Friday's Sung Word: "Na Baixa do Sapateiro" by Ary Barroso (in Potuguese)

Released in 1938, Na Baixa do Sapateiro did not achieve the expected success, which is why Ary Barroso decided to make some changes to the lyrics and melody around 1942. A few pronouns and verb tenses were altered, and a slower rhythm turned the song into a classic. 

The reworked song was released in 1942, performed by Sílvio Caldas.

In 1944, Walt Disney chose Na Baixa do Sapateiro to feature in his film The Three Caballeros under the tittle of Bahia.

( Severiano, Jairo, and Zuza Homem de Mello, eds. A Canção no Tempo: Vol. 1. São Paulo: Editora 34; Discografia Brasileira - IMS, Instituto Moreira Salles, n.d.)

 

Ai, o amô, ai, ai!
Amô bobagem que a gente não explica, ai, ai!
Prova um bocadinho, oi
Fica envenenado, oi
E pro resto da vida
É um tal de sofrer
Oilará, oilerê

Oi, Bahia, ai, ai!
Bahia que não me sai do pensamento, oi!
Faço o meu lamento, oi
Na desesperança,
De encontrar nesse mundo
O amor que eu perdi na Bahia -
Vou contar

Na Baixa do Sapateiro,
encontrei um dia
A morena mais frajola da Bahia
Pediu-lhe um beijo não deu,
Um abraço,
Sorriu
Pediu-lhe a mão, não quis dar -
Fugiu!

Bahia! Terra da felicidade!
Morena,
Eu ando louco de saudade!
Meu Senhor do Bonfim,
Arranje outra morena
Igualzinha pra mim. 

 

You can listen "Na Baixa do Sapateiro" sung by Sílvio Caldas here.

Link to the previous version of  "Na Baixa do Sapateiro"here.

Thuesday’s Serial: “ Le avventure di Pinocchio: Storia di un burattino” by Carlo Collodi (in Italian) - III

VII. Geppetto torna a casa, e dà al burattino la colazione che il pover’uomo aveva portata per sè.

Il povero Pinocchio, che aveva sempre gli occhi fra il sonno, non s’era ancora avvisto dei piedi, che gli si erano tutti bruciati: per cui appena sentì la voce di suo padre, schizzò giù dallo sgabello per correre a tirare il paletto; ma invece, dopo due o tre traballoni, cadde di picchio tutto lungo disteso sul pavimento.

E nel battere in terra fece lo stesso rumore, che avrebbe fatto un sacco di mestoli, cascato da un quinto piano.

— Aprimi! — intanto gridava Geppetto dalla strada.

— Babbo mio, non posso, — rispondeva il burattino piangendo e ruzzolandosi per terra.

— Perchè non puoi?

— Perchè mi hanno mangiato i piedi.

— E chi te li ha mangiati?

— Il gatto, — disse Pinocchio, vedendo il gatto che colle zampine davanti si divertiva a far ballare alcuni trucioli di legno.

— Aprimi, ti dico! — ripetè Geppetto — se no, quando vengo in casa, il gatto te lo do io!

— Non posso star ritto, credetelo. Oh! Povero me! povero me, che mi toccherà a camminare coi ginocchi per tutta la vita.―

Geppetto, credendo che tutti questi piagnistei fossero un’altra monelleria del burattino, pensò bene di farla finita; e arrampicatosi su per il muro, entrò in casa dalla finestra.

Da principio voleva dire e voleva fare; ma poi, quando vide il suo Pinocchio sdraiato in terra e rimasto senza piedi davvero, allora sentì intenerirsi; e presolo subito in collo si dette a baciarlo e a fargli mille carezze e mille moine, e, coi lucciconi che gli cascavano giù per le gote, gli disse singhiozzando:

— Pinocchiuccio mio! Com’è che ti sei bruciato i piedi?

— Non lo so, babbo, ma credetelo che è stata una nottata d’inferno, e me ne ricorderò fin che campo. Tonava, balenava e io avevo una gran fame, e allora il Grillo-parlante mi disse: «Ti sta bene: sei stato cattivo e te lo meriti», e io gli dissi: «Bada, Grillo!…» e lui mi disse: «Tu sei un burattino e hai la testa di legno» e io gli tirai un manico di martello, e lui morì, ma la colpa fu sua, perchè io non volevo ammazzarlo, prova ne sia, che messi un tegamino sulla brace accesa del caldano, ma il pulcino scappò fuori e disse: «Arrivedella,... e tanti saluti a casa.» E la fame cresceva sempre, motivo per cui quel vecchino col berretto da notte, affacciandosi alla finestra mi disse: «Fàtti sotto e para il cappello» e io con quella catinellata d’acqua sul capo, perchè il chiedere un po’ di pane non è vergogna, non è vero? me ne tornai subito a casa, e perchè avevo sempre una gran fame, messi i piedi sul caldano per rasciugarmi, e voi siete tornato, e me li sono trovati bruciati, e intanto la fame l’ho sempre e i piedi non li ho più! ih!... ih!... ih!... ih!... ―

E il povero Pinocchio cominciò a piangere e a berciare così forte, che lo sentivano da cinque chilometri lontano.

