“Perhaps so,” said the man, “for I have heard say that there were wolves of old in Wales.”
“And what is the name of the beautiful hill yonder, before us across the water?”
“That, sir, is called Cairn Drws y Coed,” said the man.
“The stone heap of the gate of the wood,” said I.
“Are you Welsh, sir?” said the man.
“No,” said I, “but I know something of the language of Wales. I suppose you live in that house?”
“Not exactly, sir, my father-in-law here lives in that house, and my wife with him. I am a miner, and spend six days in the week at my mine, but every Sunday I come here and pass the day with my wife and him.”
“And what profession does he follow?” said I; “is he a fisherman?”
“Fisherman!” said the elderly man contemptuously, “not I. I am the Snowdon Ranger.”
“And what is that?” said I.