It was towards evening, a dark November evening, that we came near the little town of Biggar. The place lies on a sandy bank raised from the wide moss which extends for miles by the edge of the sluggish stream. It is a black, desolate spot, where whaups and snipe whistle in the back streets, and a lane, which begins from the causeway, may end in a pool of dark moss-water. But the street is marvellous broad, and there, at the tail of the autumn, is held one of the greatest fairs in the lowlands of Scotland, whither hawkers and tinkers come in hordes, not to speak of serving-men and serving-lasses who seek hire. For three days the thing goes on, and for racket and babble it is unmatched in the countryside. We halted before the entrance to the town on a square of dry in the midst of the water-way. The weather had begun to draw to storm, and from the east, great masses of rolling cloud came up, tinged red and yellow with the dying sun. I know not how many the gipsies were, but, with women and children, they were not less in number than ninety or a hundred. They had with them a great quantity of gear of all kinds, and their animals were infinite. Forbye their horses and asses, they had dogs and fowls, and many tamed birds which travelled in their company. One sight I yet remember as most curious. A great long man, who rode on a little donkey, had throughout the march kept an ugly raven before him, which he treated with much kindness; and on dismounting lifted off with assiduous care. And yet the bird had no beauty or accomplishment to merit his good-will. It is a trait of these strange people that they must ever have something on which to expend their affection; and while the women have their children, the men have their pets. The most grim and quarrelsome tinker will tend some beast or bird and share with it his last meal. When the camp was made, the fire lit, and the evening meal prepared, the men got out their violins and bagpipes, and set themselves to enliven the night with music. There in the clear space in front of the fire they danced to the tunes with great glee and skill. I sat beside the captain and watched the picture, and in very truth it was a pleasing one. The men, as I have said, were for the most part lithe and tall, and they danced with grace. The gipsy women, after the age of twenty, grow too harsh-featured for beauty, and too manly in stature for elegance. But before that age they are uniformly pretty. The free, open-air life and the healthy fare make them strong in body and extraordinarily graceful in movement. Their well-formed features, their keen, laughing black eyes, their rich complexions, and, above all, their masses of coal-black hair become them choicely well. So there in the ruddy firelight they danced to the quavering music, and peace for once in a while lay among them.