MY LADY DAHLIA 165 



followed the country byroads, camping at night in shaded 

 nooks near ever-flowing springs of fresh water, and asking 

 largess of no man. Summer gave generously of her high- 

 way fruits, and the night repeated no gossip of visited 

 cornfields, haunted gardens, or the vanishing of stray 

 chickens. 



But the first hint of frost in the air brings the gypsy 

 nearer his settled kindred, and he lights his autumnal 

 camp fires on the edges of villages and the outskirts of 

 cities. You may see the flame of the caravan's torches 

 to-night after sunset on the prairies which they have 

 known for years to the southwest and the northwest, 

 though the growing city has given warning that they must 

 move farther on. 



Many a housewife double locks the door at the vision 

 of a dark-browed Romany peering above her garden 

 fence, or hastily drops her curtain when the gypsy for- 

 tune-telling princess and her alluring band approach the 

 back door. She knows that there will be mischief abroad 

 in the neighborhood, that prophecies will sow discontent 

 among the maids. 



She knows that the boys will be drawn by the romance 

 of the camp fires, and that men will dicker in the shad- 

 ows behind the wagons. All the glamour veiling a race 

 that has wandered since the making of the world, count- 

 ing themselves in league with the powers of darkness, 

 does not overcome that insistent suspicion that bids us 



