So Old, They Went Through Civilisation Ten Thousand Years Since; They Have Worn It All Out, Even Hope In The Future; They Merely Live Acquiescent To Fate, Like The Red Deer.

The crescent moon, the evening star, the clatter of the fern-owl, the red embers of the wood fire,

The pungent smoke blown round about by the occasional puffs of wind, the shadowy trees, the sound of the horses cropping the grass, the night that steals on till the stubbles alone are light among the fields - the gipsy sleeps in his tent on mother earth; it is, you see, primeval man with primeval nature. One thing he gains at least - an iron health, an untiring foot, women whose haunches bear any burden, children whose naked feet are not afraid of the dew.

By sharp contrast, the Anglo-Saxon labourer who lives in the cottage close by and works at the old timbered farmstead is profoundly religious.

The gipsies return from their rambling soon after the end of hop-picking, and hold a kind of informal fair on the village green with cockshies, swings, and all the clumsy games that extract money from clumsy hands. It is almost the only time of the year when the labouring people have any cash; their weekly wages are mortgaged beforehand; the hop-picking money comes in a lump, and they have something to spend. Hundreds of pounds are paid to meet the tally or account kept by the pickers, the old word tally still surviving, and this has to be charmed out of their pockets.

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