Geppetto, che di tutto quel discorso arruffato aveva capito una cosa sola, cioè che il burattino sentiva morirsi dalla gran fame, tirò fuori di tasca tre pere, e porgendogliele, disse:

— Queste tre pere erano per la mia colazione: ma io te le do volentieri. Mangiale, e buon pro ti faccia.

— Se volete che le mangi, fatemi il piacere di sbucciarle.

— Sbucciarle? — replicò Geppetto meravigliato. — Non avrei mai creduto, ragazzo, mio, che tu fossi così boccuccia e così schizzinoso di palato. Male! In questo mondo, fin da bambini, bisogna avvezzarsi abboccati e a saper mangiare di tutto, perchè non si sa mai quel che ci può capitare. I casi son tanti!...

— Voi direte bene, — soggiunse Pinocchio, — ma io non mangerò mai una frutta, che non sia sbucciata. Le bucce non le posso soffrire. ―

E quel buon uomo di Geppetto, cavato fuori un coltellino, e armatosi di santa pazienza, sbucciò le tre pere, e pose tutte le bucce sopra un angolo della tavola.

Quando Pinocchio in due bocconi ebbe mangiata la prima pera, fece l’atto di buttar via il torsolo; ma Geppetto gli trattenne il braccio, dicendogli:

— Non lo buttar via: tutto in questo mondo può far comodo.

— Ma io il torsolo non lo mangio davvero!... — gridò il burattino rivoltandosi come una vipera.

— Chi lo sa! I casi son tanti!... — ripetè Geppetto, senza riscaldarsi.

Fatto sta che i tre torsoli, invece di essere gettati fuori dalla finestra, vennero posati sull’angolo della tavola in compagnia delle bucce.

Mangiate, o, per dir meglio, divorate le tre pere, Pinocchio fece un lunghissimo sbadiglio e disse piagnucolando:

— Ho dell’altra fame!

— Ma io, ragazzo mio, non ho più nulla da darti.

— Proprio nulla, nulla?

— Ci avrei soltanto queste bucce e questi torsoli di pera.

— Pazienza! — disse Pinocchio — se non c’è altro, mangerò una buccia. —

E cominciò a masticare. Da principio storse un po’ la bocca: ma poi, una dietro l’altra, spolverò in un soffio tutte le bucce; e dopo le bucce, anche i torsoli, e quand’ebbe finito di mangiare ogni cosa, si battè tutto contento le mani sul corpo, e disse gongolando:

— Ora sì, che sto bene!

— Vedi, dunque, — osservò Geppetto — che avevo ragione io quando ti dicevo che non bisogna avvezzarsi nè troppo sofistici nè troppo delicati di palato. Caro mio, non si sa mai quel che ci può capitare in questo mondo. I casi son tanti!... —

 

 

VIII. Geppetto rifà i piedi a Pinocchio e vende la propria casacca per comprargli l’Abbecedario.

Il burattino, appena che si fu levata la fame, cominciò subito a bofonchiare e a piangere, perchè voleva un paio di piedi nuovi.

Lo lasciò piangere e disperarsi per una mezza giornata.

Ma Geppetto, per punirlo della monelleria fatta lo lasciò piangere e disperarsi per una mezza giornata; poi gli disse:

— E perchè dovrei rifarti i piedi? Forse per vederti scappar di nuovo da casa tua?

— Vi prometto, — disse il burattino singhiozzando, — che da oggi in poi sarò buono…

— Tutti i ragazzi — replicò Geppetto, — quando vogliono ottenere qualcosa, dicono così.

— Vi prometto che anderò a scuola, studierò e mi farò onore…

— Tutti i ragazzi, quando vogliono ottenere qualcosa, ripetono la medesima storia.

— Ma io non sono come gli altri ragazzi! Io sono più buono di tutti e dico sempre la verità. Vi prometto, babbo, che imparerò un’arte, e che sarò la consolazione e il bastone della vostra vecchiaia. —

Geppetto che, sebbene facesse il viso di tiranno, aveva gli occhi pieni di pianto e il cuore grosso dalla passione di vedere il suo povero Pinocchio in quello stato compassionevole, non rispose altre parole: ma, presi in mano gli arnesi del mestiere e due pezzetti di legno stagionato, si pose a lavorare di grandissimo impegno.

