Yesterday I was a wholly undistinguished person. To-day I am a Bard. The manner of it was as follows:—
About midday a number of Welsh, to some of whom we are related by the closest ties of blood and affection, arrived from London in a char-à-banc at our garden gate, and with loud barbaric cries summoned us forth. We were indeed prepared for their coming, and believed that an ordinary picnic was intended. A drive of a few miles, an open-air feast within the Great Stones which illustrate this neighbourhood, a drive back to Willows, tea and farewell—this was the programme which in our simplicity we had imagined. We had yet to learn how the Celt makes holiday.
Nothing excessively unusual happened until luncheon had been eaten. It is true that our companions sang hilariously in Welsh all the way up the Valley, and it is a fact that they gathered great sprays of young oak and fastened them in
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