CORNWALL'S CONNEMARA 37 



But farming, unlike the mining and fishing indus- 

 tries, cannot fail utterly, and so long as a living can 

 be made out of it these men will stick to their 

 farms. 



One brilliant spring-like day in midwinter I came 

 upon an old man on the footpath at some distance 

 from the nearest house, painfully walking to and 

 fro on a clean piece of ground with the aid of 

 two sticks. An old farmer, past work, I thought. 

 His appearance greatly attracted me, for though his 

 bent shrunken legs could hardly support him, he had 

 a fine head and a broad, deep, powerful-looking 

 chest. His face was of that intensely Irish type so 

 common in West Cornwall, but more shapely, more 

 noble, with a look of strength and resolution not at 

 all common. 



Seeing that he was old I supposed he was deaf, 

 and shouted my " Good day," and the remark that it 

 was a very fine day. But there was no need to shout, 

 his senses were very good. "Good day to you," he 

 returned, his stone-grey stern eyes fixed on my face. 

 " Yes, it is a fine day indeed very, very fine. And 

 no frost, no cold at all, and the winter going on, going 

 on. We are getting on very well indeed." And to 

 this subject he kept in spite of my attempts to lead 

 the talk to something else. The lovely weather, the 

 extraordinary mildness of the season, the comfort of 

 a winter with no frost or cold at all to that he would 

 come back. And at length, when I said good-bye 

 and left him, the last words I heard him say were, 

 " Yes, the winter is going very freely, very freely." 



