I was taking my morning constitutional with Felicia when I spied a distant fire across a field. Eddie Gee, of course, the farmer with the lands adjoining the manor who never complains if a sheep or a cow vanishes from the field, just sends Harold an apologetic letter bemoaning the antics of 'those kids from Lower Tadfield'* and an invoice for the missing animal.
We headed over there. Eddie was very wary of us a couple of years ago but now he's rather pleased to see us. He calls us 'The Gentleman and his Wolf' and claims it's not something you see every day, but of course, if you live next to the manor, it is.
He was hedging. The art peculiar to the British Isles, it seems, that takes some distinct skill to cut a hawthorn sapling just so, so that it lays almost flat and yet continues to grow. With it being spring it was a job that needed doing before the brambles took over. All the bits he chopped off few the fire, which in turn kept him warm.
He leaned forward in a conspiratorial whisper. "The kids are visitin'," he said. "With the nippers. It's like a baby factory in t' house."
*It's surprising how many things can be blamed on 'those kids from Lower Tadfield'