[[9]] "There is no fool like an old fool."
CHAPTER VIII.
CONFIDENCES.
The summer and autumn months slipped by, bringing but little change to Mwntseison. The hay harvest brought its usual sweet additions to the charms of the season—the scent of the dry hay and meadow-sweet on the air, the call of the corncrake in the grey evenings, the wisps of hay left hanging on the hedges by the laden waggons. The men and women had all become a shade browner from exposure to the sun, for even the work of the sail-shed was suspended for the haymaking; and there was not a man, woman, or child who did not find some excuse for tossing the hay. The air seemed full of song, for people at Mwntseison always felt the work went better while they sang in chorus together. In the sail-shed there was a murmur of singing, commenced by the women and taken up by the lads and men until alto, tenor, and bass filled up the harmony. Best of all went the music when the Mishteer's rich voice joined in in the bass. A favourite glee was The Herring Boat, which went with so tuneful a swing that it seemed to suit every kind of occupation and experience.
The children sang it sitting in little groups on the warm sand, the sailors on the bay, and the haymakers in the field; but oftenest of all, the walls of the old sail-shed echoed to its tones. It ran as follows, though English words can but poorly express the vivid brightness of the original:—
"Out there on the raging sea
The wind is high;
Nothing but foam and mist to see
Under the sky!
Father and mother, come down to the shore;
Friends and neighbours, stand at the door;
Pray—if you never have prayed before—
'Lord, hear our cry!'
Torn sails and broken mast—
Oh! let the boat come home at last!
Ja houp, hal! Ja houp, hal!
Hal! Hal! Hal! Hal!
"Out there on the stormy main
A calm has come!
The sunshine chases the wind and rain,
And gilds the foam.
Father and mother, come down to the shore;
Friends and neighbours, come out to the door;
And shout—if you never have shouted before—
A welcome home!
Torn sails and broken mast—
The boat is safe at home at last!
Ja houp, hal! Ja houp, hal!
Hal! Hal! Hal! Hal!"
The corn harvest was nearly over before the news reached the village of Ivor Parry's convalescence.
The Lapwing had flitted across the bay to the northern port, and had returned, bearing the news of his recovery and many warm greetings from him to his friends at Mwntseison.
"Tell me exactly how he was, my lad. I hunger to hear something of him," said Hugh Morgan to the youthful captain of the little ship, and speaking English, for sailors possessed the distinguishing accomplishment of being able to speak the English language, and are proud of it. Hugh himself spoke it fluently and grammatically, though with a broad Welsh accent.