E in meno d’un’ora, i piedi erano bell’e fatti; due piedini svelti, asciutti e nervosi, come se fossero modellati da un artista di genio.

Allora Geppetto disse al burattino:

— Chiudi gli occhi e dormi! —

E Pinocchio chiuse gli occhi e fece finta di dormire. E nel tempo che si fingeva addormentato, Geppetto con un po’ di colla sciolta in un guscio d’uovo gli appiccicò i due piedi al loro posto, e glieli appiccicò così bene, che non si vedeva nemmeno il segno dell’attaccatura.

Appena il burattino si accorse di avere i piedi, saltò giù dalla tavola dove stava disteso, e principiò a fare mille sgambetti e mille capriòle, come se fosse ammattito dalla gran contentezza.

— Per ricompensarvi di quanto avete fatto per me — disse Pinocchio al suo babbo — voglio subito andare a scuola.

— Bravo ragazzo.

— Ma per andare a scuola ho bisogno d’un po’ di vestito. —

Geppetto, che era povero e non aveva in tasca nemmeno un centesimo, gli fece allora un vestituccio di carta fiorita, un paio di scarpe di scorza d’albero e un berrettino di midolla di pane.

Pinocchio corse subito a specchiarsi in una catinella piena d’acqua e rimase così contento di sè, che disse pavoneggiandosi:

— Paio proprio un signore!

— Davvero; — replicò Geppetto, — perchè, tienlo a mente, non è il vestito bello che fa il signore, ma è piuttosto il vestito pulito.

— A proposito, — soggiunse il burattino, — per andare alla scuola mi manca sempre qualcosa: anzi mi manca il più e il meglio.

— Cioè?

— Mi manca l’Abbecedario.

— Hai ragione: ma come si fa per averlo?

— È facilissimo: si va da un libraio e si compra.

— E i quattrini?

— Io non ce l’ho.

— Nemmeno io, — soggiunse il buon vecchio, facendosi tristo.

E Pinocchio, sebbene fosse un ragazzo allegrissimo, si fece tristo anche lui: perchè la miseria, quando è miseria davvero, la intendono tutti: anche i ragazzi.

— Pazienza! — gridò Geppetto tutt’a un tratto rizzandosi in piedi; e infilatasi la vecchia casacca di fustagno, tutta toppe e rimendi, uscì correndo di casa.

Dopo poco tornò: e quando tornò aveva in mano l’Abbecedario per il figliuolo, ma la casacca non l’aveva più. Il pover’uomo era in maniche di camicia, e fuori nevicava.

— E la casacca, babbo?

— L’ho venduta.

— Perchè l’avete venduta?

— Perchè mi faceva caldo.―

Pinocchio capì questa risposta a volo, e non potendo frenare l’impeto del suo buon cuore, saltò al collo di Geppetto e cominciò a baciarlo per tutto il viso.

 

 

IX. Pinocchio vende l’Abbecedario per andare a vedere il teatrino dei burattini.

Smesso che fu di nevicare, Pinocchio col suo bravo Abbecedario nuovo sotto il braccio, prese la strada che menava alla scuola: e strada facendo, fantasticava nel suo cervellino mille ragionamenti e mille castelli in aria, uno più bello dell’altro.

E discorrendo da sè solo, diceva:

— Oggi, alla scuola, voglio subito imparare a leggere: domani poi imparerò a scrivere, e domani l’altro imparerò a fare i numeri. Poi, colla mia abilità, guadagnerò molti quattrini e coi primi quattrini che mi verranno in tasca, voglio subito fare al mio babbo una bella casacca di panno.

Ma che dico di panno? Gliela voglio fare tutta d’argento e d’oro, e coi bottoni di brillanti. E quel pover’uomo se la merita davvero: perchè, insomma, per comprarmi i libri e per farmi istruire, è rimasto in maniche di camicia.... a questi freddi! Non ci sono che i babbi che sieno capaci di certi sacrifizi!... —

Mentre tutto commosso diceva così, gli parve di sentire in lontananza una musica di pifferi e di colpi di grancassa: pì-pì-pì, pì-pì-pì, zum, zum, zum, zum.

Si fermò e stette in ascolto. Quei suoni venivano di fondo a una lunghissima strada traversa, che conduceva a un piccolo paesetto fabbricato sulla spiaggia del mare.

