For the Sake of the School | Page 3

eye as the travellers left the
platform at Glanafon and walked down the short, grassy road that led to
the ferry. To the south stretched the wide pool of the river, blue as the
heaven above where it caught the reflection of the September sky, but
dark and mysterious where it mirrored the thick woods that shaded its
banks. Near at hand towered the tall, heather-crowned crag of Cwm

Dinas, while the rugged peaks of Penllwyd and Penglaslyn frowned in
majesty of clouds beyond. The ferry itself was one of those delightful
survivals of mediævalism which linger here and there in a few fortunate
corners of our isles. A large flat-bottomed boat was slung on chains
which spanned the river, and could be worked slowly across the water
by means of a small windlass. Though it was perfectly possible, and
often even more convenient, to drive to the school direct from
Llangarmon Junction, so great was the popular feeling in favour of
arrival by the ferry that at the autumn and spring reunions the girls were
allowed to avail themselves of the branch railway and approach The
Woodlands by way of the river.
They now hurried on to the boat as if anticipating a pleasure-jaunt. The
capacities of the flat were designed to accommodate a flock of sheep or
a farm wagon and horses, so there was room and to spare even for
thirty-seven girls and their hand luggage. Evan Davis, the crusty old
ferryman, greeted them with his usual inarticulate grunt, a kind of "Oh,
here you are again, are you!" form of welcome which was more
forceful than gracious. He linked the protecting chains carefully across
the end of the boat, called out a remark in Welsh to his son, Griffith,
and, seizing the handle, began to work the windlass. Very slowly and
leisurely the flat swung out into the river. The tide was at the full and
the wide expanse of water seemed like a lake. The clanking chains
brought up bunches of seaweed and river grass which fell with an oozy
thud upon the deck. The mountain air, blowing straight from Penllwyd,
was tinged with ozone from the tide. The girls stood looking up the
reach of water towards the hills, and tasting the salt on their lips with
supreme gratification. It was not every school that assembled by such a
romantic means of conveyance as an ancient flat-bottomed ferry-boat,
and they rejoiced over their privileges.
"I'm glad the tide's full; it makes the crossing so much wider,"
murmured Helen Cooper, with an eye of admiration on the woods.
"Don't suppose Evan shares your enthusiasm," laughed Marjorie
Earnshaw. "He's paid the same, whatever the length of the journey."
"Old Grumps gets half a crown for his job, so he needn't grumble," put

in Doris Deane.
"Oh, trust him! He'd look sour at a pound note."
"What makes him so cross?"
"Oh, he's old and lame, I suppose, and has a crotchety temper."
"Here we are at last!"
The boat was grating on the shore. Griffith was unfastening the
movable end, and in another moment the girls were springing out
gingerly, one by one, on to the decidedly muddy stepping-stones that
formed a rough causeway to the bank. A cart was waiting to convey the
handbags (all boxes had been sent as "advance luggage" two days
before), so, disencumbered of their numerous possessions, the girls
started to walk the steep uphill mile that led to The Woodlands.
Miss Bowes and Miss Teddington, the partners who owned the school,
had been exceptionally fortunate in their choice of a house. If, as runs
the modern theory, beautiful surroundings in our early youth are of the
utmost importance in training our perceptions and aiding the growth of
our higher selves, then surely nowhere in the British Isles could a more
suitable setting have been found for a home of education. The long
terrace commanded a view of the whole of the Craigwen Valley, an
expanse of about sixteen miles. The river, like a silver ribbon, wound
through woods and marshland till it widened into a broad tidal estuary
as it neared the sea. The mountains, which rose tier after tier from the
level green meadows, had their lower slopes thickly clothed with pines
and larches; but where they towered above the level of a thousand feet
the forest growth gave way to gorse and bracken, and their jagged
summits, bare of all vegetation save a few clumps of coarse grass,
showed a splintered, weather-worn outline against the sky. Penllwyd,
Penglaslyn, and Glyder Garmon, those lofty peaks like three strong
Welsh giants, seemed to guard the entrance to the enchanted valley, and
to keep it a place apart, a last fortress of nature, a sanctuary for birds
and flowers, a paradise of green