"Hawk!" said Borrow, laconically, and turned up his face and gazed into the sky. "The magpie is waiting till the hawk has caught his quarry and made his meal. I fancy he has himself been 'chivvied' by the hawk, as the gypsies would say." And there, sure enough, beneath one of the silver clouds that specked the dazzling blue a hawk--one of the kind which takes its prey in the open rather than in the thick woodlands--was wheeling up and up, and trying its best to get above a poor little lark in order to stoop at and devour it. That the magpie had seen the hawk and had been a witness of the opening of the tragedy of the lark was evident, for in its dread of the common foe of all well-intentioned and honest birds, it had forgotten its fear of all creatures except the hawk. Man it looked upon as a protecting friend. As Borrow and his friend were gazing at the bird a woman's voice at their elbows said-- "It's lucky to chivvy the hawk what chivvies a magpie. I shall stop here till the hawk's flew away." They turned round, and there stood a magnificent gypsy woman, carrying, gypsy fashion, a weakly child that, in spite of its sallow and wasted cheek, proclaimed itself to be hers. By her side stood a young gypsy girl of about seventeen years of age. She was beautiful--quite remarkably so--but her beauty was not of the typical Romany kind. It was, perhaps, more like the beauty of a Capri girl. She was bareheaded--there was not even a gypsy handkerchief on her head--her hair was not plaited, and was not smooth and glossy like a gypsy girl's hair, but flowed thick and heavy and rippling down the back of her neck and upon her shoulders. In the tumbled tresses glittered certain objects, which at first sight seemed to be jewels. They were small dead dragon-flies of the crimson kind called "sylphs." To Borrow and his friend these gypsies were well known. The woman with the child was one of the Boswells: I dare not say what was her connection, if any, with "Boswell the Great"--I mean Sylvester Boswell, the grammarian and "well-known and popalated gipsy of Codling Gap," who, on a memorable occasion, wrote so eloquently about the superiority of the gypsy mode of life to all others "on the accont of health, sweetness of air, and for enjoying the pleasure of Nature's life." But this I do remember--that it was the very same Perpinia Boswell whose remarkable Christian name has lately been made the subject of inquiry in _The Guardian_. The other gypsy, the girl of the dragon-flies, I prefer to leave nameless here. After greeting the two, Borrow looked at the weakling child with the deepest interest, and said, "This chavo ought not to look like that--with such a mother as you, Perpinia."