216 DAYS IN THE OPEN 



seemed like a " deserted village " when we looked 

 up and down the street the next morning. Any 

 such assumption was thoroughly dissipated later on 

 when the hour for morning service came. Then 

 people gathered from every direction for miles 

 around, and when we entered the plain, Non-Con- 

 formist Church-house it was filled to the doors, 

 galleries and all. The visitor could not understand 

 songs or prayers or sermon, for all were in the 

 Welsh tongue. When the sermon began my 

 thoughtful friend, who sat beside me, jotted down 

 the salient points of the discourse as the preacher 

 proceeded, so that the handicapped American 

 gained a very fair idea of the outline. It was not 

 the sermon, however, but the singing that made the 

 strongest impression. Needless to say, not a word 

 could be understood, but somehow it reached the 

 heart. The dominance of the minor would have 

 been somewhat depressing had it not been for the 

 occasional evident exultation and rejoicing which 

 swept forth to fill the church. 



It was at the evening service that the most pro- 

 found impression was made upon the writer. The 

 second service of the day closes before it becomes 

 necessary to light the lamps. The sun was low in 

 the west, when, after the sermon, a man came down 

 from the gallery and stood up before the pulpit to 

 sing. That song, in an unfamiliar tongue, melted 

 the "heart and filled the eyes with tears. The rays 

 of the setting sun fell through the western windows 



