Farmer.—Might I? Then those couldn’t have been such bad times, after all.
Myself.—I beg your pardon! They were horrible times—times in which there were monks and friars and graven images, which people kissed and worshipped and sang pennillion to. Better pay three pounds an acre and live on crusts and water in the present enlightened days than pay two shillings an acre and sit down to beef and ale three times a day in the old superstitious times.
Farmer.—Well, I scarcely know what to say to that.
Myself.—What do you call that high hill on the other side of the river?
Farmer.—I call that hill Bunk Pen Bannedd.
Myself.—Is the source of the Teivi far from here?
Farmer.—The head of the Teivi is about two miles from here high up in the hills.
Myself.—What kind of place is the head of the Teivi?
Farmer.—The head of the Teivi is a small lake about fifty yards long and twenty across.
Myself.—Where does the Teivi run to?