"Stupid is your head," Sheremiah answered, "not to know what I throw out. Going am I to search for a wet farm fach."
Sheremiah journeyed several ways, and always he journeyed in secret; and he could not find what he wanted. Tailor Club Foot came to sit on his table to sew together garments for him and his two sons. The tailor said: "Farm very pretty is Rhydwen. Farm splendid is the farm fach."
"And speak like that you do, Club Foot," said Sheremiah.
"Iss-iss," the tailor mumbled.
"Not wanting an old farm do I," Sheremiah cried. "But speak to goodness where the place is. Near you are, calf bach, about affairs."
The tailor answered that Rhydwen is in the hollow of the hill which arises from Capel Sion to the moor.
In the morning Sheremiah rode forth on his colt, and he said to Shan Rhydwen: "Boy of a pigger am I, whatever."
"Dirt-dirt, man," Shan cried; "no fat pigs have I, look you."
"Mournful that is. Mouthings have I heard about grand pigs Tyhen. No odds, wench. Farewell for this minute, female Tyhen."
"Pigger from where you are?" Shan asked.