Cylchgronau Cymru

"THERE was a flag flying from the opened window of the little post-office. At the Black Lion there were at least half-a-dozen. John Jones, the cobbler, was very busy tying to the top branch of the sycamore a string of bunting, half of which was already flapping idly in the breeze from the flag-pole of the Liberal Club. Two farmers' carts were standing near the Diamond Jubilee Fountain, and the drivers were listening eagerly to Mrs. Thomas the Post, and Mrs. Ephraim Jones, as they told an obviously exciting tale. Just then a band of young- sters with tattered flags and beating drums marched in proud martial array across the wooden bridge into the street. Now and then they cheered lustily. The village policeman propped himself against the Post Office door and smiled indulgently. Something was evidently amiss. The lethargic life of the village had surely been deeply stirred. And as I walked around the corner and along the road leading to the Townhead Farm, there were still more evident signs of unwonted excitement. Here the centre of interest was Captain Evans' cottage. The gate- way was open and the little lawn in front of the house was crowded with people. There was Mary Jenkins the Fish, and two of her lazy sons there were the gardener, the coachman and a stable boy from the big house there was old Morris hobbling about on his two sticks and followed by his little white terrier, renowned for its poaching propensities And when a break in the crowd allowed me to get a glimpse of the garden seat, I could see Captain Evans himself seated there, erect and proud, and next to him the tall dark man who had the farm cottage halfway up the hill-side. And, one by one, I noticed the people were shuffling and edging their way to the Captain and shaking his hand. And as I looked, full of curiosity, the trellised door of the cottage opened and the old white-haired Vicar appeared, followed by a woman, with a sad sweet face. And the Vicar, too, spoke words to the Captain, and took his hand and shook it hard. And then he shook the tall man's hand, and the Captain's face was proud and beaming, and he and the tall man shook hands solemnly and blew their noses violently, and I swear I could see tear-drops glis- tening in the sunshine. Something clearly had happened. It was Shon Evans, the blacksmith, who told me the tale as we sat later on the Black Lion bench and drank our beer. I wish I could tell the tale as Shon told it to me. I wish it were possible to reproduce the eloquent by-play on Shon s features as he un- THE FEUD folded his romance. I wish I could give all the little unconsciously humorous interludes he sand- wiched in, providing incidentally a deep look into the soul of that village community. I wish I could convey something of the pathos which came out of the very earnestness with which he untangled the skeins for me. What had happened had stirred them all to their very depths. There were great goings-on in the big world outside always. But they were usually so remote and far away from the interests of the coast hamlet that they were little more than idle tales that were told. And now the village itself had its overwhelming topic, something that came near to their hearts and homes. Out of the enter- taining confusion of Shon's narrative, one fact stood out clear and definite. The great feud was at end. Captain Evans and the tall dark man had shaken hands, had smoked pipes together, were with each other now. To Shon it was an epoch-making fact. That was evident from the manner in which he peisistently recurred to it. It was something that demanded a shifting of the mental attitude. It was as if some old landmark had disappeared, as if the crumbling tower on the headland had at last suc- cumbed to the winter tempests and the fishing smacks driving in across the bar, were perplexed and a little afraid to see it no more. Shon's pewter pot was replenished, and gradually the tale became dear to me, and the crowd on Captain Evans' lawn and the sitting together of the Captain and the tall dark man came back to me with some- thing of the significance which they bore for Shon. The feud had started almost a quarter of a century ago, said Shon. The tall dark man was John Griffiths. No one knew exactly how the feud had started. Some said the Captain and John had courted the same girl and the Captain winning- but there it was. They hated each other like poison, people said. It showed itself in little as well as in big things in the great dispute concerning the right-of-way to the foreshore in which the Captain and John were naturally on opposite sides in the village elections for the Parish Councils or the Rural Council; at the church where both were members and where their high words and wrangles had caused pain and dismay to the old Vicar. More than once there had been something more than words. One week the Mayflower had sailed out into the bay without its Captain and meanwhile at the county town John Griffiths had to listen to some candid talk from a blunt outspoken squire. He had paid his fine and walked gloomily out of the court, re-