Ye Olde Turnip Patch

Aye, hath not we had a full measure of nature’s miscreant, Yeoman Mouse? Ever it is so. Begging thine indulgence, kind reader of this charnel house of words, we nonetheless bend our thoughts hitherward, that is, on the path to that forlorn crumb of land, a far corner of the Wubble Shire, to whit, the turnip patch of that redoubtable rodent, Yeoman Mouse.

After a journey by cart, on a path as straight and smooth as the earthquakes of Hades, we do, to our considerable displeasure, espy said patch of that oddly-shaped vegetable. And, betimes, a shack, uhmm, cottage, to be kind in our description.

To be exact, an irregular polygon of timber, stone, straw, mortar, mud, and a few less salutory materials: constructed (if we may use such a term when haphazardly-arranged might better apply to the method) so as to comprise a make-shift shelter. In short, this is where said Mouse abides.

One might say that our Yeoman lives thereat; indeed, with a hearth within, as such chimney doth imply, and, with a heap of vegetation atop, which might verily be construed as a roof, witha. We might, without blasphemy to the language, call this structure a home.

Endeavoring to continue in our generous assessment of Yeoman Mouse’s property, we turn our gaze from said house to said patch of those glorious orbs, turnips. Betimes, we find plenty of those worthy souls of the vegetable family therein. Some, it is known, actually live.

Now, it is customary, since Roman times at the least, that such items as grown here, successfully or not, might, in due course, stand harvest. Thereupon, the yeoman, clever simpleton that he might be, procures a cart on which to pile the better specimens of his crop. Such like may then bear propelling to the nearest village square–Wubbleshire in our example–and upon a Saturday, a proprietor shall then sell such foodstuffs to those who might seek them, who, hungry by and by, cook suchlike and deposit worthy portions upon their dinner plates.

Well, as is known in the Shire, there reside an assortment of, let us say, creatures of rare description, not just Yeoman Mouse. These abominations, being exceedingly clever, barter assiduously. Therefore, it is known, if not spoken, that Mouse, for a few menial tasks, has the Witch Toad enchant his turnip patch now and then.

The unholy result? Gigantic turnips. Yea, it is said that such prodigies, displayed on the market square of a harvest morning, command a price copious in ducats. Not to mention the fact that such worthies who thus bargain with Mouse for these remarkabe turnips, must hire a cart for just a solitary giant turnip.

Everyone’s quite pleased with this apparently miraculous cornucopia of the vegetable kingdom. In particular, Yeoman Mouse. His profit is such that he, having finished that day’s honest labors, can repair directly to the Hognuts Inn. Verily, doth the mead not flow as free as the Avon or the Thames on such fine occasions.

No less satiated, the Witch Toad has all she requireth; as the other part of the bargain Mouse so faithfully fulfills. For, sad to say, she must depend on such reputable characters (verily, Mouse pass for reputable, in these parts) to do such business on her behalf in the village. As we creatures look aghast, and unfairly shun those, whom, through no fault of their own, keenly resemble amphibian grotsequeries with pointy hats, such as that good woman.

Less happy might be those notable purchasers of said giant turnips. Oh, we do not mean that they were not unsatisfied as to how the things tasted. Nay, quite excellent, runs the universal opinion on that score. Mayhaps, there would be this curious side effect of eating of Yeoman Mouse’s giant turnips: a mite of shrinkage.

Betimes, our average stalwart gentleman of the day standeth four-and-one-half feet; upon awakening from his pleasant eve’s slumber, however, said gentlemen find themselves but four-and-a-half inches tall. In short (a dangerous pun, thereupon) such worthies are indeed only fractionally taller than Yeoman Mouse.

You see, the Witch-toad, not a decidedly evil entity, made, shall we say, a slight error whilst pronouncing her incantation over Mouse’s once normal turnips. We must allow that Her Toadship cannot too severly be judged.

For it is one thing for an out-and-out wizard to miscast a spell, but the Witch-toad, not quite of a wizard’s learned stature, perchance mispronounced the Latin phraseology. Thus her magic was thereby spurred along an untrammeled path, as it were.

Doth not events, betimes, take on an unknown cast? As we see have thus then seen, those fellows known as fairies, indeed are of that tribe which doth partake of Yeoman Mouse’s enchanted turnips.

Peradventure, Mouse, we relate, indeed hath a notable destiny under the firmament; ah, Mouse, the squeaky but noble rodent that thou art, ye hath added mightily, though through a questionable arc, to the folk ways of your Shire.

Betimes, to the entirety of the Realm of the Good King Assklown, in this Year 920; as witnessed thereby under the eyes of the Seven Wonders of the World, the vagaries of the Four Winds, the tumult of the Seven Seas, and the loathsome effulgence from the washtub of Yeoman Mouse, we dedicate our humble missive, and endeavor to follow thine wise path.

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