— Che cosa sia questa musica? Peccato che io debba andare a scuola, se no.... —

E rimase lì perplesso. A ogni modo, bisognava prendere una risoluzione; o a scuola, o a sentire i pifferi.

— Oggi anderò a sentire i pifferi, e domani a scuola. Per andare a scuola c’è sempre tempo — disse finalmente quel monello, facendo una spallucciata.

Detto fatto, infilò giù per la strada traversa e cominciò a correre a gambe. Più correva e più sentiva distinto il suono dei pifferi e dei tonfi della grancassa: pì-pì-pì, pì-pì-pì, pì-pì-pì, zum, zum, zum, zum.

Quand’ecco che si trovò in mezzo a una piazza tutta piena di gente, la quale si affollava intorno a un gran baraccone di legno e di tela dipinta di mille colori.

— Che cos’è quel baraccone? — domandò

Pinocchio, voltandosi a un ragazzetto che era lì del paese.

— Leggi il cartello, che c’è scritto, e lo saprai.

— Lo leggerei volentieri, ma per l’appunto oggi non so leggere.

— Bravo bue! Allora te lo leggerò io. Sappi dunque che in quel cartello a lettere rosse come il fuoco, c’è scritto: Gran Teatro dei Burattini....

— È molto che è incominciata la commedia?

— Comincia ora.

— E quanto si spende per entrare?

— Quattro soldi. —

Pinocchio, che aveva addosso la febbre della curiosità, perse ogni ritegno e disse, senza vergognarsi, al ragazzetto col quale parlava:

— Mi daresti quattro soldi fino a domani?

— Te li darei volentieri, — gli rispose l’altro canzonandolo — ma oggi per l’appunto non te li posso dare.

— Per quattro soldi, ti vendo la mia giacchetta — gli disse allora il burattino.

— Che vuoi che mi faccia di una giacchetta di carta fiorita? Se ci piove su, non c’è più verso di cavarsela da dosso.

— Vuoi comprare le mie scarpe?

— Sono buone per accendere il fuoco.

— Quanto mi dài del berretto?

— Bell’acquisto davvero! Un berretto di midolla di pane! C’è il caso che i topi me lo vengano a mangiare in capo!―

Pinocchio era sulle spine. Stava lì lì per fare un’ultima offerta: ma non aveva coraggio; esitava, tentennava, pativa. Alla fine disse:

— Vuoi darmi quattro soldi di quest’Abbecedario nuovo?

— Io sono un ragazzo, e non compro nulla dai ragazzi, — gli rispose il suo piccolo interlocutore, che aveva molto più giudizio di lui.

— Per quattro soldi l’Abbecedario lo prendo io, — gridò un rivenditore di panni usati, che s’era trovato presente alla conversazione.

E il libro fu venduto lì sui due piedi. E pensare che quel pover’uomo di Geppetto era rimasto a casa, a tremare dal freddo in maniche di camicia, per comprare l’Abbecedario al figliuolo!

Excellent Readings: Sonnet CVII by William Shakespeare (in English)

Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul
Of the wide world dreaming on things to come,
Can yet the lease of my true love control,
Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom.
The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured,
And the sad augurs mock their own presage;
Incertainties now crown themselves assured,
And peace proclaims olives of endless age.
Now with the drops of this most balmy time,
My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes,
Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rhyme,
While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes:
   And thou in this shalt find thy monument,
   When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent.

Tuesday's Serial: “Lavengro” by George Borrow (in English) - XXXVII

 

 

Chapter 71

friend of slingsby—all quiet—danger—the two cakes—children in the wood—don't be angry—in deep thought—temples throbbing—deadly sick—another blow—no answer—how old are you?—play and sacrament—heavy heart—song of poison—the drow of gypsies—the dog—of ely's church—get up, bebee—the vehicle—can you speak?—the oil

The next day, at an early hour, I harnessed my little pony, and, putting my things in my cart, I went on my projected stroll. Crossing the moor, I arrived in about an hour at a small village, from which, after a short stay, I proceeded to another, and from thence to a third. I found that the name of Slingsby was well known in these parts.

'If you are a friend of Slingsby you must be an honest lad,' said an ancient crone; 'you shall never want for work whilst I can give it you. Here, take my kettle, the bottom came out this morning, and lend me that of yours till you bring it back. I'm not afraid to trust you—not I. Don't hurry yourself, young man, if you don't come back for a fortnight I shan't have the worse opinion of you.'

I returned to my quarters at evening, tired, but rejoiced at heart; I had work before me for several days, having collected various kekaubies which required mending, in place of those which I left behind—those which I had been employed upon during the last few days. I found all quiet in the lane or glade, and, unharnessing my little horse, I once more pitched my tent in the old spot beneath the ash, lighted my fire, ate my frugal meal, and then, after looking for some time at the heavenly bodies, and more particularly at the star Jupiter, I entered my tent, lay down upon my pallet, and went to sleep.

