“Nobody does, Morgan. I often long to see Snowdon, and the great ridge of blue mountains growing less and less till they sink into the sea.”
“Ah,” said Morgan, enthusiastically, and speaking more broadly, “it’s a fery coot country is Wales. Where are your mountains here?”
“Ah, where are they, Morgan? The place is flat enough, but see how rich and fat the soil is.”
“Yes, it’s fery good,” said Morgan, growing more English.
“And see how things grow.”
“Yes; that’s the worst of them, sir; they grow while you’re looking at them; and how can one man fight against the weeds, which grow so fast they lift your coat off the ground?”
“In time, Morgan, in time,” said my father. “Yes, sir, in time. Ah, well, I’ll work till I die, and I can’t do any more.”
“No, Morgan,” said my father, quietly, “you cannot do any more.”
“The other gentlemen who came out don’t mind doing it, and their little estates are in better order than ours.”
“No, Morgan,” said my father, decisively, “I will not have that. Nobody had such fruit as we did last year.”