Welsh Journals

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The Militia Razor. (D.E., F.J., and A.T.) By Wil If an. PERHAPS I was more sensitive than the son of a blacksmith-farmer has a right to be, but I could not be comforted after breaking down so badly in the open recitation. It was an "open selection" competition, and I knew that I had made a real find. Perhaps my manner of learning it had something to do with my ignom- inious breakdown on the chapel stage. My bed- room, which was strictly a bedroom, in the sense that it afforded room for a bed, and for nothing else, had been "papered" not with the conven- tional pink and green roses, but with the sober sheets of "Y Faner Fawr." It was in one of the poetry columns of this literary wallpaper that I had found my treasure, "Y Moch yn y Maip," and no Klondyke digger ever watched his staked claim more jealously than I guarded mine. Un- fortunately for me this particular sheet of the "Baner" had been pasted on upside down, so that after spending any time at my task, sitting on the bed, I always got away with a stiff neck and a twisted spine. Possibly it was the un- accustomed "upright" position on the platform that put me off; at any rate, I made a very poor show indeed of my "Moch." I was at the sensitive age. I had left school, and was wearing long corduroys, and could make them "whistle" as well as the best, when I rubbed them together in walking. Before I was sixteen my cheeks and my chin were covered with a browny down, and I was ultra-sensitive over this premature ornamentation. No one could be more sarcastic than my father, who was a recognised country wit, and in the little smithy at night the villagers would roar over some of his sallies, and more than once my hirsute adornments afforded the occasion for his display of wit. In my despair I even thought of shaving, but of course I could not dream of mentioning it to my people. There was no razor in our house, for father had always kept a tough tangly beard. I had heard someone mention a "Militia Razor" that had been bought at Llandyssul. Unfortun- ately, Llandyssul, the nearest town and railway station, was eleven, miles off, but I nursed that razor in my heart for weeks. I had five shillings in my purse and at last the day arrived. I was to go to Llandyssul for some bags of "Basic" and I started out in fine style, in my Sunday best, with horse and cart. Some of you have only approached Llandyssul from the crowded towns of Carmarthen and Swan- sea and Merthyr, but to get a real view of Llan- dyssul and its importance you must approach it from the seaboard, from the gorse, from the heather. To me it was a town to be talked of with bated breath, and I was out on an adventur- ous enterprise. In addition to my legitimate er- rand I had the razor to think about; and more than once, seated on the ledge of the cart, or, for a change, on the shaft, which afforded a broad- er seat, or walking at Diamond's head, I tried over my errand; in English, of course, for I had an idea that most people talked the "thin lang- uage" in such a grand place as Llandyssul, and I took it that an ironmonger, of all people, would be English. However, I felt that my school English was quite good enough. "Please, sir, for a Malisha Razor"— that would be easy, and I whistled a song and cracked my whip. It was a long road. I managed to while away a mile or so by engaging myself in the delicate task of cut- ting rings in the bark of my whip's holly handle. Then I had given a boy a lift for another mile and he had told me the names of the farms that we passed. But it was a long road and I must con- fess that much of my easy confidence had evapor- ated when I reached the ironmonger's shop. With a brave "woa" to Diamond, who didn't need it at all, I stepped into the shop. The bell that clanged as I opened the door had quite a homely ring about it-almost Welsh— and for the moment I felt reassured, but the man behind the counter was just the sort of man to put one off. He started saying something to me, which in my over- eagerness I interrupted with my well-rehearsed "Please, sir, for a Malisha Razor." What he said to me by way of reply, looked at in cool blood from this distance of time, was just an inno- cent pleasantry; but at the moment it cut me to the quick. "A Militia Razor! Are you going to join the army, then?" It seems that he had never heard of the brand (I have found out since that they "never have" !) but he gave me a razor that was much better and I paid for it, glad to get back again to Diamond, who never asked sarcas- tic questions. On the way home I more than once peeped surreptitiouslv at the cardboard box, but between Horeb and Bwlchygroes I stopped the horse, to have a good look at the razor itself. The following morning I confided the secret to a great friend, a farm labourer. He was many years older than I, but just in the same uncom- fortable stage as myself regarding face decora- tion. We agreed to meet Saturday evening in Cwm Tydu, a field's breath from the footbridge, an ideally quiet spot. I slipped away through the rickyard unnoticed. He had agreed to bring a brush. I had borrowed a bit of soap, stone-hard after its long tenancy of the net bag on the kitchen rafters. The only looking glass in the house was the big parlour glass, and, of course, I couldn't take that He had arrived before me and had found a part of the brook that was without a ripple, a perfect mirror. Since the blade was mine, we agreed that I should have the first try. We managed well with the soap part of the operation-the "wob- bling," as the collier boys on holiday called it but the actual shearing was no easv task Of course, the posture was difficult, had I been an adept; kneeling there on the shingly bank and gazing into the upturned mirror. The fall of an occasional pebble from the bank immediately shat- tered the glass and I had to wait and "re-wobble" while it recomposed itself. More than once was