Writing of fairs reminds me of an occasion when I looked up some Romany acquaintances on the evening preceding a fair. There was every prospect of a large gathering on the morrow, and quite a number of gypsy families were on the ground. Work was finished for the day and it was nearly dark as we sat around the fire. As we chatted mainly in Romany, the youngsters—who had not yet been disposed of for the night—evidently considered that their elders should not monopolize the conversation and therefore kept up a running fire of questions, partly with the hope that they might catch me tripping:— “What’s a bokkra?” “What are chokkars?” “What’s tuv?” “He dunno what mullo mas is, I sh’ think.” “Do you know what a juggal is, my Rye?” [Illustration: AROUND THE CAMP FIRE.] “I say, what’s a gav mush?” “Tell us what a baulo is.” “You don’t know what a hotchi is, do you?” And so on until one of the women was obliged to quiet them in order that she might be heard. “Lor’,” said she, “I could do with a hotchi (hedgehog) to-night, couldn’t you, Rye? But p’r’aps you ain’t never tasted one.” Here, a merry, laughing girl with a mischievous twinkle in her eye interposed, saying:— “Let me tell you how to cook ’em. ” ... first of all you pull off all the prickles one at a time with the pincers——” “Don’t you take no notice o’ her,” broke in her sister; “she’s a-gettin’ at you; we don’t do nothin’ o’ the sort, we allus takes ’em to the nearest barber’s and gets ’em shaved.” Good-natured banter of this description constituted a fair proportion of the talk that evening, although now and again conversation would take a more serious turn. Meanwhile, one of the little ones had fallen asleep in his mother’s arms, and she now proceeded to put him to bed; however, he awoke during the process and as I stood at the caravan door he suddenly sat bolt upright in bed, called out to me, “Goo’ night, mush,” then as suddenly snuggled down to sleep. When the woman returned to the fireside, she showed me a Bible, which, she told me, she had carried about in the van for over twenty years, but could not read a word of it. She also produced a book entitled “The Traveller’s Guide,” a work issued by a colportage association; this was, of course, equally useless to her unless some one could be found who would read to her. “If anybody starts readin’ to her,” said another of the company, “he’ll get tired of the job before she’s done enough listenin’; why, she’d stay up all night to have a book read to her.” In connection with the reading of written or printed matter to gypsies, a curious fact has many times come under my notice:—