Nothing occurred on the following day which requires any particular notice, nor indeed on the one succeeding that. It was about noon on the third day that I sat beneath the shade of the ash tree; I was not at work, for the weather was particularly hot, and I felt but little inclination to make any exertion. Leaning my back against the tree, I was not long in falling into a slumber; I particularly remember that slumber of mine beneath the ash tree, for it was about the sweetest slumber that I ever enjoyed; how long I continued in it I do not know; I could almost have wished that it had lasted to the present time. All of a sudden it appeared to me that a voice cried in my ear, 'Danger! danger! danger!' Nothing seemingly could be more distinct than the words which I heard; then an uneasy sensation came over me, which I strove to get rid of, and at last succeeded, for I awoke. The gypsy girl was standing just opposite to me, with her eyes fixed upon my countenance; a singular kind of little dog stood beside her.

'Ha!' said I, 'was it you that cried danger? What danger is there?'

'Danger, brother, there is no danger; what danger should there be? I called to my little dog, but that was in the wood; my little dog's name is not danger, but Stranger; what danger should there be, brother?'

'What, indeed, except in sleeping beneath a tree; what is that you have got in your hand?'

'Something for you,' said the girl, sitting down and proceeding to untie a white napkin; 'a pretty manricli, so sweet, so nice; when I went home to my people I told my grandbebee how kind you had been to the poor person's child, and when my grandbebee saw the kekaubi, she said, “Hir mi devlis, it won't do for the poor people to be ungrateful; by my God, I will bake a cake for the young harko mescro.'”

'But there are two cakes.'

'Yes, brother, two cakes, both for you; my grandbebee meant them both for you—but list, brother, I will have one of them for bringing them. I know you will give me one, pretty brother, grey-haired brother—which shall I have, brother?'

In the napkin were two round cakes, seemingly made of rich and costly compounds, and precisely similar in form, each weighing about half a pound.

'Which shall I have, brother?' said the gypsy girl.

'Whichever you please.'

'No, brother, no, the cakes are yours, not mine. It is for you to say.'

'Well, then, give me the one nearest you, and take the other.'

'Yes, brother, yes,' said the girl; and taking the cakes, she flung them into the air two or three times, catching them as they fell, and singing the while. 'Pretty brother, grey-haired brother—here, brother,' said she, 'here is your cake, this other is mine.'

'Are you sure,' said I, taking the cake, 'that this is the one I chose?'

'Quite sure, brother; but if you like you can have mine; there's no difference, however—shall I eat?'

'Yes, sister, eat.'

'See, brother, I do; now, brother, eat, pretty brother, grey-haired brother.'

'I am not hungry.'

'Not hungry! well, what then—what has being hungry to do with the matter? It is my grandbebee's cake which was sent because you were kind to the poor person's child; eat, brother, eat, and we shall be like the children in the wood that the gorgios speak of.'

'The children in the wood had nothing to eat.'

'Yes, they had hips and haws; we have better. Eat, brother.'

'See, sister, I do,' and I ate a piece of the cake.

'Well, brother, how do you like it?' said the girl, looking fixedly at me.

'It is very rich and sweet, and yet there is something strange about it; I don't think I shall eat any more.'

'Fie, brother, fie, to find fault with the poor person's cake; see, I have nearly eaten mine.'

'That's a pretty little dog.'

'Is it not, brother? that's my juggal, my little sister, as I call her.'

'Come here, juggal,' said I to the animal.

'What do you want with my juggal?' said the girl.

'Only to give her a piece of cake,' said I, offering the dog a piece which I had just broken off.

'What do you mean?' said the girl, snatching the dog away; 'my grandbebee's cake is not for dogs.'

'Why, I just now saw you give the animal a piece of yours.'

'You lie, brother, you saw no such thing; but I see how it is, you wish to affront the poor person's child. I shall go to my house.'

'Keep still, and don't be angry; see, I have eaten the piece which I offered the dog. I meant no offence. It is a sweet cake after all.'

'Isn't it, brother? I am glad you like it. Offence, brother, no offence at all! I am so glad you like my grandbebee's cake, but she will be wanting me at home. Eat one piece more of grandbebee's cake, and I will go.'

'I am not hungry, I will put the rest by.'

'One piece more before I go, handsome brother, grey-haired brother.'

'I will not eat any more, I have already eaten more than I wished to oblige you; if you must go, good-day to you.'

