an epistle

                                                            17th of March, 1768 Anno Domini

Deareft Sifter,

I write to you from the confines of the Monaftery. Spring approacheth with all deliberate speed and the Dogwoods are putting forth their beft efforts at greenery. Geefe and frogs accumulate in the lands and airs round about the place, singing in their various wises and delighting the ear grown weary of the groans of Furnaces.

Dumped once more I have been. This is a few weeks ago now. Simmering unpleafantness was the refult, as it always is. The Breaking-up is not an amufing experience. Even with plenty of fair warning it ground againft my Mind for a week or so, of greater duration than even Damian 'Jr. Gong' Marley's sonic endeavour yclept 'Welcome to Jamrocke'.

One day a week or two past I drove the Tractor (my firft word, Mother always ufed to say) out to tranfport piles of Dirt from one side of the building to the other. Later, having parked the Machine and walking along the Route taken earlier, I efpied a Frog of not inconfiderable size, approximately half a hand's-breadth, crouched on the Pavement not far from where I had driven. I infpected the little Fellow and soon afcertained that his Head had been partially crufhed, no doubt by the Wheel of that very Tractor I had been driving. Some innards protruded slightly out of the left side of his head. He yet lived, though rather impaffively. I hunkered down to give him my full Regard. He regarded me in return. A wafhing flood of Sadness came over me. "I am sorry," I said. The Frog, a moft pitiable figure, made slow, half-completed moves towards me. The great Pity and Sorrow I felt for him intenfified. He seemed not to know what was happening or who I was; perhaps he fancied me a Friend, a large Frog-helper, or even a juicy Worm, not knowing that I was the very Architect of his present Trouble. Now and again he put a Foreleg forward, making efforts towards I know not what end. "I am sorry, I am so sorry," I murmured. This poor Creature's life had been irreverfibly, without warning or good Reafon, damaged by me. "I am so sorry." That ancient air of Fleetwood Mack's, "Laye Me Downe in the Tall Graffe and Let Me Do My Stuffe," entered my Imagination, and, after tempting the green Gentleman with a makefhift Poole of water, which was not to his liking, I heeded the tuneful Injunction and gently bedded him in a patch of thick spring Graff nearby.

A few Hours later I returned. The Amphibian was no more for this World. His body was stretched forth, as though he had attempted one final Frog's-Leap, one laft flowering forth of that Force that had carried him from Egg, to Tadpole, to doughty Fly-hunter and Serenader of Lady-frogs. The Grief I felt for him, and for all of us who dwell for a time in this World that seems often to have no Senfe or Plan, where Justice is a word of mere human Fabrication, and in which bitter Suffering is the lot of all of us sooner or later, intenfified unbearably. I refolved to conftruct for my departed Fellow-worldling a Coffin, a suitable Refting-Box in which his mortal remnants might be encafed with some Dignity, Dignity with which the manner of his mortal Wounding had not been provided. 

So after the evening repaft, I repaired to the carpentry Shop and, using some scraps of frefh cedar Wood, I hammered together a rough Box. I had not inconfiderable difficulty in getting some of the Nails to enter the wood without bending awry, having to re-hammer a dozen or more, and as Nail after Nail twifted and warped against my intention and my defire, my Fruftration and Anger and great Sorrow grew to a pitch, and I struck the hammer indifcriminately on the Work-table, shouting with rage. At laft, though, I managed to complete the tiny Coffin, whereupon I lined it with some Blades of the aforementioned Tall Graffe, placed within it the limp Corpfe of the Amphibian, and bore it to the ceremonial Garden in which memorials to Children who have died untimely are placed, and in which is buried the former ancient Dogge of the Monaftery. Sobbing now, toes uncovered and chilled, speaking over and over the Words "I am sorry, I am sorry, I am so sorry," I fafhioned a small Frog-grave in the Earth and lowered the tiny Box down in to it.

This small Story I felt I should share with you, my deareft Sifter, though the reafon why I could not say. I hope that this letter finds you in good Health, so precious a poffeffion, and that the Seas of Turmoil in your Heart will know Stillnefs for some few moments. It is such moments, Sips of Eternity, that can refrefh us for the onward Journey.

                                                       Your own Brother,

                                                                        Edwin