bach, that the light--the grand, religious light--shall shine in the
pulpit.

That is the lamp which burns throughout Wales. It keeps our feet from
Church door and public house, and it guides us to the polling booth
where we record our votes as the preacher has instructed us. Be the
season never so hard and be men and women never so hungry, its flame
does not wane and the oil in its vessel is not low.

White cabbages and new potatoes, eggs and measures of corn, milk and
butter and money we give to the preacher. We trim our few acres until
our shoulders are crutched and the soil is in the crevices of our flesh
that his estate shall be a glory unto God. We make for him a house which
is as a mansion set amid hovels and for the building thereof the widow
must set aside portions of her weekly old age pension. These things and
many more we do, for forgiveness of sin is obtained by sacrifice. Such
folk as hold back their offerings have their names proclaimed in the
pulpit.

Said the preacher: "Heavy was the punishment of the Big Man on Twm Cwm,
persons, because Twm speeched against the capel. Was he not put in the
coffin in his farm trowsis and jacket? And do you know, the Big Man cast
a brightness on his buttons for him to be known in the blackness of
hell."

It is no miracle that we are religious. Our God is just behind the
preacher, and he is in the semblance of the preacher; and we believe in
him truly. It is no miracle that we are prayerful. Our God is by us in
our hagglings and cheatings. Becca Penffos prays that the dealer's eyes
are closed to the disease of her hen; Shon Porth asks the Big Man to