sang Zachariah, ever and anon giving similar wild snatches. Then Esmeralda would rocker about being the wife of the Romany Rye (Gipsy gentleman) and as she proudly paced along in her heavy boots, she pictured in imagery the pleasant life she should lead as her Romany Rye’s joovel, monshi, or somi. She was full of fun, yet there was nothing in her fanciful delineations which could offend us. They were but the foam of a crested wave, soon dissipated in the air. They were the evanescent creations of a lively, open-hearted girl—wild notes trilled by the bird of the forest. We came again into the open valley. Down a meadow gushed a small streamlet which splashed from a wooden spout on to the roadside.” “The spot where we pitched our tents was near a sort of small natural terrace, at the summit of a steep slope above the road, backed by a mossy bank, shaded by brushwood and skirting the dense foliage of the dark forest of pine and fir, above our camp.” “We gave two of the peasants some brandy and tobacco.” “Then all our visitors left, except four interesting young peasant girls, who still lingered.” “They had all pleasant voices.” “We listened to them with much pleasure; there was so much sweetness and feeling in their melody. Zachariah made up for his brother’s timidity. Full of fun, what dreadful faces the young Gipsy would pull, they were absolutely frightful; then he would twist and turn his body into all sorts of serpentine contortions. If spoken to he would suddenly, with a hop, skip, and a jump alight in his tent as if he had tumbled from the sky, and, sitting bolt upright, make a hideous face till his mouth nearly stretched from ear to ear, while his dark eyes sparkled with wild excitement, he would sing— “‘Dawdy! Dawdy! dit a kei Rockerony, fake your bosh!’ “At one time a woman brought an exceedingly fat child for us to look at, and she wanted Esmeralda to suckle it, which was, of course, hastily declined. We began to ask ourselves if this was forest seclusion. Still our visitors were kind, good-humoured people, and some drank our brandy, and some smoked our English tobacco. After our tea, at five o’clock, we had a pleasant stroll. Once more we were with Nature. There we lingered till the scenes round us, in their vivid beauty, seemed graven deep in our thought. How graphic are the lines of Moore:— “‘The turf shall be my fragrant shrine, My temple, Lord, that arch of Thine, My censor’s breath the mountain airs, And silent thoughts my only prayers. “‘My choir shall be the moonlight waves, When murm’ring homeward to their caves, Or when the stillness of the sea Even more of music breathes of Thee!’