Upon more than one occasion has my clothing—permeated by the wood smoke of the gypsy fire—betrayed to acquaintances the fact that I had been among the Romany folk, and given the opportunity for jeering observations anent the “tents of the ungodly,” but, as the old adage has it, “he laughs best who laughs last,” and it is indeed gratifying to be able later in life to conjure up pleasant pictures of one’s friends seated, as they were, around the camp fire. One such of many similar scenes is deeply impressed on my memory: I was at the camp of a Romany friend and we had discussed an early supper of povengros (potatoes) and salt, washed down with tea, when someone suggested a song. There may be sweeter melodies than songs in the Romany, as sung by the chies, but I have yet to hear them. There is a sweetness and a certain wild attractiveness about the language well adapted to the poetry of music, and the gypsies are passionate lovers of beautiful sounds. A poem read to them in Spanish, pleases their ear, they understand perhaps not a word, but appreciate the rhythm. Their language, too, reminds one somewhat of that tongue. I am however, digressing: By the camp fire that evening, our talk, after a song or two, was mostly in and of the Romany tongue. One would narrate some experience, another would take up the thread, and so on, the firelight meanwhile playing on their faces. The soughing of the light wind overhead seemed attuned to the weirdness of the scene, and the while, the pageant of one of the loveliest of summer sunsets was passing, every merging scene having its glory duplicated on the reflecting surface of the river, which, winding and looping in its course, glided and faded imperceptibly into a purple haze, the whole scene changing momentarily, but with a tranquillity which, “while moving, seemed asleep,” until it passed through an almost unearthly splendour of afterglow into the cool star-depths of the summer night. In extenuation—perhaps I should say explanation—of the conduct of those who think unkindly or deal harshly with the gypsies on principle, I suggest that they neither really know nor try to understand them; moreover, the likelihood of their personally gaining any such knowledge of them as results from experiences of the nature I have attempted to describe, is very remote; indeed, so suspicious and unapproachable are they—mainly because we as a people have made them so—that were one to cultivate their acquaintance, with the very best of intentions, years would probably elapse before he would be welcomed as a true pal (brother), and not until then would he understand them or appreciate their outlook on things.