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"What are you doin', Uncle Bob?" called Diddie. "I'm jes er cuttin' me er few willers fur ter make baskit-handles outn." "Can't we come an' look at yer?" asked Diddie. "Yes, honey, efn yer wants ter," replied Uncle Bob, mightily pleased. "You're all pow'ful fon' er dis ole nigger; you're allers wantin' ter be roun' him."
"'There you are wrong, said the man in grey; 'his name was not Sion Tudor, but Robert Vychan, in English, Little Bob. Sion Tudor wrote an englyn on the Skerries whirlpool in the Menai; but it was Little Bob who wrote the stanza in which the future bridge over the Menai is hinted at. "'You are right, said I, 'you are right. Well, I am glad that all song and learning are not dead in Ynis Fon.
His joys and sorrows are all described there his birth in the poverty-stricken dwelling in the Rue Fon de Rache, his love for his parents, his sports with his playfellows on the banks of the Garonne, his blowing the horn in his father's Charivaris, his enjoyment of the tit-bits which old Boe brought home from his begging-tours, the decay of the old man, and his conveyance to the hospital, "where all the Jasmins die;" then his education at the Academy, his toying with the house-maid, his stealing the preserves, his expulsion from the seminary, and the sale of his mother's wedding-ring to buy bread for her family.
Well, I am glad that all song and learning are not dead in Ynis Fon." "Dead," said the man in grey, whose features began to be rather flushed, "they are neither dead nor ever will be.
"Dat ees de man of God w'at you see. He's com' for save soul hon' de Eenjun hon' Lone Moose. Bagosh, we're have som' fon weet heem dees treep." "He's a loon," MacDonald paused with a forefinger in the bowl of his pipe. "He doesna know a moccasin from a snowshoe, scarce. I'd like tae be aboot when 'tis forty below an' gettin' colder.
"If he is the person I allude to," said I, "I am doubly fortunate, for I have seen two bards of Anglesey." "Sir," said the man in grey, "I consider myself quite as fortunate, in having met such a Saxon as yourself, as it is possible for you to do, in having seen two bards of Ynis Fon." "I suppose you follow some pursuit besides bardism?" said I; "I suppose you farm?"
"I studied Welsh literature when young," said I, "and was much struck with the verses of Gronwy: he was one of the great bards of Wales, and certainly the most illustrious genius that Anglesey ever produced." "A great genius, I admit," said the man in grey, "but pardon me, not exactly the greatest Ynis Fon has produced. The race of the bards is not quite extinct in the island, sir.
"Their sale is slow, of course, but every time you sell one, you ought to get" I was judging by some prices he had charged me "you ought to get two dollars." And I secretly rejoiced for Senda. "I not can afford to sell t'em," he replied, with his back to me. "Why, how so?" "No, it iss t'is kind vhat I can exshange for five, six, maybe seven specimenss fon Ahfrica undt Owstrahlia.
At the first sigh two buttons burst from his jacket, one of which flew a full twelve inches and gently struck the cheek of a Dutch sergeant who was taking forty winks upon the adjacent mattress. "Vat the devil for?" exclaimed Sergeant Klomp, opening his eyes and glaring upon the recruit. "I beg your pardon," said Tristram. "Zat was in fon, hey?" "On the contrary " "Vat for, if not?"
Dot Psyche hass come out fon ter grysalis! she hass drawn me dot room full mit oder Psyches, undt you haf mine pottle of gloryform in your pocket yet! Yes, ko kit ut; I vait; ach!" Presently he seemed to hear from inside a second approach.
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