Welsh Journals

country doctors, the thoroughbred gipsies are the healthiest people in the community. The real Romany still lights a. wood fire within his blanket tent and huddles by the embers in the blinding fumes. Very few vagrants sleep out during the winter months, but resort to the casual ward when they have not enough coppers to pay for a doss in the common lodging. house. But the Romany, the true-bred gipsy, scorns the mumpers or road-folk who seek cover at night under a house roof. I should be smothered in them places," said an old dame of the tribe, as she sat peeling potatoes within her tent on a keen, frosty morning. Her daugh- ter was washing her month-old baby in cold water from a brook. Gipsies claim that they enjoy health that is quite unknown by people who sleep in houses and wash in hot water. They are hap- Ifan. By Gwyneth M. Mills. AT THE village Post Office all was flurry and bustle. The mail bags were beuig prepared to catch the Royal Mail into Aberystwyth. While stamping the letters Mari-y-Post ker t up a ceaseless stream of conversation with who- ever happened to be in the shop at the time buy- ing sugar or cotton or soap or tape at little Matt's counter. Well, there what a nice big parcel Jane, Cwrt Mawr,' is sending to her Hugh bach in Llundain. His washing, I daresay, and a big yeast cake as well, for Hugh is terrible fond of loaf-cake. The parcel is heavy enough, whatever. And here's a card from Tomos Evans, the schoolmaster, to his son in Aberyst- wyth College. Very likely the boy will be com- ing home for his holidays soon. Yes, indeed, he will be too, according to this card. Clever boy, Tomos Evans' son. He will be a preacher soon, I daresay." At last the bags were all ready, and the Royal Mail cart in its glorious scarlet splendour was waiting at the Post Office door, surrounded by a group of village children who were never tired of gazing at it, and of worshipping its driver, the postman Ifan. Now Ifan has cracked his whip, and the two bays have set off at a steady trot, but the equipage had hardly rounded the bend in the road before Mari discovered that one of the bags had been left behind The bustle of stamping the letters was nothing to the excitement that followed. Everyone, whether in the shop, or loafing outside, lent their vocal organs to help Mari in her distress. IFAN," they shouted all together, then "IFAN," piped Matt in his shrill treble, IFAN," cried Mari in her rich contralto. Rosy lips were stretched to the uttermost, while healthy country lungs gave body to the pier sleeping on the cold ground than in a feather bed, and regard their van-dwelling brothers a? lovers of luxury. The real gipsy is clean in his habits, and has a contempt for the unwashed hedge-creeper or mumper." His code has several ceremonial rules of cleanliness, and he takes particular care in cleansing his clothes and cooking utensils. A halo of romance clings round the caravans of these wanderers, with the throng of wild, unkempt, yet by no means miser- able-looking children, the rough, half-wolfish dogs, and following string of shaggy colts with flowing manes and tails. There is the glamour of the unknown about them the suggestion of freedom and irresponsibility which must at some time find an answering echo in every heart. The gipsies stand as the symbol of the lure of the open road. call as the cry, IFAN, IFAN," rang through the air, and resounded in echoes, many and varied, throughout the Rheidol Valley. But Ifan was deaf to all their cries. Like most Welshmen, he was the happy possessor of a fine voice, and often used to burst into song, especially when exhilarated by the swaying motion through the clear air on a beautiful sum- mer's afternoon, such as was this. Thus the music of his singing as the well-known strains of Gwlad y Menig Gwynion welled from his throat, joined to the rhythmic clatter of his horses' hoofs as they struck the hard road, was sufficient to muffle every other sound. Ignorant that he was carrying an incomplete load, Ifan drove merrily on while Mari y Post was doomed to see the Mail go speeding away to Aberystwyth at a brisk canter, carrying but two mail bags when there should have been three. What shall I do now? she wailed. The Government will send that old Robert Jones, the big policeman, after me, and he'll be taking me away from the Ty Post to the jail. Oh dear, dear, what shall I do, what shall I do?" Well, Mari fach. what is there to do but to wait until the four o'clock stage coach comes along. Then you can send the bag with it. That will reach Aberystwyth in time to catch the out-going Mail from there at seven o'clock. Come now, my good woman, dry your eyes and come into the kitchen with me. While waiting for the coach I can tell you a fine story of which this incident reminds me." So saying the Methodist minister piloted Mari into her comfortable kitchen behind the shop. He, a short lively man with a red beard, who had sung IFAN," as if he were in a real Welsh hwvl," now settled himself bv the fire- place, and told Marl tins story:- You remember Maggie, Tvn y Maes,' of course, Mari, and what a surly old fellow Dafydd. her father, was. Well, Maggie was beloved of