was he.