“You would be glad to get rid of the cuckoos, brother?” “Why, not exactly, Jasper; the cuckoo is a pleasant, funny bird, and its presence and voice give a great charm to the green trees and fields; no, I can’t say I wish exactly to get rid of the cuckoo.” “Well, brother, what’s a Romany chal?” “You must answer that question yourself, Jasper.” “A roguish, chaffing fellow; a’n’t he, brother?” “Ay, ay, Jasper.” “Of no use at all, brother?” “Just so Jasper; I see—” “Something very much like a cuckoo, brother?” “I see what you are after, Jasper.” “You would like to get rid of us, wouldn’t you?” “Why no; not exactly.” “We are no ornament to the green lanes in spring and summer time; are we, brother? and the voices of our chies, with their cukkerin and dukkerin, don’t help to make them pleasant?” “I see what you are at, Jasper,” “You would wish to turn the cuckoos into barn-door fowls, wouldn’t you?” “Can’t say I should, Jasper, whatever some people might wish.” “And the chals and chies into radical weavers and factory wenches; hey, brother?” “Can’t say that I should, Jasper. You are certainly a picturesque people, and in many respects an ornament both to town and country; painting and lil writing too are under great obligations to you. What pretty pictures are made out of your campings and groupings, and what pretty books have been written in which gypsies, or at least creatures intended to represent gypsies, have been the principal figures. I think if we were without you, we should begin to miss you.” “Just as you would the cuckoos, if they were all converted into barn-door fowls. I tell you what, brother; frequently, as I have sat under a hedge in spring or summer time, and heard the cuckoo, I have thought that we chals and cuckoos are alike in many respects, but especially in character. Everybody speaks ill of us both, and everybody is glad to see both of us again.” “Yes, Jasper, but there is some difference between men and cuckoos; men have souls, Jasper!” “And why not cuckoos, brother?” “You should not talk so, Jasper; what you say is little short of blasphemy. How should a bird have a soul?” “And how should a man?” “Oh, we know very well that a man has a soul.” “How do you know it?” “We know very well.” “Would you take your oath of it, brother—your bodily oath?” “Why, I think I might, Jasper!” “Did you ever see the soul, brother?” “No, I never saw it.” “Then how could you swear to it? A pretty figure you would make in a court of justice, to swear to a thing which you never saw. ‘Hold up your head, fellow. When and where did you see it? Now upon your oath, fellow, do you mean to say that this Roman stole the donkey’s foal?’ Oh, there’s no one for cross-questioning like Counsellor P—. Our people when they are in a hobble always like to employ him, though he is somewhat dear. Now, brother, how can you get over the ‘upon your oath, fellow, will you say that you have a soul?’”