"Ye slay them! and wherefore? For the gain
Of a scant handful, more or less, of wheat.
Or rye, or barley, or some other grain."
On this grand gipsy-tour of ours we had reason to be thankful every day
for a good many things. First and foremost, that our horses were so
sturdy, strong, and willing; that the great caravan itself was so
comfortable, and the smaller one so snug, and both so delightfully and
artistically fitted up, that they looked more like the saloon and cabin
of some beautiful yacht than the homes of amateur gipsies.
It took us a whole month to get across the borders and well into bonnie
Scotland. But a more pleasant month I for one never spent before nor
since. We took it easy. We were determined to study the _otium cum
dignitate_ and _dolce far niente_, and at the end of this month it would
have been difficult to say which of us was the hardier or jollier. The
horses were sleek and fat, Hurricane Bob spent most of his time either
lying among rugs on the _coupe_ with the children, or tumbling on the
daisied sward, while the cat did nothing but sing and look complacent.
We human beings were so happy, we could even afford to laugh and be gay
when thunders rolled, when gales of wind blew and rocked the caravan as
if she had been a ship at sea, or when the rain came down in torrents.
Maggie May had already ceased to be an invalid, and Ida had got as brown
as if she really were a true-born Romany-Rye.
No, we never hurried the horses. For there was so much to be seen,
fresh scenery at every turn of the road, beautiful wild flowers to be
gathered to fill the vases. The children at lunch-time even made great
garlands of them, and hung them round the horses' necks.
Of course the village children always took us for a show, and ran out to
meet and cheer us, but most grown-up folks took us simply for what we
were--a party on a pleasant summer tour.
Mysie, strange to say, although she often stopped out of doors all
night, was always back in good time for the start in the morning.