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LOCAL GOSSIP. .

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LOCAL GOSSIP. There is something very fascinating about the ekl Glamorgan hillside farmhouses. Of th. Braichycymmer is finite typical. An old honse. standing high above the Garw Vskllev, right, on the edge of the steep hill- 5;Jea. house with thick walls and comfort- able low-built rooms; in front, of the house a clump of fir trees, stands as a bold landmark: for the neighbourhood. Braichycymmei, writes Mr. J. Kyrle Fletcher in the South Wales Daily News," was the home of many generations of stout yeomen farmers, the Thomases, of Braichycvmmer. There are hundreds of racy stories told of the old hunt- ing days, when through all Glamorgan the fame of the Braichycymmer Hounds was known far and wide. Who in Glamorgan has not heard of Twm Cae Du, the huntsman of the Braichycymmer pack, and the joint masters Edward and William Thomas? There are old men still with us who love to toll of the famous runs of theiie hounds, when Twm Cae Dti, called by some of the sporting eentry Rufus," led the way up hill and down many a. steep cwm, mounted! on his famous grey pony—one of those wild mountain ponies that Greoige Bor- land loved to paint. The path down from Braichycymmer is steep and rough, and down below the straggling town of Ponty- cymmer stvetcl.es in. rows of grey stone houses, clo-se to the noisy, dirtv ine- and the railwav line. Up here the bracken ferns grow in wild prolusion, and no sound is heard but the bleat of the mountain sheep. But up from th& valley comes the mingled din cf sound, typical ot a colliery district, the shrill whistle and snort of the railway train, the rattle ot the coal tips. and the clica clack of the moving tranu laden with coal. There is a terrible sameness about the Welsh col- liery towns. The same collection of small shops, the same big public-houses, and big chapels too, and the same groups of men standing hour after hour in the streets. Pontycymine.' is no cleaner and no dirtier tiuui the rest. A long walk doAvn Oxford- street. and at Pantygog we turn to the left up a. steep street then on up a rough path, till v.e reach the mountain side once, more, and can look across at Braichycymmer, and the Ga.rw Yechan beyond, with Mynydd Moel- giile standing out boldly in the back ground. There is a strang story told of an old man who once lived on the side of Moelgille Moun- tain. He was out one morning just before the dawn looking for a lost sheep when he heard the sound of music, and saw by the side of an old bam a number of little people, men and women in tail hats and bright cloaks, who were dancing in- and out of the barn. As they danced they sang a strange tune such as he had never heard Defore. He ven- tured to go towards them, but when he reached the spot they had vanished. All day the strange music rang in his ears, and the morning he went out again, though his friends whom he had told of his adventure warned him not to go. At breakfast time he had not returned, and the neighbours in alarm went to search the mountain, but could find no trace of him. Months went by, the winter came and went, and at last one morn- ing John was seen coming down from the mountain side looking old and worn out. He could never be induced to tell- where he had been, or what he had seen. Only once he was heard to say that he was very tired of singing and dancing. But never again would John go out to listen to the singing of the little people. There are hundreds of these stories current in Glamorgan even to- day in this industrial age; strange Celtic legends which belong to the long ago. A long upward climb brings us to Llan- geinor Church. This old parish church with tall square tower, stands out boldly over- looking the wide valley which stretches across to Bettws. I like this broad vallev, full of green meadows, and dotted over with white farmhouses. There is something so homely about the scenery and the people. hen we come by the green bailey of a farmhouse we are greeted with a hearty Shwd r yd'ch chi?'' Followed by an equally hearty invi- tation to come in and rest. So we sit awhile and eat "teisin fach." real little cream cakes made on the bakestone, and drink large cups of "llaith." the sweetest, richest milk we think we have ever tasted. After this we discourse wisely with the farmer's. buxom wife on the crops and the prospects of a fine holi- day. Then from the old oak dresser the real Swansea porcelain jugs are brought for our inspection, though we have to smile when the good wife assures us they are hundreds and hundreds of years old. But we have to lis- ten to the story of the old woman who lived over yonder near to Bridgend who had a big pair of vases, which her mother had bought when she started housekeeping from Pardoe, of Xantgarw. The old woman was very poor. One day a man called bv the door and looked at the vases, admiring the exquisite painting. He returned in a few days with a rich dealer from Bath, who persuaded the old body to part with her china by putting 50 golden eovereigns on the table. A "way as far as the eye can see beyond AJ>erg»rw hill and the Cefn. stretches like a distant grey band the wide Severn Sea. Right in front of us are the yellow sands of Porthc-awl and the green links where the golfers love to roam. One of the most noted "bards of the district was Lewis Hopkin. one of the latter bards of Tir Iarll. Poor Lewie Hopkin had a heavy cross to bear. His fav- J ourite child was a dwarf. Hopkin Hopkin. known as "the little Welshman." The little fellow was only 31in. high and weighed but lolbs. His father might have made a lot of money by showing this tiny freak, but he had a strong dislike for such Dublicity. An acrostic verse the noet made to a re- markable small and unthnvmg child of his. decaying like an old man at 14 years of age. Hail, little child, great is thy grief and pain. Old in thy youth, small things doth thee sus- tain Past hope of thriving, both in limb and sense Kept in a narrow sphere by Providence. I Innocent life hast thou. not knowing health, Nigh to partake of an eternal wealth. —L. Hopkin to his son, 17-50. "Cnder Llangeinor. on the east side as we descend the steep path through the fields, we pass by old Pant-yn-Awel, the old home of the Jenkins family. The last of the family to live at the farmhouse was the famous Squire of Llanharran, Richard Hoare Jen- kins. who was born at Pant-yn-Awel in 1771. His mother was Miss Morgan, the daughter of Pantvscawen. the old farmhouse not far from Llangeinor fetation. The squire was the greatest hunting man in Wales a hun- dred years ago. He was a fine type of man, living on his estate, known and loved by all his neighbours and tenants. An interesting story is told of one of his many generous ac- tions. At the close of a long hunt, whilst the squire and a number of English friends were refreshing in the Old Post Inn. Bonvil- stone. an old tenant came in who owed the squire JE80 arrears of rent. He had followed the hounds on foot and to praise the squire's favourite hound Leader, declaring it was the best in Wales. This so pleased the squire that he turned to him and said in Welsh, Yr Vyf yn dy rhoddi yn rhydd o'r oil, ti welit." To the surprise of the Eng- lish friends, who- could not understand a word, the old man began to thank his kind patron with tears in his eyes. By Panty- rvawel stands the fever sanatorium for the Ogmore and Garw district, an excellent site for such a splendid institution. A short mile down the road. and we reach our journey's end, the little village of Black- mtll. called still by its old Welsh name. Melm Itanddu. It is a prettv little village down in a sheltered hollow, where the river runs prattling over the stones, and the drowsy humming of the bees in the gardens. Just a wayside village, but it has a crowd of old stories attached to the nlace. Fifty years ago the people of Blackmill were known as the sportsmen of Melin Ifanddu. for they Bunted every man of them. and every boy too, from the landlord of the inn to the mini- ster of the chapel. They were fine fishermen, too, and on the bacon rack of many a small farm a fine smoked salmon could be found.

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