20 THE DAILY LIFE OF OUR FARM. 



" Fy nghalon anwyl i (my darling heart), why for you 

 not say it was Cymro ? you was just be dro^Ti !" Any- 

 how, that afternoon the stranger was well tended, if 

 ever, his raiment dried, and raisin-cake forced upon 

 him to repletion. But now, as I feel, kind reader, that 

 I must have pretty well pumped out your patience, and 

 as there's some one knocking at the door, I will say for 

 the present Fare thee well ! 



November ^ 1865. 



And so they are not cockroaches at all ! they are 

 simply black-beetles ; at least, so my charming sister- 

 in-law says, and to what she says I am bound to defer, 

 as, although she cannot quite decidedly scold, yet she 

 comes of the same stock as those who might. 



" They are not cockroaches at all ; the cockroach is 

 brown, not black." If it had been my wife she might 

 have added, " stoopid ; " but as she was only my sister- 

 in-law, and is very charming, she only bit her lip. 



" Keep a tortoise," she said ; " he'll eat all the black- 

 beetles up." "Keep a tortoise 1" I repeat ; "why won't 

 one of these cider-drinking rustics do as well ? they 

 have most tortoise attributes that ever I heard of, in 

 perfection, and they might like his food.'* My charm- 

 ing sister-in-law didn't quite know how to take this, 

 and so looked serious, and the other way: her near 

 relative might have said " stuff! " or something worse. 

 But suppose, I reflected further and aloud — suppose the 

 tortoise were a pleasant tortoise : why, then you see 

 there's cook, and it might not pay to have a nice cook 

 and a pleasant tortoise together in the kitchen. Then 

 suppose he were to turn out an unpleasant tortoise. 



