Small Boy. Years and years and years ago, when you were a boy-----
Self. When there were wolves in Wales, and birds the colour of red-flannel petticoats whisked past the harp-shaped hills, when we sang and wallowed all night and day in caves that smelt like Sunday afternoons in damp front farmhouse parlours, and chased, with the jawbones of deacons, the English and the bears-----
Small Boy. You are not so old as Mr Beynon Number Twenty-Two who can remember when there were no motors. Years and years ago, when you were a boy-----
Self. Oh, before the motor even, before the wheel, before the duchess-faced horse, when we rode the daft and happy hills bare-back-----
Small Boy. You're not so daft as Mrs Griffiths up the street, who says she puts her ear under the water in the reservoir and listens to the fish talk Welsh. When you were a boy, what was Christmas like?
Self. It snowed.
Small Boy. It snowed last year, too. I made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea.
Self. But that was not the same snow. Our snow was not only shaken in whitewash buckets down the sky, I think it came shawling out of the ground and swam and drifted out of the arms and hands and bodies of the trees; snow grew overnight on the roofs of the houses like a pure and grandfather moss, minutely ivied the walls, and settled on the postman,