"Yes," said I, "when they speak Welsh." "They call it--they call it--why a salmon." "Pretty Welsh!" said I.

"I thought you did not understand Welsh." "Well, what do you call it ?" said the woman.
"Eawg," said I, "that is the word for a salmon in general--but there are words also to show the sex--when you speak of a male salmon you should say cemyw, when of a female hwyfell." "I never heard the words before," said the woman, "nor do I believe them to be Welsh." "You say so," said I, "because you do not understand Welsh." "I not understand Welsh!" said she.

"I'll soon show you that I do.
Come, you have asked me the word for salmon in Welsh, I will now ask you the word for salmon-trout.

Now tell me that, and I will say you know something of the matter." "A tinker of my country can tell you that," said I.

"The word for salmon-trout is gleisiad." The countenance of the woman fell.
"I see you know something about the matter," said she; "there are very few hereabouts, though so near to the Vale of Clwyd, who know the word for salmon-trout in Welsh, I shouldn't have known the word myself, but for the song which says: Glan yw'r gleisiad yn y llyn." "And who wrote that song ?" said I.
"I don't know," said the woman.
"But I do," said I; "one Lewis Morris wrote it.' "Oh," said she, "I have heard all about Huw Morris." "I was not talking of Huw Morris," said I, "but Lewis Morris, who lived long after Huw Morris.