frost
We stepped into the frosty morning and the grass cracked under our feet. The sun had not yet reached the fields around us. There was no sign of footsteps, save our own and the hooves of sheep, anywhere around the house and barns. Unless our father had grown hooves, or sprouted wings, he had not left the house during the night. When sun at last reached us, it lit up the billows of steam escaping our mouths and melted away the cold morning and any remaining paths in the frost. My sister and I scraped the ice and mud off our boots and passed back through to the kitchen.
The room was scrubbed clean, a pungent smell of ammonia, cider vinegar scrub and mothballs blended with a pot of something stewing on the top of the stove, a cloven hoof sticking at an awkward angle out from under a self-basting cast iron lid. Molly was gone, the rocker in the corner was still empty, and experience had told us that Mr. McCrunkstale would be busy in the barn with morning chores. It was time to do a little snooping.
As my father has stated, this farmhouse is typical of New Hampshire, In effort to avoid the cold winter winds, and to gain the body heat of the farm animals, almost all of the buildings on the farm are connected. The task of exploring room after room of the rambling homestead would be a daunting one. We gathered candles from the sideboard and started into the pantry.
Composed by Dr. G on Sunday, Nov. 23, 2008
Gentle Reader Responses
Tara says:
Sounds chilly, and a bit daunting indeed... Good luck.
Loryienne says:
Perhaps you should consider slipping further out the door and running!!!!
svendy says:
Where I can subscribe to the RSS feed? PS. Thx for answer
coarodoro says:
Thank you! generally excellent, 2 good news - your site is found and the summer began to say life can be successful, and you can rest
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