Betimes, oh faithful reader, as ever and anon, as goodmen and goodwoman, ye shall venture forth in this veritible feast of historic magnitude, that is to say, a sprinkling of thoughts wise, conjectures obtuse, and observations of blind nuisance, if not outright moronic offal. I refer, of course, to the salient facts, as it may please Our Lord’s in equal measure, in the bedeviling life of that Rodent of Renown, Yeoman Mouse.
Many parchments, of cunning aspect, have crossed, under dim candlelight, into the realm of our own good times, severed from the sorcery of myth, by some intrepid rag picker. The facts may arrange themselves thus:
1) In the Year Of Our Lord 920, of a pleasant morn [is it, by thunder, always pleasant in a rodent’s quarters?] we espy a certain creature, that is, Mouse, alight from his lowly dwelling and set forth to do the Lord’s bidding.
2) Or so said Mouse would have us believe. In sooth, Mouse, a sorry specimen of his lot, were he even to rise at all–we have it on good authority that even the business of waking he often leaves for future care–he repairs on the high road, as is known, towards the warm embrace of the village, in exact specification, to the oaken door of the Hognuts Inn.
3) Which is to say, reader of fine aspect, seer of vexing puzzles, philosopher ennobled as of old, in all ways your suspicions are flawlessly conceived. As a creature of fable, Yeoman Mouse hath not a history.
4) Which is not to say, of course, that he doth not exist. Doth we have evidence, perchance, of Zeus, of Xerxes, of Merlin? Monuments, representations in the cunning arts, shrines, palaces, etc., Aye, that is so. But, as with Yeoman Mouse, doth writings survive by their hands (er, paws?)? We think not. Which leads us to…
5) Since the practioners of alchemy and magick, the tellers of fortunes, the chroniclers of the stars, the magistrates of logic, and the philosophers of all noble thought, have averred that that which cannot not be proven to exist, must therefore not only exist, but thence have a fair chance of winning a pie-eating contest at the Hognuts Inn. Not to mention, swilling a fine measure of mead into the bargain.
6) Indeed. So, for the nonce, we are left with slatherings of pie, spilled tankards of ale and mead, and some unholy stench attending the proceedings. And, most notably, the wretched form of one Mouse, slumped about.