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"Like that is the plan of your head?" Madlen murmured, concealing her dread. "Seven of pounds of rent is small. Sell at eighty I must." "Wait for Joseph to prosper. Buy then he will. Buy for your mam you will, Joseph?" "Sorry I cannot change my think," Essec declared. "Hard is my lot; no male have I to ease my burden." "A weighty responsibility my brother put on me," said Essec.
"I will wag my tongue craftily and slowly," Madlen vowed as she crossed her brother-in-law's threshold. "I Shire Pembroke land is cheap," she said darkly. "Look you for a farm there," said Essec. "Pelted with offers am I for Penlan. Ninety I shall have. Poverty makes me sell very soon." "As he says." "Pretty tight is Joseph not to buy her. No care has he for his mam."
Mean scamps, remember Essec Pugh, for I shall remember you the Day of Rising." It came to be that on a morning in the last month of his thirteenth year Joseph was bidden to stand at the side of the cow which Madlen was milking and to give an ear to these commandments: "The serpent is in the bottom of the glass. The hand on the tavern window is the hand of Satan.
An old woman, Catti Madlen, prophesied of him that he was in the fairies' power and would not be released until the last sap of a certain sycamore tree had dried up. When that time came he returned. He had been listening all the while to the singing of a bird, and supposed only a few minutes had elapsed, though, seventy years had in fact gone over his head.
Madlen made a record of Essec's scheme for Joseph; and she said also: "Proud I'll be to shout that my son bach bought Penlan." "Setting aside money am I," Joseph speedily answered. Again ambition aroused him. "Footling is he that is content with Zwanssee. Next half-holiday skurshon I'll crib in Cardiff." Joseph gained his desire, and the chronicle of his doings he sent to his mother.
A woman named Madlen, who lived in Penlan the crumbling mud walls of which are in a nook of the narrow lane that rises from the valley of Bern was concerned about the future state of her son Joseph. Men who judged themselves worthy to counsel her gave her such counsels as these: "Blower bellows for the smith," "Cobblar clox," "Booboo for crows."
"Nothing is the matter as I know," said Fani, "only there's always plenty of trouble flying about. We can't be all so free from care as you, always laughing or singing or something." "Indeed I wish we could," said Madlen, a pale girl who was bending over a box of knitting pins, looking round curiously and rather sadly; "I wish the whole world could be like you, Morva."
Madlen flattered her counselors, though none spoke that which was pleasing unto her. "Cobblar clox, ach y fy," she cried to herself. "Wan is the lad bach with decline. And unbecoming to his Nuncle Essec that he follows low tasks." Moreover, people, look you at John Lewis.
In the twilight of an afternoon he and Madlen sat down, gazing about, and speaking scantily; and the same thought was with each of them, and this was the thought: "A tearful prayer will remove the Big Man from His judgment, but nothing will remove Essec from his purpose." "Mam fach," said Joseph, "how will things be with you?" "Sorrow not, soul nice," Madlen entreated her son.
"No, indeed, Madlen fâch; serve the old Vicare right; but 'tis a pity for the poor girl, whatever." "And where is she, I wonder?" "Well, now," said Madlen, "Mary, my sister, was coming home from Caer Madoc last week, and on the roadside there was a tent of gypshwns; it was dark and they had a fire, and there, sitting by the fire, was a girl the very picture of Valmai." "Dir anwl!
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