The girl rose upon her feet, looked hard at me, then at the remainder of the cake which I held in my hand, and then at me again, and then stood for a moment or two, as if in deep thought; presently an air of satisfaction came over her countenance, she smiled and said, 'Well, brother, well, do as you please, I merely wished you to eat because you have been so kind to the poor person's child. She loves you so, that she could have wished to have seen you eat it all; good-bye, brother, I daresay when I am gone you will eat some more of it, and if you don't, I daresay you have eaten enough to—to—show your love for us. After all it was a poor person's cake, a Rommany manricli, and all you gorgios are somewhat gorgious. Farewell, brother, pretty brother, grey-haired brother. Come, juggal.'

I remained under the ash tree seated on the grass for a minute or two, and endeavoured to resume the occupation in which I had been engaged before I fell asleep, but I felt no inclination for labour. I then thought I would sleep again, and once more reclined against the tree, and slumbered for some little time, but my sleep was more agitated than before. Something appeared to bear heavy on my breast, I struggled in my sleep, fell on the grass, and awoke; my temples were throbbing, there was a burning in my eyes, and my mouth felt parched; the oppression about the chest which I had felt in my sleep still continued. 'I must shake off these feelings,' said I, 'and get upon my legs.' I walked rapidly up and down upon the green sward; at length, feeling my thirst increase, I directed my steps down the narrow path to the spring which ran amidst the bushes; arriving there, I knelt down and drank of the water, but on lifting up my head I felt thirstier than before; again I drank, but with the like result; I was about to drink for the third time, when I felt a dreadful qualm which instantly robbed me of nearly all my strength. What can be the matter with me? thought I; but I suppose I have made myself ill by drinking cold water. I got up and made the best of my way back to my tent; before I reached it the qualm had seized me again, and I was deadly sick. I flung myself on my pallet, qualm succeeded qualm, but in the intervals my mouth was dry and burning, and I felt a frantic desire to drink, but no water was at hand, and to reach the spring once more was impossible; the qualms continued, deadly pains shot through my whole frame; I could bear my agonies no longer, and I fell into a trance or swoon. How long I continued therein I know not; on recovering, however, I felt somewhat better, and attempted to lift my head off my couch; the next moment, however, the qualms and pains returned, if possible, with greater violence than before. I am dying, thought I, like a dog, without any help; and then methought I heard a sound at a distance like people singing, and then once more I relapsed into my swoon.

I revived just as a heavy blow sounded upon the canvas of the tent. I started, but my condition did not permit me to rise; again the same kind of blow sounded upon the canvas; I thought for a moment of crying out and requesting assistance, but an inexplicable something chained my tongue, and now I heard a whisper on the outside of the tent. 'He does not move, bebee,' said a voice which I knew. 'I should not wonder if it has done for him already; however, strike again with your ran'; and then there was another blow, after which another voice cried aloud in a strange tone, 'Is the gentleman of the house asleep, or is he taking his dinner?' I remained quite silent and motionless, and in another moment the voice continued, 'What, no answer? what can the gentleman of the house be about that he makes no answer? perhaps the gentleman of the house may be darning his stockings?' Thereupon a face peered into the door of the tent, at the farther extremity of which I was stretched. It was that of a woman, but owing to the posture in which she stood, with her back to the light, and partly owing to a large straw bonnet, I could distinguish but very little of the features of her countenance. I had, however, recognised her voice; it was that of my old acquaintance, Mrs. Herne. 'Ho, ho, sir!' said she, 'here you are. Come here, Leonora,' said she to the gypsy girl, who pressed in at the other side of the door; 'here is the gentleman, not asleep, but only stretched out after dinner. Sit down on your ham, child, at the door, I shall do the same. There—you have seen me before, sir, have you not?'

'The gentleman makes no answer, bebee; perhaps he does not know you.'

'I have known him of old, Leonora,' said Mrs. Herne; 'and, to tell you the truth, though I spoke to him just now, I expected no answer.'

'It's a way he has, bebee, I suppose?'

'Yes, child, it's a way he has.'

'Take off your bonnet, bebee, perhaps he cannot see your face.'

'I do not think that will be of much use, child; however, I will take off my bonnet—there—and shake out my hair—there—you have seen this hair before, sir, and this face—'

'No answer, bebee.'

'Though the one was not quite so grey, nor the other so wrinkled.'

'How came they so, bebee?'

'All along of this gorgio, child.'

'The gentleman in the house, you mean, bebee?'

'Yes, child, the gentleman in the house. God grant that I may preserve my temper. Do you know, sir, my name? My name is Herne, which signifies a hairy individual, though neither grey-haired nor wrinkled. It is not the nature of the Hernes to be grey or wrinkled, even when they are old, and I am not old.'

