"That is very pretty," said Cardo, "but I am not much acquainted with English poetry—a farmer's life, you know, is too busy for that sort of thing."
"I suppose so; but a farmer's life is poetry itself, in its idyllic freshness and purity."
Cardo shrugged his shoulders.
"I don't know so much about that, but it is a life that suits me. I was meant for a farmer, I am sure—couldn't soar much above turnips and hay, you know. See here, now, there's a crop of hay to gladden a farmer's heart! In a week or two we shall have it tossed about in the sun, and carried down through the lanes into the haggard, and the lads and lasses will have a jolly supper in the evening, and will give us some singing that will wake the echoes from Moel Hiraethog yonder. Then the lanes are at their best, with the long wisps of sweet hay caught on the wild rose bushes."
"Aha! my friend, I see I am right," said Ellis, "and a farmer is a poet, whether he knows it or not."
Cardo laughed heartily, as they alighted at the front door.
"Tell my father that—do. Cardo Wynne a poet! that is something new, indeed!"
Here Mr. Wynne, followed by Betto, joined the group. The former, though in his usual undemonstrative manner, made the new-comer welcome, and Betto in her excitement was so lavish with her bob curtseys, that Cardo came in for a few, until he recalled her to her senses by gravely taking off his hat to her, at which she winked and nudged him with her elbow, as she flew about in the exuberance of her hospitality.
Seated at the tea-table, the three men soon became quite at their ease.
"We are plain people," said Mr. Wynne; "I hope you will not find us too primitive in our ways."