Like their near relatives, the Hindus of to-day, many of the gypsies can neither read nor write, but usually our Romany friend has a sound mind in a sound body, and when he points—as he well may—to the blots on our civilization and the shams in our religion, I do not wonder at the up-hill work of those good souls among us who seek to instil the Christ spirit into the minds of those whom the world dubs outcasts, and yet surprise is evinced that the progress of our missions to these people is slow. How heart-breaking the work is only those who are engaged in it know. But a truce to moralizing. I must bestir myself or my friends will judge me dull. After the meal the kettle needed to be again filled and the water heated preparatory to a general wash and clean up, and I heard a young girl ordering her younger brother to— “Put the panee on the yog, yer fool, and mind yer put some soda in,” which of course meant—“Put the water on the fire and add some soda.” He was afterwards instructed by the mother to “clean the churi’s on the poov,” and set about it by utilizing the hard earth floor as a knife-board, in doing which I noticed that he sensibly selected a miniature mound upon which to rub the blades so that his knuckles should not be subjected to the same cleaning process as the knives, which were ultimately stowed away quite clean, if they had not received a high polish. Work for the day—which in this case had been strawberry picking—being over, the time before turning in was whiled away with tales of the road, common and forest, and stories of keepers, police and other bugbears of nomadic life. When my companion considered that a sketch would help his narrative he made a rough drawing on the hard earth—of a road or other subject—with the charred end of a piece of stick, and I discovered that he worked out simple accounts connected with his work in the same manner. Turning to the fire I observed to my friend: “One seldom comes across a tripod nowadays, I suppose they are no longer used?” “Well,” said he, “now you mention it, I don’t think I’ve seen more than two or three for years. One I saw at a pony fair in the New Forest, and I believe I have seen one or two in Kent, but real old genuine ones would most likely be valuable now just as old copper kettles are.” [Illustration: DOUBLE TENT. WINTER.] “I know someone,” he continued, “who had a very old one, in fact it was too old to use, but it fetched a good bit o’ money, it was all hand-hammered, mind you. I shouldn’t ha’ sold it if it had been mine, but the woman as had it was hard up, and you don’t think much about anything when you’re hungry except satisfyin’ your belly, and there was kiddies wanting bread too.” “But,” he added retrospectively, “now nearly all use the crane.”