Un tro, roedd Santes Dwynwen yn dathlu ei phenblwydd sawl cant oed. Nid oedd ei phenblwydd go iawn, wrth gwrs – roedd hynny’n gyfrinach, yn bennaf achos bod hi’n rhy hen i’w gofio.
Cyraeddodd Daf y gath a dweud bod ganddi anrheg i Santes Dwynwen.
– Diolch yn fawr, meddai Santes Dwynwen, – beth yw e?
– Dwi ‘di cael bach o gwstard i ti. Dwi’n gwbod bo ti’n hoffi cwstard.
– Wel, odw, ond mae eisioes llawer o gwstard gyda fi fan hyn.
Pwyntiodd at bentwr o jariau.
– We fi’n meddwl bod hi’n syniad da, meddai Daf yn drist. – Sori.
Dechreuodd Daf adael mewn diflastod llwyr. Anadlodd Santes Dwynwen yn dwfn.
– Ond… mae’n gwstard sbesial achos mae’n dod ohonot ti, meddai’n gyflym.
Grwnanodd Daf yn hapus.
– Beth am i ni gael bach o gacen te?
– Gyda chwstard?
– Pam lai?
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One day, Saint Dwynwen was celebrating her several-hundred-years-old birthday. It wasn’t her real birthday, of course – that was a secret, mostly because she was too old to remember it.
Dave the cat arrived and said that she had a present for Saint Dwynwen.
– Thanks very much, said Saint Dwynwen. – What is it?
– I got you some custard. I know you like custard.
– Well, I do, but I all ready have a lot of custard here.
She pointed at a tower of jars.
– I thought it was a good idea, said Dave sadly. – Sorry.
Dave started to leave in utter misery. Saint Dwynwen took a deep breath.
– But… It’s special custard because it comes from you, she said quickly.
Dave purred happily.
– Why don’t we have a bit of cake then?
– With custard?
– Why not?
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