I learned that the master had been in America, and made New York and Brooklyn glad by his presence, while Philadelphia, my native city had been benefited as to its scissors and morals by him.
"And as I suppose you made money there, why didn't you remain ?" I inquired.
The Gipsy--for he was really a Gipsy, and not a half-scrag--looked at me wistfully, and apparently a little surprised that I should ask him such a question.
"Why, sir, _you_ know that _we_ can't keep still.

Somethin' kept telling me to move on, and keep a movin'.

Some day I'll go back again." Suddenly--I suppose because a doubt of my perfect Freemasonry had been aroused by my absurd question--he said, holding up a kettle-- "What do you call this here in Rommanis ?" "I call it a _kekavi_ or a _kavi_," I said.

"But it isn't _right_ Rommany.

It's Greek, which the Rommanichals picked up on their way here." And here I would remark, by the way, that I have seldom spoken to a Gipsy in England who did not try me on the word for kettle.
"And what do you call a face ?" he added.
"I call a face a _mui_," I said, "and a nose a _nak_; and as for _mui_, I call _rikker tiro mui_, 'hold your jaw.' That is German Rommany." The tinker gazed at me admiringly, and then said, "You're 'deep' Gipsy, I see, sir--that's what _you_ are." "_Mo rov a jaw_; _mo rakker so drovan_ ?" I answered.