Passing over the hills one winter's day, when the Downs looked all alike, being covered with snow, I came across a 'gip' family sitting on the ground in a lane, old and young exposed to the blast.

In that there was nothing remarkable, but I recollect it because the young mother, handsome in the style of her race, had her neck and brown bust quite bare, and the white snowflakes drove thickly aslant upon her.

Their complexion looks more dusky in winter, so that the contrast of the colours made me wish for an artist to paint it.

And he might have put the grey embers of a fire gone out, and the twisted stem of a hawthorn bush with red haws above.
A mile beyond the gipsy tents we entered among the copses: scattered ash plantations, and hazel thickets with narrow green tracks between.
Further in, the nut-tree bushes were more numerous, and we became separated though within call.

Presently a low whistle like the peewit's (our signal) called me to Orion.