Welsh Journals

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THE ELASTIC-SIDED BOOTS AND THE ANGEL by Eiluned Lewis THERE are times when I have envied those Londoners who take their short holidays in Sussex, or spend a week-end somewhere up the river." But that evening, at sight of the Welsh hills and Evan, standing on the station platform, I thanked bountiful Heaven for every good mile that separated me from Fleet Street. Evan carried my bag across the line. We've got a horse for you to-morrow," he remarked almost immediately. They're meet- ing at Hendre cross roads." At the familiar sound of the words my heart leapt, and then sank a little, although I would rather have died than let Evan suspect it from my face. But the day had been warm, the train crowded, and, watching the catkined trees and fields full of lambs, I had dreamt of an indolent week-end-some sheltered corner perhaps, sun- warmed and scented with primroses. Now instead there was to be a hunting day the close con- striction of the stock, the strenuous negotiation of dingles and the long hack home, followed by what only those who ride at long intervals can know- the crippling agony of stiffness for days to come. Evan meanwhile had coaxed and bullied the car into starting-which it did with the noise of a threshing machine-and, as we shot up the valley, through the delicate dusk of early spring towards a primrose-coloured sunset, all weaknesses of the flesh fell from me, and I knew that I had come home. It looks like fine weather," said Evan. The meet's at ten, but we'll have to allow plenty of time I'm afraid your mount hasn't been clipped, and she gets into a fearful lather." In the stable-yard at nine o'clock next morning, Evan looked me up and down with a critical eye. He had tied my stock himself, lent me his studs (back and front) and a pair of yellow string gloves also, for the appearance of my legs, he was entirely responsible they were, so to speak, the children of his imagination rather than the support of my frame, and, as such, I took a de- tached interest in their aspect. Early that morning, we had battled with the problem, in a room strewn with boot-jacks, wooden trees and steel spurs. Evan, immaculate in a shining pair of hunting boots with tan tops, looked ruefully at my spindle shanks. You can't have Charlotte's, because she's wearing them herself, and you say Ann's are too short for you, and I simply won't allow you to wear that old pair any longer-the toe's split right across." What's it matter? It's a dry day," I ven- tured. You can't. They look awful." He searched gloomily along the boot-rack. I have it! Why not wear those old elastic- sides ones, with a pair of leggings? The said elastic-sided boots-known in their day as Jemimas "-had stood on that same shelf for more than thirty years dating pqssibly from my father's Cambridge days, dusted faith- fully by generations of housemaids, they were worn occasionally at Christmastide in charades, and had once appeared in an opera. My feet slipped easily into their gaping depths, and Evan pranced with delight, fastened a pair of canvas leggings above them, and summoned the family to admire the effect. Of course they jeered. What else do families do? But Evan was not to be dissuaded. They're really natty. You look a regular Farmer Giles with those leggings; ready for Polly." Polly, the borrowed mount, standing four- square in the stable-yard, looked ready for any- thing-even an incompetent horse-woman wear- ing Jemimas." She was a bright, undipped chestnut, with sturdy legs and solid hindquarters her ears, well pricked and near together, showed her Welsh breed. I grasped her thick mane, climbed into the saddle with the agility of one who rides on an average of three times a year, and followed by trim brother and sister on their clipped and glossy mounts, down the drive. Evan had said that we should have to allow plenty of time, but even he had not counted on the heat of the sun or the thickness of Polly's coat. She's a heart of gold and she'll go like a shot out of a gun," her fond owner had told us which was true, but he should have added a mouth of iron to the description. Polly was of the proud Welsh blood that does not know when it is beaten, nor yet when it is hot, unsightly and making itself ridiculous all the way to Hendre cross roads, along five miles of tar macadam, she pulled like a steam engine, and long before we came to the meet and while yet the dew was on the grass, she had reached the state of lather predicted by Evan. I shouldn't knock her along, if I were you," said Charlotte anxiously. Better walk a bit. It doesn't matter if we're late." Knock her along, indeed! I gasped. She's pulling my arms off." If we were late, the Master was later still. Huntsman, whip, terrier boy and hounds were waiting placidly at the cross roads the 'field