“What business are you?”
“I am a farmer, sir.”
“A sheep farmer?”
“Yes sir.”
“Who is your landlord?”
“Sir Watkin.”
“Well, it was very kind of you to come with me.”
“Not at all, sir; I was glad to come with you, for we are very lonesome at Rhyadr, except during a few weeks in the summer, when the gentry come to see the Pistyll. Moreover, I have sheep lying about here which need to be looked at now and then, and by coming hither with you I shall have an opportunity of seeing them.”
We frequently passed sheep feeding together in small numbers. In two or three instances my guide singled out individuals, caught them, and placing their heads between his knees examined the inside of their eyelids, in order to learn by their colour whether or not they were infected with the pwd or moor disorder. We had some discourse about that malady. At last he asked me if there was a remedy for it.
“O yes,” said I; “a decoction of hoarhound.”