"I can't help it if it be not, but it is nature after all; did you never see grey hair on the young?" "Never! I have heard it is true of a grey lad, and a bad one he was. Oh, so bad." "Sit down on the grass, and tell me all about it, sister; do to oblige me, pretty sister." "Hey, brother, you don't speak as you did--you don't speak like a Gorgio, you speak like one of us, you call me sister." "As you call me brother; I am not an uncivil person after all, sister." "I say, brother, tell me one thing, and look me in the face--there--do you speak Rommany?" "Rommany! Rommany! what is Rommany?" "What is Rommany? our language to be sure; tell me, brother, only one thing, you don't speak Rommany?" "You say it." "I don't say it, I wish to know. Do you speak Rommany?" "Do you mean thieves' slang--cant? no, I don't speak cant, I don't like it, I only know a few words; they call a sixpence a tanner, don't they?" "I don't know," said the girl, sitting down on the ground, "I was almost thinking--well, never mind, you don't know Rommany. I say, brother, I think I should like to have the kekaubi." "I thought you said it was badly mended?" "Yes, yes, brother, but--" "I thought you said it was only fit to be played at football with?" "Yes, yes, brother, but--" "What will you give for it?" "Brother, I am the poor person's child, I will give you sixpence for the kekaubi." "Poor person's child; how came you by that necklace?" "Be civil, brother; am I to have the kekaubi?" "Not for sixpence; isn't the kettle nicely mended?" "I never saw a nicer mended kettle, brother; am I to have the kekaubi, brother?" "You like me then?" "I don't dislike you--I dislike no one; there's only one, and him I don't dislike, him I hate." "Who is he?" "I scarcely know, I never saw him, but 'tis no affair of yours, you don't speak Rommany; you will let me have the kekaubi, pretty brother?" "You may have it, but not for sixpence, I'll give it to you." "Parraco tute, that is, I thank you, brother; the rikkeni [pretty] kekaubi is now mine. Oh, rare! I thank you kindly, brother." Starting up, she flung the bulrush aside which she had hitherto held in her hand, and, seizing the kettle, she looked at it for a moment, and then began a kind of dance, flourishing the kettle over her head the while, and singing-- "The Rommany chi And the Rommany chal Shall jaw tasaulor To drab the bawlor And dook the gry Of the farming rye." "Good bye, brother, I must be going." "Good bye, sister; why do you sing that wicked song?" "Wicked song, hey, brother! you don't understand the song!" "Ha, ha! Gypsy daughter," said I, starting up and clapping my hands, "I don't understand Rommany, don't I? You shall see; here's the answer to your gillie-- 'The Rommany chi And the Rommany chal Love luripen And dukkeripen, And hokkeripen, And every pen But lachipen And tatchipen.'" {160}