Men might be born, live and die, come and go, like leaves on the
trees, which expand in the springtime and fall in the autumn; but
their songs, and poetry, and noble language never die. Even to-day,
the Cymry love the speech of their fathers almost as well as they love
their native land.
Yet things were not always lovely in Honey Land, or as sweet as sugar.
As the tribes scattered far apart to settle in this or that valley,
some had fish, but no salt, and others had plenty of salt, but no
fish. Some had all the venison and bear meat they wanted, but no
barley or oats. The hill men needed what the men on the seashore could
supply. From their sheep and oxen they got wool and leather, and from
the wild beasts fur to keep warm in winter. So many of them grew
expert in trade. Soon there were among them some very rich men who
were the chiefs of the tribes.
In time, hundreds of others learned how to traffic among the tribes
and swap, or barter their goods, for as yet there were no coins for
money, or bank bills. So they established markets or fairs, to which
the girls and boys liked to go and sell their eggs and chickens, for
when the wolves and foxes were killed off, sheep and geese multiplied.
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