One
was an elderly man, dressed in a smock frock and with a hairy cap
on his head. The other was much younger, wore a hat, and was
dressed in a coarse suit of blue nearly new, and doubtless his
Sunday's best. He was smoking a pipe. I greeted them in English
and sat down near them. They responded in the same language, the
younger man with considerable civility and briskness, the other in
a tone of voice denoting some reserve.
"May I ask the name of this lake?" said I, addressing myself to the
young man who sat between me and the elderly one.
"Its name is Llyn Cwellyn, sir," said he, taking the pipe out of
his mouth. "And a fine lake it is."
"Plenty of fish in it?" I demanded.
"Plenty, sir; plenty of trout and pike and char."
"Is it deep?" said I.
"Near the shore it is shallow, sir, but in the middle and near the
other side it is deep, so deep that no one knows how deep it is."
"What is the name," said I, "of the great black mountain there on
the other side?"
"It is called Mynydd Mawr or the Great Mountain.
