Myself.—Duck or hen stealing?
Woman.—Haven’t lost a duck or hen since I have been here, sir.
Myself.—Then what secrets can they possibly have?
Woman.—I don’t know, sir! perhaps none at all, or at most only a pack of small nonsense, that nobody would give three farthings to know. However, it is quite certain they are as jealous of strangers hearing their discourse as if they were plotting gunpowder treason, or something worse.
Myself.—Have you been long here?
Woman.—Only since last May, sir! and we hope to get away by next, and return to our own country, where we shall have some one to speak to.
Myself.—Good bye!
Woman.—Good bye, sir, and thank you for your conversation; I haven’t had such a treat of talk for many a weary day.
The Vale of the Dyfi became wider and more beautiful as I advanced. The river ran at the bottom amidst green and seemingly rich meadows. The hills on the farther side were cultivated a great way up, and various neat farm-houses were scattered here and there on their sides. At the foot of one of the most picturesque of these hills stood a large white village. I wished very much to know its name, but saw no one of whom I could inquire. I proceeded for about a mile, and then perceiving a man wheeling stones in a barrow for the repairing of the road, I thought I would inquire of him. I did so, but the village was then out of sight, and though I pointed in its direction, and described its situation, I could not get its name out of him. At length I said hastily, “Can you tell me your own name?”
“Dafydd Tibbot, sir,” said he.