Sore Ailing

The almighty hand be surely turned agin us and ours. Be plagued wi mould inside and out all be covered wi dankness and dire green crusted slime. I be taken bad with the twitchy sickness and canna sleep a wink o nights for the shaking and skin slipping. Can scarce get a grip of the quill to pen this note for the shivers in the finger bones. The waters rise and rise at the door and we seen the first of the frogs even before the month was out. The fruit of the apple tree lays a rotting on the sward with the crows fighting to the end wi the buzzard for the windfalls. Soon all will be wiped and washed away into the ceaseless torrents.

Hapless and Marshfooling

Tis a long weary time since I done get through to the box to send all the missives off. Many a weary yard of bog and mire with the nagging sound of the spectre athwart the trees. The trees theyselves be groaning and straining with every blast of they gales of the north. Then after all days a trudging and slopping the box be all blocked up and nailed down fast. So I have ter go on through the dim dingy evetide till I find a box that be not shut up, a hard finding in these grim days. Then all the letters be damp and moulding from being kept in the wet sack for such a long time. I drops them in the post nevertheless. They may bring some small crumb of cheer to long distant kinfolk over the Yuletide seasons. I can scarce bear to think of them a seated round the festive board wondering where be their letter of bad tidings from Aunt Jude. Then have I to find my long way back though the night wood, scarce daring to breathe out loud lest the beast of the piney copse do hear me and take the pursuit. No man alive has seen the beast but all do say canst hear the scraping sounds as it runs its seven claws down the bark afore it pounces on the weary soul homegoing at the unearthly hour.