Welsh Journals

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A Welsh Childhood By ORIEL MALET. HER earliest memory, I think, was of lying face downwards on the hard, shiny linoleum of the nursery, and licking a pink flower painted on it. Her small pink tongue was warm, and the large pink flower was cold. It was interesting she lay there for hours (it seemed like hours) absorbed. When they asked her what she was doing, she didn't answer. Baby Baby, don't you hear me ? I'm speaking to you." Then, indeed, on a sudden impulse of self-defence, she shcuted Nothing At the same minute something happened. She realised, honestly for the first time, that she was a person. She wasn't just a baby any more. She could do things, and think things, that other people didn't know anything about. That was important it went to her head a little. Marching up to her brother, who was painting at the big table, she asked him, stiff with determination Do you know what I'm thinking about ? Now, this minute ? No," he said absorbed. And I don't want to-go away. She lifted her head and announced with dignity You're not to call me Baby any more. I'm not a baby. You're to call me Rosemary." He grunted. She might then have learned another lesson, that cer- tain things are never so important to other people as they are to yourself; but she didn't. The next discovery she made was about the place she lived in. This, apparently, was called Wales. Afterwards, it seemed quite simple; she couldn't imagine having lived four years without finding it out. At the time, it was tremendous, an awe-inspiring piece of information. She looked all round her. "I thought it was called Trawscoed," she said. Her brother and her two older sisters looked overcome by her stupidity. It was always like that she was such a baby, they said. Patiently, they tried to explain. Not this room, silly. Not this house. Everywhere-the whole country. It's called Wales." They took her to the window-seat and lifted her up. There you are," they said. As far as you can see, it's all Wales."