Mired and Mithering

Tis many weary weeks to endure afore the winter winds fall still and owr wood is allus dwindled to nowt. There be no shed to keep the timber from the rain so owr hearth be bleak and bare as the ice on the duck pond. I dursn't step out the door for fear of the badgers and they tunnels. If t'wernt so boggy and slithery the tunnels were to be under the floor and we'd be sinking deeper into the pits. Tis no moon at the night and the sounds of the howling Gappergennies are fit to chill the soul to the marrow bones. Then the sign we all been dreading for the years end has appeared. The monstrous red toad has been sighted in the depths of the darkwoods. I scarce can ...