His father
was a hard working farmer, who every year tried to coax to grow out of
the stony ground some oats, barley, leeks and cabbage. In summer, he
worked hard, from the first croak of the raven to the last hoot of the
owl, to provide food for his wife and baby daughter. When his boy was
born, he took him to the church to be christened Gruffyd, but every
body called him "Gruff." In time several little sisters came to keep
the boy company.
His mother always kept her cottage, which was painted pink, very neat
and pretty, with vines covering the outside, while flowers bloomed
indoors. These were set in pots and on shelves near the latticed
windows. They seemed to grow finely, because so good a woman loved
them. The copper door-sill was kept bright, and the broad borders on
the clay floor, along the walls, were always fresh with whitewash. The
pewter dishes on the sideboard shone as if they were moons, and the
china cats on the mantle piece, in silvery luster, reflected both sun
and candle light. Daddy often declared he could use these polished
metal plates for a mirror, when he shaved his face. Puss, the pet, was
always happy purring away on the hearth, as the kettle boiled to make
the flummery, of sour oat jelly, which, daddy loved so well.
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