As I was walking one evening with the Oxonian, Master Simon, and the
general, in a meadow not far from the village, we heard the sound of a
fiddle rudely played, and looking in the direction from whence it came,
we saw a thread of smoke curling up from among the trees. The sound of
music is always attractive; for, wherever there is music, there is good
humour, or goodwill. We passed along a footpath, and had a peep, through
a break in the hedge, at the musician and his party, when the Oxonian
gave us a wink, and told us that if we would follow him we should have
some sport.

It proved to be a gipsy encampment, consisting of three or four little
cabins, or tents, made of blankets and sail-cloth, spread over hoops
that were stuck in the ground. It was on one side of a green lane, close
under a hawthorn hedge, with a broad beech-tree spreading above it. A
small rill tinkled along close by, through the fresh sward, that looked
like a carpet.

A tea-kettle was hanging by a crooked piece of iron, over a fire made
from dry sticks and leaves, and two old gipsies, in red cloaks, sat
crouched on the grass, gossiping over their evening cup of tea; for
these creatures, though they live in the open air, have their ideas of
fireside comforts. There were two or three children sleeping on the
straw with which the tents were littered; a couple of donkeys were
grazing in the lane, and a thievish-looking dog was lying before the
fire. Some of the younger gipsies were dancing to the music of a
fiddle, played by a tall, slender stripling, in an old frock coat, with
a peacock's feather stuck in his hatband.

As we approached, a gipsy girl, with a pair of fine roguish eyes, came