And dook the gry
Of the farming rye.

A very pretty song, thought I, falling hard to work again on my kettle;
a very pretty song, which bodes the farmers much good. Let them look to
their cattle.

"All alone here, brother?" said a voice close to me, in sharp, but not
disagreeable tones.

A talk ensued, in which the girl discovered that I knew how to speak
Romany, and it ended in my presenting her with the kettle.

"Parraco tute--that is, I thank you, brother. The rikkeni kekaubi is now
mine. O, rare, I thank you kindly, brother!"

Presently she came towards me, stared me full in the face, saying to
herself, "Grey, tall, and talks Romany!" In her countenance there was an
expression I had not seen before, which struck me as being composed of
fear, curiosity, and deepest hate. It was only momentary, and was
succeeded by one smiling, frank, and open. "Good-bye, tall brother,"
said she, and she departed, singing the same song.

On the evening of the next day, after I had been with my pony and cart
strolling through several villages, and had succeeded in collecting
several kettles which I was to mend, I returned to my little camp, lit
my fire, and ate my frugal meal. Then, after looking for some time at
the stars, I entered my tent, lay down on my pallet, and went to sleep.
Two more days passed without momentous incidents, but on the third
evening the girl reappeared, bringing me two cakes, one of which she