by Pete Prown
* * *
Sept. the 15th, 1654, A.B.
My dearest Cousin Blythe,
We’ve been enjoying a visit with Grandmama Goodbody all summer and making the most of this faire weather.
Thimble Down is a pleasant inland village, so much Different from the bustle of St. Borgo, yet quaint in its way. The townsfolke are amiable in their Country Manner, yet crude in equal measure, but that’s to be Expected.
Indeed, there’s barely any form of Learning beyond the most Primitive degree. I won’t deny, however, these Halflings exude a rural charm, if you know what I mean. Sweet, but perhaps a little Dim. (Oh, I know I’m Cruel—but so too, Honest.)
Perhaps the most Intriguing part of our Summer excursion has been to the Great Wood, a wondrous forest just north of the hamlet itself. There are many Wonders in this bosque, from magnificent Stags and Bears to slithering reptiles and birds of all size and hue.
But no, what has interested so far is this Strange Gentleman I’ve met on several occasions. He’s an Odd little duck who speaks in a squeaky voice and stands a foot lower than myself. Apparently, he’s a Vagabond who resides near a vast elm known as The Meeting Tree, and is reputed to be conversant with many of the four-legged beasts of the Wood.
Laugh if you must, Cousin Blythe—I certainly did initially. But on no fewer than Three Occasions, I witnessed this Halfling speaking to greenery and the walking creatures of the Woodlands. On one occasion, he spoke to a Mighty Oak tree and asked how the Weather was faring upon its Crown.
A moment later, the funny fellow said the Oak had informed him that Rain was about to pour down on Our Heads and we should move to cover. We tittered and mocked the little imp, but verily, it Poured upon us not moments later and quite hard, too.
We were Soaked to the Bone, as well as the Halfling, but he seemed to enjoy it and mocked us in return for not listening to the Tree, cackling, “Always listen to yon Oaks, sir—they’re among the most Trustworthy trees in thee Forest.”
On another day, he espied us enjoying a picnic in a Deep Dell and said that a family of Honey Badgers lived here and the father had specifically advised him to remind guests to stay quiet. Apparently, the Good Mrs. Badger had just delivered a litter of babes and needed rest.
Again, we jeered the little Thimble Downer and told him to Leave us in Peace, but he replied that we’d been Warned and that Papa Badger had a bad temper. Of course, no sooner had the Vagabond departed than a fierce black-and-white beast leapt from his Warren, spitting and snarling at Us most Frightfully. Suffice to say, we Fled in Terror, but the small fellow had again shown his Prescience.
I’ve spoken to others about the Queer Chap, and they say, “Oh, it’s just Him that speaks to all in the Wood, sleeps in the Hollows, and naps with his funny Floppy Hat pulled down over his eyes. That is the way of the Heartwood.”
That’s all I have time for today, Cousin, but I thought you’d find this Illuminating. Imagine—a mystical being who converses with Wild, Ill-Mannered Things. As I said at the outset, we’ve enjoyed our weeks in Thimble Down, not the least of which is because of this Odd and Utterly fascinating Halfling.
Tell your mother we return to St. Borgo before the leaves change color, bearing gifts and souvenirs for all. Even so, I believe I shall miss this humble, funny little place.
It has grown upon me.
Yours Eternally,
—Cousin Wilf.
(Mr. Wilfred Q. Lemondrop)