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PENCOED NOTES. LBy ROVEEJ THE RECEST STORMS. Storma have been the order of the day in this neighbourhood of late. Ricks have been blown and torn, chimney pots blown hither and thither. a.nd several outhouses and some houses made roofless. It is to be sincerelv hoped that storms and rains will give way to healthy and cheerful frost this side of Christmas. All say that Christ- mas is coming upon us this year nnawares to us and no doubt it is so, for the simple reason that we have not yet had any of the weather that usnally characterises the festive season. We are so accustomed to Old Father Christinas' clothes in white, and adorned with sparkling jewels of ice, that we cannot realise him visiting us in any other garb. NO EESPECTOR OF PERSONS. We had a striking illustration at Penprisk the other day that storms are no respecters of persons. The wind was blowing a regular hurricane, and a local tradesman saw that one of his buildings was in momentary danger of being unroofed. °He of course hastened to avert the catastrophe, and it did not take him long to procure some iron stays. and having procured them he sought assistance in the person of a local and highly-esteemed bard and preacher, who with characteristic readiness volunteered to mount the roof to put the iron girders on. Now, one would have thought that the storm would have spared a bard, without tak- ing the preacher into reckoning; but no, gentle reader, no such thing No sooner had the bard- preacher mounted the roof than the storm mus- tered all its strength, and, with one mighty puff, blew roof, bard, and all bodily into an adjoining field. Happily no bones were broken the bard, however, sustained such a severe shaking as ren- dered it necessary for him to stay in bed daily till nine instead of eight o'clock. As soon as my friend thoroughly recovers he is going to compose a special nwdl (ode) and an extra special sermon on the Spirit of the storm that blew off Mr. D.'s roof at Penprisk." A LOVE LETTER. Love letters are all the rage just now at Pencoed. and the following one out of many that have passed through our post-office lately. I give it as it was given to me (orthography and all), and only ask the reader's sympathy for the unfortunate writer— The Trough of Despair, near Pencoed, Dec. 11th, 1891,—My Dearest I cannot dispel the pain I feel in my heart this moment at the thought of loosing you. You know how much I love you, how much I wish you to be mine, and you can guess what the effect the idea of loosing you has upon me. I suffer so much by the fear of loosing you that I scarcely know what" I write. My eyes are blinded by tears for fear of loosing you. I see nothing but you, so much am I afraid of loosing you. I can't bear the thought of loosing you, no indeed to goodness. I would a hundred times rather perish than loosing you. Life would not be worth living after losoingyou. You know I adore and worship you. Look I shall not sleep to-night for fear of loosing you. I will, therefore, bring this letter, though I have stamped the envelope, and for fear of loosing you, I will remain standing at your door for the answer. I love those walls within which you are. I poke my head out of the train when I pass to look at your house, and open my mouth wide to try to swallow as much as possible of the dear smoke that comes out of your lovely chimney. I feel very ill, but will be much worse after loosing you. Oh indeed, do not let me loose you. Here's a couple of kisses for you, love. Good night.— Your ever affectionate and true lover. <•»







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