"Perhaps so," said the man, "for I have heard say that there were
wolves of old in Wales."
"And what is the name of the beautiful hill yonder, before us
across the water?"
"That, sir, is called Cairn Drws y Coed," said the man.
"The stone heap of the gate of the wood," said I.
"Are you Welsh, sir?" said the man.
"No," said I, "but I know something of the language of Wales. I
suppose you live in that house?"
"Not exactly, sir, my father-in-law here lives in that house, and
my wife with him. I am a miner, and spend six days in the week at
my mine, but every Sunday I come here and pass the day with my wife
and him."
"And what profession does he follow?" said I; "is he a fisherman?"
"Fisherman!" said the elderly man contemptuously, "not I. I am the
Snowdon Ranger."
"And what is that?" said I.
The elderly man tossed his head proudly, and made no reply.
"A ranger means a guide, sir," said the younger man; "my father-in-
law is generally termed the Snowdon Ranger because he is a tip-top
guide, and he has named the house after him the Snowdon Ranger. He
entertains gentlemen in it who put themselves under his guidance in
order to ascend Snowdon and to see the country."
"There is some difference in your professions," said "he deals in
heights, you in depths, both, however, are break-necky trades."
"I run more risk from gunpowder than anything else," said the
younger man.
