THE WATERS OF CADER IDRIS 



Welsh women, particularly stout ones, and we were 

 all fairly young then. Though low in stature, yet 

 weighing eighteen stone, she did all the work of the 

 house, and her wheezings as she went about it cut us 

 to the heart. But we were comforted by the thought 

 that she had ten months in which to recuperate. She 

 used to laugh betimes uproariously, and during this 

 mirthful process shook all over like the condiment 

 after which we christened her, to distinguish her from 

 all the other Mrs. Joneses with whom our friends and 

 acquaintances were quartered. We were great friends, 

 and went back to her, I think, for three summers, 

 though we often wondered why, except that there 

 wasn't very much choice. Occasionally, but rarely, she 

 flew into a most frightful passion with one or other 

 of us, all about nothing. These paroxysms lasted about 

 thirty seconds and alarmed us dreadfully, not on our 

 own account but on hers, for we thought she would 

 burst. We were seldom able, even by turning the 

 matter over carefully among ourselves, to arrive 

 at the cause of these explosions. They were like 

 frightful thunderstorms bursting suddenly from a 

 summer sky. She would be apologising for them in 

 less than a minute from the first scream and say it 

 was her Welsh blood. And then we used to apologise 

 for things we had never said or intended to say, and 

 the atmosphere was all summer again. I have known 

 much of Wales since those days and hundreds of Welsh 

 people, including dozens of landladies, and never knew 

 one whose Welsh blood boiled with such amazing 

 celerity and on such slight provocation as that of 

 Mrs. Jellybag Jones. 



133 



