I asked him whether
he was a farming man; he told me that he was not; that he generally
worked at the flannel manufactory, but that for some days past he
had not been employed there, work being slack, and had on that
account joined the mowers in order to earn a few shillings. I
asked him how it was he knew how to handle a scythe, not being bred
up a farming man; he smiled, and said that, somehow or other, he
had learnt to do so.
"You speak very good English," said I, "have you much Welsh?"
"Plenty," said he; "I am a real Welshman."
"Can you read Welsh?" said I.
"Oh, yes!" he replied.
"What books have you read?" said I.
"I have read the Bible, sir, and one or two other books."
"Did you ever read the Bardd Cwsg?" said I.
He looked at me with some surprise. "No," said he, after a moment
or two, "I have never read it. I have seen it, but it was far too
deep Welsh for me."
"I have read it," said I.
"Are you a Welshman?" said he.
"No," said I; "I am an Englishman."
"And how is it," said he, "that you can read Welsh without being a
Welshman?"
"I learned to do so," said I, "even as you learned to mow, without
being bred up to farming work."
"Ah! "said he, "but it is easier to learn to mow than to read the
Bardd Cwsg."
"I don't think that," said I; "I have taken up a scythe a hundred
times but I cannot mow.
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