The Good Old Days are Lost Forever and Gone for a Burton

Tis nearly time for the harvest festivities but we done already picked the tomato and made broth to see us through the winter months. I niver did see such a time for poor pickings, the apple be the size of a tomato and the tomato be scarcely bigger than a blackcurrant. Tis not like the old days when the lord used to come round arter the shooting and offer us all a pair o nice juicy rooks to set us right. I still can nearly smile when I do think about the time when he ask Ada how many rooks she did want and she turned round and said, None, Sire because I ain't got no garden. Foolish Ada she be such a townie that she did think of hanging the rooks up to scare the varmints away from the taters and coddles. Well the lord turned round and sent her straight off to Cook to learn her how to cook a fine rook pie. The gentry ain't what they used to be, and that's as true as a Starkadder mile.

A Lonesome Hound Appears

Well I been a toiling and a moiling all the long days of summer and now here we be with autumn upon us and nary a pippin or a scroggin to show for all that moiling and toiling in the heaving rains. Twill be a shabby harvest festival for sure. I be standing by the ole tree searching for signs of apples when the fox come leaping out the hedge like the old nick himsell was arter him. Then a lone hound come chasing him but there were no huntsman or shouts of tantivvy to be seen nor heard. Where do such a hound come from, all by itsell with no pack nor masters? Tis a worrisome portent when the hounds depart the pack. The damsons did all rot afore August was out and I dinna know how we can eat with no fruit on the vine.