'How old are you, bebee?'

'Sixty-five years, child—an inconsiderable number. My mother was a hundred and one—a considerable age—when she died, yet she had not one grey hair, and not more than six wrinkles—an inconsiderable number.'

'She had no griefs, bebee?'

'Plenty, child, but not like mine.'

'Not quite so hard to bear, bebee?'

'No, child; my head wanders when I think of them. After the death of my husband, who came to his end untimeously, I went to live with a daughter of mine, married out among certain Romans who walk about the eastern counties, and with whom for some time I found a home and pleasant society, for they lived right Romanly, which gave my heart considerable satisfaction, who am a Roman born, and hope to die so. When I say right Romanly, I mean that they kept to themselves, and were not much given to blabbing about their private matters in promiscuous company. Well, things went on in this way for some time, when one day my son-in-law brings home a young gorgio of singular and outrageous ugliness, and, without much preamble, says to me and mine, "This is my pal, ain't he a beauty? fall down and worship him." "Hold," said I, "I for one will never consent to such foolishness."'

'That was right, bebee, I think I should have done the same.'

'I think you would, child; but what was the profit of it? The whole party makes an almighty of this gorgio, lets him into their ways, says prayers of his making, till things come to such a pass that my own daughter says to me, "I shall buy myself a veil and fan, and treat myself to a play and sacrament." "Don't," says I; says she, "I should like for once in my life to be courtesied to as a Christian gentlewoman.'"

'Very foolish of her, bebee.'

'Wasn't it, child? Where was I? At the fan and sacrament; with a heavy heart I put seven score miles between us, came back to the hairy ones, and found them over-given to gorgious companions; said I, "Foolish manners is catching; all this comes of that there gorgio." Answers the child Leonora, "Take comfort, bebee; I hate the gorgios as much as you do."'

'And I say so again, bebee, as much or more.'

'Time flows on, I engage in many matters, in most miscarry. Am sent to prison; says I to myself, I am become foolish. Am turned out of prison, and go back to the hairy ones, who receive me not over courteously; says I, for their unkindness, and my own foolishness, all the thanks to that gorgio. Answers to me the child, "I wish I could set eyes upon him, bebee."'

'I did so, bebee; go on.'

'“How shall I know him, bebee?” says the child. "Young and grey, tall, and speaks Romanly." Runs to me the child, and says, "I've found him, bebee." "Where, child?" says I. "Come with me, bebee," says the child. "That's he," says I, as I looked at my gentleman through the hedge.'

'Ha, ha! bebee, and here he lies, poisoned like a hog.'

'You have taken drows, sir,' said Mrs. Herne; 'do you hear, sir? drows; tip him a stave, child, of the song of poison.'

And thereupon the girl clapped her hands, and sang—

 

'The Rommany churl

And the Rommany girl

To-morrow shall hie

To poison the sty,

And bewitch on the mead

The farmer's steed.'

 

'Do you hear that, sir?' said Mrs. Herne; 'the child has tipped you a stave of the song of poison: that is, she has sung it Christianly, though perhaps you would like to hear it Romanly; you were always fond of what was Roman. Tip it him Romanly, child.'

'He has heard it Romanly already, bebee; 'twas by that I found him out, as I told you.'

'Halloo, sir, are you sleeping? you have taken drows; the gentleman makes no answer. God give me patience!'

'And what if he doesn't, bebee; isn't he poisoned like a hog? Gentleman, indeed! why call him gentleman? if he ever was one he's broke, and is now a tinker, a worker of blue metal.'

'That's his way, child, to-day a tinker, to-morrow something else; and as for being drabbed, I don't know what to say about it.'

'Not drabbed! what do you mean, bebee? but look there, bebee; ha, ha, look at the gentleman's motions.'

'He is sick, child, sure enough. Ho, ho! sir, you have taken drows; what, another throe! writhe, sir, writhe; the hog died by the drow of gypsies; I saw him stretched at evening. That's yourself, sir. There is no hope, sir, no help, you have taken drow; shall I tell you your fortune, sir, your dukkerin? God bless you, pretty gentleman, much trouble will you have to suffer, and much water to cross; but never mind, pretty gentleman, you shall be fortunate at the end, and those who hate shall take off their hats to you.'

'Hey, bebee!' cried the girl; 'what is this? what do you mean? you have blessed the gorgio!'

'Blessed him! no, sure; what did I say? Oh, I remember, I'm mad; well, I can't help it, I said what the dukkerin dook told me; woe's me, he'll get up yet.'

