Preludes and Inkhorns

My kingdom for a crone’s tinctures to cure this demoniacal sneezing! Yet and still, it is impossible to maintain a sour countenance in this verdant wonder. I was even able to barter for a new inkhorn and quills. Come to think on it, literacy and letter writing are surprisingly common on this strange island. I suppose that is logical. We have nothing but time, why not learn letters from a fellow. In a closed system like this, literacy spreads. Language as pathogen, though a most delightful contagion, I dare say. Arriving in town, I found a proper place to wash the road dust from my throat. My smiling fancy occasioned me to whistle. Instantly, a gnarled oak of a man stood at my side, saying, “Enjoy your drink stranger, but best not be whistling, singing, nor dancing.” At first, I thought myself the butt of some provincial jest. How positively Calvinistic! However, given the graveness of his continence and immense size of his oaken knuckles, I thought it politic to acquiesce. Everyone in the room was merry enough, but there was no music or singing. Conversation was kept to a low murmur. -Ichabod Shaw