The gypsy appreciates—often unconsciously, perhaps—the glorious colouring at rise or set of sun, he loves the daybreak music of waking Nature and the voices of the night; but all too often, it is to be feared, his brother of the town looks upon Nature as putting up a very poor show in comparison with the scenic display and the orchestral work of his favourite house of entertainment. CHAPTER VIII Time sped on apace,—as to the occupied mind it ever has,—and, before I fully realized how quickly the weeks had slipped by, I found myself bound for the Mecca of many a Romanichal and home-dweller alike,—the hop country. As the majority of my Romany friends were to be found in the Hampshire gardens rather than in those of Kent, I directed my steps to the picturesque district in the vicinity of Alton, and soon discovered that families with whom I was acquainted were located at two encampments some four or five miles apart, to say nothing of the separated sections of each encampment. I am fortunate in possessing a well-developed bump of locality, and was enabled, after a survey of the neighbourhood, to lessen considerably the walking distance between the camps by taking advantage of short cuts and field paths; but the whole of my first day in the land of hops and gypsies was spent in gaining knowledge of the principal camps in the neighbourhood of Alton and the country intervening between them and similar encampments in the direction of Binsted,—the inevitable result of such reconnoitring being a return home, tired out, in the evening. The revivifying and invigorating effect of a night in the open, however, enabled me to be on foot early the next morning, and, although my projected journey to the further camps entailed a walk of five miles out, I got off at a brisk pace as there was a nip of autumn in the air, and soon settled down into a steady swing; a little later, the sun shone with considerable power, as it frequently does in an English September, so that by the time I had reached the summit of a long, steep hill some little distance on my way in an easterly direction, the country opened out before me from under the fast disappearing haze; on my right lay the village of Selborne, set in a sea of blue haze, and away to my left I could discern the spire of Binsted church, often called hereabout, the “gypsies’ church,” owing presumably to the fact that numerous gypsy weddings and christenings take place there during the hop-picking. After proceeding a mile or two further, and beyond the limit of my survey of the previous day, the haze, which at first seemed to be rapidly clearing off, began to gather again and I considered it prudent to inquire my way of a gypsy with whom I was slightly acquainted, who now came towards me. Evidently he remembered me well, for he replied in Romany— “Jal a bit ta tuti’l dick a pukkering cosh by the rik of the drom,—kushti divvus, mush.”