Welsh Journals

wheels of the Western tradition and trod where bards have danced to church, pay a penny for this fragment of a burning torch. It will never go out. It will gather unto it all the fires that flare betwixt the heavens above and the earth beneath, until the blaze shall frighten the heavy bodied, the long-tailed, the grey-eyed creatures that riddle the ramparts of Man. End of the service. We shall sing together. Come on, Martha gel, it's raining again. Lift up your hearts. Well I'm damned it is too, mun. Well I'm damned. Lift up your feet. IDRIS DAVIES. WHERE DRAGONS DANCE By Charles Fisher. You bought your shoes in London ? Yes, in the arcade at Hammersmith (To expect them to curl at the tips was foolish, why should they, London was not Tartary-Hell, of course it wasn't, no need to tell anyone that). Mr. Porter looked at the man from Kharkov, (why had he come just before tea and taken the second egg when there wasn't enough for the morning, and Margaret coming home sure to find out with a sniff, Hullo, who's been at the eggs) Shall we go out, out anywhere, out to a show, (Nothing was worse than staying indoors with the best cloth on the table and a stranger in the kitchen, a stranger whose name he did not know, never mind where his shoes were bought) What about the Alhambra, they tell me it's good, and there's a conjuror who does a turn with nothing but news- papers; or I can take you to watch the Wembley Lions. I can take you where dragons dance said the man from Kharkov. On the train there was no conversation. An official who looked like a ticket collector sat for a while on one of the wooden movable benches that furnished the compart- ment, but he got out as the whistle blew. Mr. Porter waited in a corner seat. (It would not be safe to look out because Margaret whom he loved might be there on the platform waving and holding up one of the children, Betty because Brian was too big now to carry, would she be there still in an hour, in an hour and a half, still waving, small as a pin and distinct as the vein on a fly's wing). For a long while the carriage raced like