A fine
tall woman stood at the door, with a little child beside her. I
stopped and inquired in English whose body it was that had just
been borne by.
"That of a young man, sir, the son of a farmer, who lives a mile or
so up the road."
MYSELF. - He seems to have plenty of friends.
WOMAN. - Oh yes, sir, the Welsh have plenty of friends both in life
and death.
MYSELF. - A'n't you Welsh, then?
WOMAN. - Oh no, sir, I am English, like yourself, as I suppose.
MYSELF. - Yes, I am English. What part of England do you come
from?
WOMAN. - Shropshire, sir.
MYSELF. - Is that little child yours?
WOMAN. - Yes, sir, it is my husband's child and mine.
MYSELF. - I suppose your husband is Welsh.
WOMAN. - Oh no, sir, we are all English.
MYSELF. - And what is your husband?
WOMAN. - A little farmer, sir, he farms about forty acres under Mrs
-.
MYSELF. - Well, are you comfortable here?
WOMAN. - Oh dear me, no, sir, we are anything but comfortable.
Here we are three poor lone creatures in a strange land, without a
soul to speak to but one another. Every day of our lives we wish
we had never left Shropshire.
