THE WELSH DEE 



gaped wonderingly from the carriage window as Evan 

 Evans or his successor hauls his relic of the Brythonic 

 period out of the guard's van at Carrog station, 

 hoists it on his back, and waddles away down the road 

 towards the river, like some prehistoric tortoise on its 

 hind-legs. For a coracle is really rather an uncanny 

 thing at the first acquaintance, and there must be 

 something uplifting in the sight of it. Otherwise 

 its ejection from the guard's van at way-stations here- 

 abouts would not stir up the English passengers in the 

 way it invariably does the young ones particularly. 

 Indeed it is a fine opportunity for the Liverpool or 

 Birmingham quiverful, of historical temperament, to 

 test the diligence with which his offspring have perused 

 the glowing pages of Mrs. Markham or whatever 

 stands to-day for that incomparable book. I have 

 heard him myself in my innumerable journeys up 

 and down that bit of railroad improve the occasion 

 more than once. 



Indeed I feel strongly the ancient British sentiment 

 of the coracle myself when I am rocking down the 

 river in it, so utterly unlike is it to any other craft, 

 while the romance of the passage heightens illusions. 

 It is true that the wickerwork is now covered with 

 tarpaulin instead of with the hides of ferce nature? ; 

 but that is a detail. The shape is intimidating to the 

 novice on first going aboard, a rough oblong, perhaps 

 five feet long and half as wide, riding high in the water 

 and pressed in a little at the waist, where a plank seat 

 is stretched across. Upon this two feet or so of board 

 the pilot and passenger sit side by side at extremely 

 close quarters. The former wields a short one-bladed 



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