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THE END OF THE VOYAGE IN MEMORIAM: G. G. R. DIED IN FRANCE, JUNE, 1917 ONCE there were two boys. They were much as other Pembrokeshire boys. They went to school only when they were compelled to go. They enjoyed, with the usual miraculous impunity, vast powers for the ingestion of "everlasting" and licorice, mint-balls and stick-jaw in all their protean and highly-coloured varieties. They knew to a nicety all that complex code of juvenile jurisprudence which governs marble-nickling and top-whipping, cap-balling and hoop-trundling. They believed, like all the other Trefeli boys, that grass-snakes and lizards and toads and slow-worms were venomous that by some immutable law of nature the Teifi cormorants invariably dived when you shouted plum-plum pudding at them that to draw the wetted finger across the throat was the most solemn form of asseveration known to man that it was unlucky to bring flowering may into a house that it rained the next day if you killed a frog. They were orthodox. It was their creed that to be pilloried of a Sabbath in a stiff and a very expansive linen collar was somehow as needful for the salvation of the soul as it was discomforting to the body. Had they been asked to nominate the greatest man of all the ages, their choice would probably have rested upon the late Mr. William Cody. All this I mention to show that they were just two ordinary, healthy, Trefoil youngsters. I can picture them best, these two, as they used to lie, of a Saturday, on a lawn of the under-cliff at the foot of Moel-y-Garnedd. It is a sacred spot to me now, this little pleasaunce of theirs. It over- looked the rocks and the life-boat house with its little grey stone jetty. A lawn it was of wiry matted grass, close-nibbled by the sheep daisies and sea- pinks starred its green placidity. And Raleigh himself dreamed no greater dreams than these two as they lay on their backs, kicking their heels lazily into the springy sea-turf and gazing into the blue- ness of the bay and the blueness of the sky. Ah Tall lad with the strong lissom limbs and the steady, clear eyes-those windows of a mind that would ever be a-roving-that is ten, twelve, fifteen changeful years since last we lay there on the sward, dreaming those long azure sea-dreams of Trefeli and boyhood There were days in the life of the two that were marked out from other days. There was Aberllyfnwy fair day when everyone trekked to town from Moel-y-Garnedd there was the day when the pwnc" was said at Siloam there was the day of the Rocket Practice waich came round every three months. That was a very great day indeed, when Moses Richards and Ebenezer Llewelyn and old Tom Parry and all the worthies of Moel-y- Garnedd forgot age and rheumatics and displayed the most unexpected agility in getting the rocket cart out of its shed and away to the long meadow under Hafod Isaf. There they would fire the great fizzing rocket at the mast of the wreck- it was a pole stuck up in the bottom of the meadow- and Moses Richards, very small, but very brave in a huge cork jacket, waded out waist deep into the imaginary surge (oh but the grass grew green on the meadow !) to rescue Eli Humphreys from an equally imaginary death. A very thrilling per- formance it was the coastguard officer himself, in gold braid and with a sword on came all the way from Trefeli to Moel-y-Garnedd to see it. Then there was the day of the lifeboat drill vastly fine it was to blink and listen for the shatter- ing bang I of the signal rockets and to see Luke firing green and red flares into the broad daylight while the big blue and white boat pulled merrily round the breakwater. And there was one day a real wreck-but th-it is too ecstatic an occasion for me, even to touch upon now. But among all the varied interests of their lives, there was one great phenomenon that overshadowed everything else. That was the great Boer War. For long months they thought war, acted war, dreamed war with all the naked pagan blood-thirstiness of boys. Every hill became a kopje; they ambushed invisible commandoes in the narrow lanes that wound along the combes. In an inoffensive brook they found a T ugela-I do not recollect now how often they fell into it in their attempts to pontoon it: prodigies of noisy valour were performed before Mafeking" (which was just Ebenezer Llewelyn's peaceful homestead in the valley). There was one episode, a very dramatic episode indeed, of joint authorship, which they enacted for their own edification on wet Saturdays in an old barn over the byre of the Hafod. The dramatis personae were Lord Kitchener, Lord Roberts and an artilleryman-why an artilleryman I do"*not now recollect anyway, there being but two actors, the artilleryman was a being very much in vacuo, but an old hay mower, rich in levers and wheels did duty for his gun. The plot*was simple and uncompli- cated, it was presumed that the;poor gunner had