'Nonsense, bebee! Look at his motions, he's drabbed, spite of dukkerin.'

'Don't say so, child; he's sick, 'tis true, but don't laugh at dukkerin, only folks do that that know no better. I, for one, will never laugh at the dukkerin dook. Sick again; I wish he was gone.'

'He'll soon be gone, bebee; let's leave him. He's as good as gone; look there, he's dead.'

'No, he's not, he'll get up—I feel it; can't we hasten him?'

'Hasten him! yes, to be sure; set the dog upon him. Here, juggal, look in there, my dog.'

The dog made its appearance at the door of the tent, and began to bark and tear up the ground.

'At him, juggal, at him; he wished to poison, to drab you. Halloo!'

The dog barked violently, and seemed about to spring at my face, but retreated.

'The dog won't fly at him, child; he flashed at the dog with his eye, and scared him. He'll get up.'

'Nonsense, bebee! you make me angry; how should he get up?'

'The dook tells me so, and, what's more, I had a dream. I thought I was at York, standing amidst a crowd to see a man hung, and the crowd shouted, "There he comes!" and I looked, and lo! it was the tinker; before I could cry with joy I was whisked away, and I found myself in Ely's big church, which was chock full of people to hear the dean preach, and all eyes were turned to the big pulpit; and presently I heard them say, "There he mounts!" and I looked up to the big pulpit, and, lo! the tinker was in the pulpit, and he raised his arm and began to preach. Anon, I found myself at York again, just as the drop fell, and I looked up, and I saw not the tinker, but my own self hanging in the air.'

'You are going mad, bebee; if you want to hasten him, take your stick and poke him in the eye.'

'That will be of no use, child, the dukkerin tells me so; but I will try what I can do. Halloo, tinker! you must introduce yourself into a quiet family, and raise confusion—must you? You must steal its language, and, what was never done before, write it down Christianly—must you? Take that—and that'; and she stabbed violently with her stick towards the end of the tent.

'That's right, bebee, you struck his face; now once more, and let it be in the eye. Stay, what's that? get up, bebee.'

'What's the matter, child?'

'Some one is coming, come away.'

'Let me make sure of him, child; he'll be up yet.' And thereupon Mrs. Herne, rising, leaned forward into the tent, and, supporting herself against the pole, took aim in the direction of the farther end. 'I will thrust out his eye,' said she; and, lunging with her stick, she would probably have accomplished her purpose had not at that moment the pole of the tent given way, whereupon she fell to the ground, the canvas falling upon her and her intended victim.

'Here's a pretty affair, bebee,' screamed the girl.

'He'll get up, yet,' said Mrs. Herne, from beneath the canvas.

'Get up!—get up yourself; where are you? where is your—Here, there, bebee, here's the door; there, make haste, they are coming.'

'He'll get up yet,' said Mrs. Herne, recovering her breath; 'the dook tells me so.'

'Never mind him or the dook; he is drabbed; come away, or we shall be grabbed—both of us.'

'One more blow, I know where his head lies.'

'You are mad, bebee; leave the fellow—gorgio avella.'

And thereupon the females hurried away.

A vehicle of some kind was evidently drawing nigh; in a little time it came alongside of the place where lay the fallen tent, and stopped suddenly. There was a silence for a moment, and then a parley ensued between two voices, one of which was that of a woman. It was not in English, but in a deep guttural tongue.

'Peth yw hono sydd yn gorwedd yna ar y ddaear?' said a masculine voice.

'Yn wirionedd—I do not know what it can be,' said the female voice, in the same tongue.

'Here is a cart, and there are tools; but what is that on the ground?'

'Something moves beneath it; and what was that—a groan?'

'Shall I get down?'

'Of course, Peter, some one may want your help?'

'Then I will get down, though I do not like this place; it is frequented by Egyptians, and I do not like their yellow faces, nor their clibberty clabber, as Master Ellis Wyn says. Now I am down. It is a tent, Winifred, and see, here is a boy beneath it. Merciful father! what a face.'

A middle-aged man, with a strongly marked and serious countenance, dressed in sober-coloured habiliments, had lifted up the stifling folds of the tent, and was bending over me. 'Can you speak, my lad?' said he in English; 'what is the matter with you? if you could but tell me, I could perhaps help you—' 'What is that you say? I can't hear you. I will kneel down'; and he flung himself on the ground, and placed his ear close to my mouth. 'Now speak if you can. Hey! what! no, sure, God forbid!' then starting up, he cried to a female who sat in the cart, anxiously looking on—'Gwenwyn! gwenwyn! yw y gwas wedi ei gwenwynaw. The oil! Winifred, the oil!'