The weathercock of Winslow town

Winslow clocktower and weathercock
Winslow clocktower and weathercock
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More Tales of Old Winslow found in the Oxford Chronicle.

This one is The Winslow Church Clock’s Letter To The Churchwardens.:

“Gentlemen, I find I am the subject of much vituperation in consequence of the irregular way in which I perform my duties.

“As I am the only public timekeeper in the parish, it is so much the more important that my proclamations be true and correct.

“The public are not to be trifled with and when their wants are imperfectly supplied, the private purse has been known in our spirited little town to minister pro bono publico as witness the rival chimney vane, immediately opposite, taunting and challenging to more rigorous accuracy, my venerable neighbour, the cock, on the summit of our steeple.

“In a more quiet and less criticising age I had only to announce the hours as they rolled away, and was not compelled to countenance error; now my face betrays every movement, and my false position cannot be disguised.

“Consign me, I pray, to one who better understands the management of my constitution, or remove from public observation a countenance of which I am really ashamed, and which I am apprehensive may bring the church, as an authority, into contempt and scandal.

“I am, Gentlemen, your much abused and ill-used Servant.”

> As two young men of Winslow were taking their usual constitutional walk in the suburbs of the town, one of them observed in the thatch of a cowhouse they were passing a portion more elevated that the other, with an aperture, as though something had been thrust into it.

He approached, and diving his hands into it the opening, discovered a quantity of bacon.

Should this lover of swine’s flesh again have occasion to deposit his treasure, he must evince more sagacity than in the present instance if he wishes to ‘save his bacon’.

> The quiet retreat of the Rev. W.W. McCreight was rudely stormed by hounds and horsemen in full cry of a fine old fox as they closed the career of Reynard in the orchard of the rev gentleman, immediately in front of his residence.

By the bye, the foxes in the neighbourhood evince a remarkable instinct, when hardly pressed in the chase, in seeking an asylum on clerical soil, as if the peaceful character of the spot would overawe the tumultuous cry for blood, and induce, even the sons of Nimrod, to spare the life of their victims.