Were it possible to trace these strings of beads through all their vicissitudes of time and place not a few, it would be discovered, have emanated within the last twenty or thirty years from that birthplace of so much “genuine” Hindu, Egyptian and similar work, a place known to gypsies as Kaulo gav (Black town), otherwise Birmingham, while others would be found to have been religiously cared for and passed on by generation after generation of the same family almost from the time of their shaping in the Far East; indeed, after carefully examining some of these old beads, but little imagination is needed to present to the mind’s eye a Hindu squatting at his primitive lathe, turning and shaping coral, stone or wood into just such beads. Occasionally, the beads of a necklace are nicely graduated or otherwise regularly varied in size; again, they may be seen having no order or arrangement, as though composed of portions of several necklaces. The only rule I have been able to discover concerning the number of strings or rows of beads one wears is, that each one wears all she has,—if enough for one string only, it suffices; if she be fortunate enough to possess sufficient for three, four or six rows, then she wears all of them, but two or three rows are more usual. Gypsy women have distinct and artistic styles of dressing the hair, of which they mostly have an abundance, and I have known more than one Romany chal who was proud of his glossy, black ringlets, but nowadays one would probably have some difficulty in finding such. Some of the men adopt the fringe style for their front locks, others cultivate the “curl” of the rural labourer, but quite frequently young men and lads have the hair closely cropped,—“it’s cleaner in the warm weather,” said one to me; “my missis allus cuts mine, she’s done it ever since we’ve been married, with the horse-clippers.” “No I haven’t,” interpolated the wife; “I’ve done it with the small ones.” “Well,” he retorted, “they are almost the same.” In a gypsy encampment there is generally one of the men who is handy with scissors and razor; naturally his services are preferred by the community to those of the professional barber. Sunday is the day when the tonsorial artist of the camp is busy, and for fairly obvious reasons,—in the first place, he is not at work,—that is to say, he is not pursuing his ordinary vocation; secondly, Sunday generally finds almost every one at the vans or tents. Perhaps no more ridiculous statements have ever been made than those relating to the habits of gypsies; one such informs its readers that gypsies darken their hair to black by the “subtle use of certaine herbes,” but omits to state why gypsy women—whose hair is naturally as black and lustrous as possible—should desire, or endeavour to darken it by the application of absurd preparations.