down the valley. "The Tarw," said she, "and this village is called
Pandy Teirw."

"Why is the streamlet called the bull?" said I. "Is it because it
comes in winter weather roaring down the glen and butting at the
Ceiriog?"

The woman laughed, and replied that perhaps it was. The valley was
wild and solitary to an extraordinary degree, the brook or torrent
running in the middle of it covered with alder trees. After we had
proceeded about a furlong we reached the house of the old fashion -
it was a rude stone cottage standing a little above the road on a
kind of platform on the right-hand side of the glen; there was a
paling before it with a gate, at which a pig was screaming, as if
anxious to get in. "It wants its dinner," said John Jones, and
opened the gate for me to pass, taking precautions that the
screamer did not enter at the same time. We entered the cottage,
very glad to get into it, a storm of wind and rain having just come
on. Nobody was in the kitchen when we entered, it looked
comfortable enough, however, there was an excellent fire of wood
and coals, and a very snug chimney corner. John Jones called
aloud, but for some time no one answered; at last a rather good-
looking woman, seemingly about thirty, made her appearance at a
door at the farther end of the kitchen. "Is the mistress at home,"
said Jones, "or the master?"

"They are neither at home," said the woman, "the master is abroad
at his work, and the mistress is at the farm-house of - three miles
off to pick feathers (trwsio plu)." She asked us to sit down.