'I would thank you, sir,' says I, 'for 'tis often we are asked about it.' 'Well, then,' says the Poknees, 'it is no language at all, merely a made-up gibberish.' 'Oh, bless your wisdom,' says I, with a curtsey, 'you can tell us what our language is, without understanding it!' Another time we met a parson.

'Good woman,' he says, 'what's that you are talking?
Is it broken language ?' 'Of course, your reverence,' says I, 'we are broken people; give a shilling, your reverence, to the poor broken woman.' Oh, these gorgios! they grudge us our very language!" "She called you her son, Jasper ?" "I am her son, brother." "I thought you said your parents were--" "Bitchadey pawdel; you thought right, brother.

This is my wife's mother." "Then you are married, Jasper ?" "Ay, truly; I am husband and father.

You will see wife and chabo anon." "Where are they now ?" "In the gav, penning dukkerin." "We were talking of language, Jasper ?" "True, brother." "Yours must be a rum one ?" "'Tis called Rommany." "I would gladly know it." "You need it sorely." "Would you teach it me ?" "None sooner." "Suppose we begin now ?" "Suppose we do, brother." "Not whilst I am here," said the woman, flinging her knitting down, and starting upon her feet; "not whilst I am here shall this gorgio learn Rommany.

A pretty manoeuvre, truly; and what would be the end of it?
I goes to the farming ker with my sister, to tell a fortune, and earn a few sixpences for the chabes.