"
"That I doubt" said I. "However, the idea is a pretty one;
therefore cherish it. This is a beautiful country."
"A very beautiful country, sir; there is none more beautiful in all
Wales."
"What is the name of the river, which runs beneath the bridge?"
"The Ceiriog, sir."
"The Ceiriog," said I; "the Ceiriog!"
"Did you ever hear the name before, sir?"
"I have heard of the Eos Ceiriog," said I; "the Nightingale of
Ceiriog."
"That was Huw Morris, sir; he was called the Nightingale of
Ceiriog."
"Did he live hereabout?"
"Oh no, sir; he lived far away up towards the head of the valley,
at a place called Pont y Meibion."
"Are you acquainted with his works?" said I.
"Oh yes, sir, at least with some of them. I have read the Marwnad
on Barbara Middleton; and likewise the piece on Oliver and his men.
Ah, it is a funny piece that - he did not like Oliver nor his men."
"Of what profession are you?" said I; "are you a schoolmaster or
apothecary?"
"Neither, sir, neither; I am merely a poor shoemaker."
"You know a great deal for a shoemaker," said I.
"Ah, sir; there are many shoemakers in Wales who know much more
than I."
"But not in England," said I. "Well, farewell."
"Farewell, sir. When you have any boots to mend or shoes, sir - I
shall be happy to serve you.
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