rode eight miles so fast that I thought I'd killed her. And I put
her in the stable, and I went down into the field, and there I saw Job.
'Thank God!' said he; 'Uncle, you've come here; and if I get over this
small-pox (for 'twas the smallpox he'd caught), I'll give you the best
horse that you'll beat all the Gipsies.' But he died.

"And he says as he was dying, 'Uncle, you know the cigars you gave me?'
'Yes.' Says he, 'I've got 'em here in my pocket.' I and my sisters were
by him, but his wife was outside in the great tent, selling things, for
she never had the smallpox, nor his children, so they couldn't come to
see, for we wouldn't let them. And so he died.

"And when he was dead, I put my hand in his pocket, and there I found the
cigars. And from that time, Sir, I never smoked a cigar.

"Yes! there are plenty of Gipsies who do that. And when my wife died, I
never took snuff again. Sometimes in her life she'd take a bit of snuff
out (from) my box; and when I'd say, 'Dear wife, what do you do that
for?' she'd tell me, 'It's good for my head.' And so when she died I
never took any (none) since.

"Some men won't eat meat because the brother or sister that died was fond
of (to) it; some won't drink ale for five or ten years; some won't eat
the favourite fish that the child ate. Some won't eat potatoes, or drink
milk, or eat apples; and all for the dead.

"Some won't play cards or the fiddle--'that's my poor boy's tune'--and
some won't dance--'No, I can't dance, the last time I danced was with my
poor wife (or girl) that's been dead this four years.'

"'Come, brother, let's go and have a drop of ale; the fiddler is there.'
'No, brother, I never drank a drop of ale since my aunt went (died).'
'Well, take some tobacco, brother?' 'No, no, I have not smoked since my
wife fell in the water and never came out again alive.' 'Well, let's go
and play at cock-shy, we two'll play you two for a pint o' ale.' 'No, I
never played at cock-shy since my father died; the last time I played was
with him.'

"And Lena, the wife of my nephew Job, never ate plums after her husband
died."

This is a strange manner of mourning, but it is more effective than the
mere wearing of black, since it is often a long-sustained and trying
tribute to the dead. Its Oriental-Indian origin is apparent enough. But
among the German Gipsies, who, I am firmly convinced, represent in
language and customs their English brethren as the latter