"Love, now a universal birth,
From heart to heart is stealing,
One moment now may give us more
Than fifty years of reason;
Our minds shall drink at every pore
The spirit of the season."
Wordsworth.
It was on a lovely morning early in the month of June that--after many
trial trips here and there across country--we started on our long and
romantic tour, away to the distant north.
Come weal or woe, we determined never to turn our horses' heads
southwards until we had reached and crossed the Grampian mountains.
All the village turned out to see us start--the older folks shouting us
a friendly farewell, the children waving their arms in the air and
cheering.
But in an hour's time we were away in the lonesome woods, and when we
stopped on a piece of moorland to eat our first real gipsy lunch, there
was not a sound to be heard anywhere except the bleat of sheep, and the
singing of the joyous birds in the adjoining copse.
A blue June sky was above us, June butterflies floated in the soft June
air, June sunshine glittered in the quivering beech-tree leaves, June
wild flowers were everywhere, and the joy of June was in all our hearts.
I had never seen Frank look so buoyant and young as he did now, despite
those tell-tale hairs of silver in his brown beard. Some of the roses
of June seemed to have settled in Maggie May's cheeks already, my wife
looked calmly happy, and wee Ida madly merry, while Hurricane Bob rolled
lazily on his back and pulled up and threw to the winds great tufts of
verdant moss.
Ida was Frank's _coupe_ companion. His caravan came behind ours, and
sure enough these two gipsies had plenty to say, and they saw plenty to
laugh at.
It is time to tell the reader about one little wanderer that has not
been mentioned before--Mysie, the caravan cat. We really had intended
leaving Miss Mysie at home in charge of the old cook, but Miss Mysie did
not mean to be left. She had watched with the most motherly interest
all our preparations for the tour, and at the very last moment in she
jumped and took possession of a corner of the caravan sofa, commencing
forthwith to sing herself to sleep.
And there she was now, while we sat on the greensward at lunch, walking
round big Bob, and rubbing her shoulders against his head, as happy as a
feline queen.
For believe me, dear reader, cats are very much what you make them. I
have made these animals a study, and found that the old ideas about them
which naturalists possessed, and the conclusions they so ungenerously
jumped at, are all wrong. I do assure you--and you can easily prove it
for yourself--that if you use a cat well, feed her regularly and treat
her as the rational being it undoubtedly is, you will find that pussy is
_not_ a thief, that she is fonder far of persons than places, that she
is true and faithful, loving and good.
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As soon as luncheon was over, and we had rested a little and the horses'
mouths were washed out--they had been busy all the time with nose-bags
on--we resumed our journey. We had no intention, however, of seeking
for, or of sojourning even for a single night, in any large town. As
our home by night and by day for months to come would be the caravans,
so our bivouac must be in woods and wilds. At all events we must keep
far away from the bustle and din, the trouble and turmoil, of towns.
Towards evening we found ourselves drawing near to a cosy little
roadside inn, and here we not only got a meadow in which to place our
wooden houses, but stabling for our steeds. And while Frank put up the
tent and dinner was being prepared, I busied myself looking after the
horses, and seeing to their bedding and general comfort. This was to be
one of my duties every evening.
The day had not been altogether devoid of adventures, for we lost our
way entirely once in a labyrinth of lanes that seemed to lead nowhere,
or rather everywhere, through beautiful woods on the banks of the
Thames. We got clear at last, however, and soon found ourselves on a
hill so steep, that it was with the greatest difficulty our powerful
horses managed to drag the caravans up and over it.
But now all our troubles were forgotten; and no wonder, for such a
dinner as our cook and valet Frank placed before us in the tent, surely
gipsies never sat down to before.
We were all as happy, if not as merry, as larks, for everything was so
new to us; and this life of perfect freedom seemed, somehow or other,
precisely what each of us had been born for.
When, after the tent had been cleared, and Frank had brought in his
violin and commenced to play, it appeared quite a natural thing that the
figure of a handsome young man in cyclist's uniform should come to the
doorway to listen.