Welsh Journals

OF all places, the villagers loved most to congre- gate at the Cross-roads Smithy ot a winter s night. Almost every evening wiien the nights were long, Hugh r* oulkes, the smitn, could be seen bending over the miniature Vesuvius in violent eruption on the hearth,-a study in sepia and vermilion. On closer observation faces and hands and portions of human bodies could be dimly seen in the darkness appear- ing more like semi-materialised phantoms than human beings. They were more clearly visible when the smith snatched the white-hot iron from the fire and a catherine wheel of white sparks radiated from the anvil under his mighty blows. Here, as I said, the village parliament met, at which all subjects, gossip, news, politics, theology — especially theology-were discussed. I would challenge the smithies of the world to equal that of the Cross-roads for profound and intricate argument. The smith, a very Vulcan in stature, slow of speech, grave of aspect, yet with a humorous twinkle in his kindly grey eyes, saw that the rules of debate were observed. Hugh commanded the respect and affection of all, but it was beautiful, gentle little Gwen, his wife, who ruled, and received the immediate homage of them all. Just beyond the Cross-roads Smithy stands the smith's cottage, surrounded by a beautiful old-world garden. At one side of the garden gate tall holly- hocks sway gently in the breeze and on the other a Dorothy Perkins clambers up the wall. Nestling under the north hedge lies a rustic summer-house, which Foulkes built for Gwen many, many years ago, when first she came to the smithy cottage as its mis- tress. It is now smothered with rambler roses and clematis the fairest lady's bower in the countryside. From it may be seen glimpses of the majestic moun- tains of Eryri, stretching in a mighty chain from the northern to the southern horizon. Towards the west, across the white road, green fields reach down to golden sands, where a thin ribbon of white foam separates them from the greeny blue of the sea. There Gwen loved to sit knitting through the summer afternoons, when the garden was full of sun- shine, the lazy drone of bees, and the singing of birds. In the cool of the evenings she watered her beloved flowers--gaudy geraniums, modest pansies, blazing begonias, and many-hued snapdragons, wandering de- lightedly and lingeringly lalong the paths. The summer-house was Gwen's. throne, the cottage her royal palace, and the garden her delectable kingdom. Here Gwen mused and dreamed dreams, and if youth had slipped swiftly and silently away, to Foulkes she grew dearer, sweeter, and more beautiful as time passed on. If Gwen's life was happy, it was not that sorrow did not sometimes come her way. In a dusky comer of the summer-house, at one time in her life, Gwen had often knelt and prayed that little children be given her to make her happiness complete. She yearned to have children 'to press to her heart, to hear the pretty prattle of childish voices about the house, the patter of little feet running after her, and to feel dimpled {hands clutching at her skirts. They never THE GARDEN GATE. By Lucius Wynn. came, and Gwen buried her sorrow in the depths of her heart. But not a baby arrived in the village that Gwen did not welcome with a pair of bootikins, a knitted petticoat, or a top-heavy bonnet, as her fancy decided. Sometimes, too, Gwen face grew troubled as her thoughts wandered into the Valley of Shadows, and along the banks of the River. She shivered and shuddered in the darkness afs; the swirling, stormy flood swept past. Up ,and down the banks she paced, peering into the mists and the darkness. Gwen was looking for a city. Beyond, on the hills opposite, she knew Caers.alem-the City of Light-stood, a city so grand, so great, that she feared the day when she would have to Jeave Hugh and enter it. But no glimpse of it could she catch, no gleam of the pearly glaites, no glitter of its golden splendour. Po her return to the garden she would seek comfort in some .of the sweet, sad hymns of Wales. Pwy a ddeil fy mhen i fyny? Pwy a wna im hofnau foi?" And as she sang hope grew, and her heart beat faster. Her slender throat swelled, and into the dolorous notes crept a strain of triumph- Neb ond Iesu Gwenaf yno yn ei law." The mellow notes of her sweet voice filled the garden, and Foulkes, on these occasions, felt an invisible hand grip his throat, and tears sprang unbidden into his eyes. Then he would join in with his thunderous bass, and the garden grew more beautiful than ever, and it seemed as if the City could not be far distant. Whenever I met Gwen and Foulkes, and they were almost always together, they reminded [me of a dainty yacht being convoyed by a powerful battleship. One day I met Foulkes coming down the hill ,alone. Why," said I, where's Gwen ? He smiled humorously. I can't move from the house alone without every- body asking that question," he said. Well, I sup- pose people have always been used to seeing us together ever since we toddled together to school. Gwen and I have been sweethearts since we were kiddies. In fact, we were only separated when she passed from the Infant to the Big School before me and then only for a month. It was the unhappiest month of my life, but she would sometimes manage to steal in and sit beside me and help me on with my lessons. One day the schoolmaster caught her crying in the Big School. What she told him I don't know, but he came to the Little School door with her in his hand, and said, Foulkes, come here.' That was how I passed into the Big School. They had no inspectors in those days. And we have been together ever since." It was no wonder people asked him Where's Gwen? Five years ago-how long it seems, — Death, un- invited and unannounced, strode into the smithy cottage. He, too, asked Where's Gwen? And he took her.