Читать книгу I've been a Gipsying. Rambles among our Gipsies and their children in their tents and vans онлайн

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I had now arrived at the park-keeper’s gate on my way home. The fogs were rising, the shades of evening were gathering around us, silence and solitude were stealing over the scene, and behind me were four young men singing, feelingly, as they followed me out of the park, in the old evening song tune—

“Swift to its close ebbs out life’s little day,

Earth’s joys grow dim, its glories pass away;

Change and decay in all around I see,

O Thou who changest not, abide with me.”

To which I said, Amen and Amen. “So mote it be.”

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Easter Tuesday was cold, disagreeable, and damp. A London fog was hanging overhead as I turned early out of my lodgings to visit Wanstead Flats gipsy fair. Between the black fog and the rays of the sun a struggle seemed to be taking place as to which influence should rule London for the day, by imparting either darkness, gloom, and melancholy, or light, brightness, and cheerfulness to the millions of dwellers and toilers in London streets, shops, offices, garrets, cellars, mansions, and palaces. The struggle did not continue long. Fog and mist had to vanish into thin air at the bidding of the Spring sun’s rays, and black particles of soot had to drop upon the pavement to be swept into the London sewers by scavengers. For my own part I felt heavy all day through fog and sunshine.