Colonial Wattlesburg

A story, like most stories, just needs to be told. After all, why should one be kept wondering? History, although fascinating in itself, should always be studied. History that involves a tale, well, that just needs to be read.

To start this adventurous journey, one must place themselves in a precarious state of thought. An understanding of distinctive survival intuition would be greatly regarded, in fact, it is imperative. Frailty has no place in this tale. I ascertain that curiosity has beseeched you. Dear Reader, then do let us begin…

To set the scene, you must imagine how the wind blows peacefully through the old oak trees. Their branches rustling with the first, fresh, tiny, green leaves, a glimpse of spring and a promise of shade to come for the feathered settlers residing underneath in the tiny township known as Wattlesburg. It is a most welcome sight indeed.

You may be wondering how this township came to be. Well, Dear Reader, let me enlighten you at once. It had been a long winter with many changes. The Caprine family of Nigerian Dwarf dairy goats had generously offered to share their home with the newly arrived chickens, but had cleverly left out a full description of their abode. Their barn, while large and spacious, was riddled with drafts and cobwebs, and while the chickens might not have complained, they were quite disappointed. They did their best to co-exist peacefully with the goats, but, as you know, Dearest Reader, goats, while playful and kind, are notoriously greedy. Lord Hamish imposed a corn tax and reduced the feathered settlers grain rations. The goats became quite fatigued with the hens for laying eggs in their hay troughs, and the hens in turn became quite fatigued with the goats for eating their nests, which they would have you know, are quite labor-some to construct. But when precious eggs were trodden under hoof it was the final straw. Sir Matthew Crowley knew he had to take action.

To be continued in our next correspondence….