"Is that man Welsh or English?" I heard her say when he had
rejoined her.
"I don't know," said the man - "he was civil enough; why were you
such a fool?"
"Oh, I thought he would speak to me in English," said the woman,
"and the thought of that horrid English puts me into such a
flutter; you know I can't speak a word of it."
They proceeded on their way and I proceeded on mine, and presently
coming to a little inn on the left side of the way, at the entrance
of a village, I went in.
A respectable-looking man and woman were seated at tea at a table
in a nice clean kitchen. I sat down on a chair near the table, and
called for ale - the ale was brought me in a jug - I drank some,
put the jug on the table, and began to discourse with the people in
Welsh. A handsome dog was seated on the ground; suddenly it laid
one of its paws on its master's knee.
"Down, Perro," said he.
"Perro!" said I; "why do you call the dog Perro?"
"We call him Perro," said the man, "because his name is Perro."
"But how came you to give him that name?" said I.
"We did not give it to him," said the man - "he bore that name when
he came into our hands; a farmer gave him to us when he was very
young, and told us his name was Perro."
"And how came the farmer to call him Perro?" said I.
