My quarters were one morning suddenly invaded by a young Romany girl, who advanced towards me, after closely scanning me, singing a gipsy song: The Romany chi And the Romany chal Shall jaw tasaulor To drab the bawlor, And dook the gry Of the farming rye.

He was hun-gry and wea-ry, and had a great sor-row at his heart, for he had lost his fa-ther in the ear-ly spring, leav-ing his mo-ther to toil for a scant live-li-hood to sup-port her-self and him.

Here, trink dis, like a good veller, and don't gry nowdon't!" Hereupon the Angel of the Odd replenished my goblet (which was about a third full of port) with a colorless fluid that he poured from one of his hand-bottles.

The taking of the Gry.

The taking of the Gry.

He was so hun-gry, and the bread and but-ter and milk tast-ed so nice-ly, that he thought he should nev-er have e-nough.

How long he would have staid there I can not tell, had not the men in the field grown hun-gry and sent one of their num-ber to see what had be-come of their lunch.