COUNTRY LIFE
WE are blessed with singers here. The village inn closes and the singing begins. Two farm labourers were leaning against each other by way of saying goodnight. Instead of arguing they were singing an endless song in Welsh. At times it sounded like a round, at times a chorus, and when they reached the end they began again. The light outside the inn-door was turned off, and still they sang. A car came through the narrow street, and they were parted. One went one way and the other the other, but every now and then one piped up with a burst of song, and, on his way through the village, his friend took breath and replied. It was a sort of opera. When the man I followed could no longer hear his companion, he button-holed a passer-by, and the round or chorus began once• more. Such are Saturday night and a love song. Often it is a preparation for the morrow, and the finest work is on a hymn called Calon
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