Nearly twenty years ago, I spent several evenings in a B&B in London run by a charming gentleman named Dyffd Llewellyn Thomas. At breakfast the first morning, his two children tumbled into the parlor and prattled on to him in a most musical way, he answering in fond parental tones. As quickly as they had entered, they whirled away, leaving their father with a kiss apiece and cheerful words of parting.

Dyffd looked at us with a smile and said:

"They speak English, too. With their Mum. She's a London girl. I've spoken to them in Welsh ever since they were born."

"Don't they find it confusing?" asked my companion.

He looked at her in surprise.

"Not at all," he said. "They know that Mum speaks English and Dad speaks Welsh. I think it's important for'em to know both their native languages.

"Besides," he said quietly, "There's not so many of us left, now, and I want someone to pass it along to the next generation."

I couldn't help but think, then and today, how rich a gift Dyffd Llewellyn was giving to his children and with what unassuming grace.