Although why the divil is always a man I don’t know. Could be a woman. But probable is neither one nor the other. Just a thing. Anyway what’s wrong with the divel. Better the divel you know thatn the pope you never see.

I know these woods like them birds nesting down by the beck. There’s that bit where the deer rest every winter and where they wander looking for fresh young shoots and leaves. And that grassy place, the clearing where them huts used to be. And there’s the foxes at one end near what used to be the orchard and badgers up top by the big field.

The orchard is great for me. There’s eaters and cookers and keeper over there. And plums in season. People are scared of them but I don’t know why. Apples. Good for you. Hazle close by an all. And some chestnuts. All good. They keep well. And there’s mushrooms. There’s always good ones round here. Folk think blue ones are nasty but there not. Taste a bit lickerish. And them yeller legs and penny buns plenty on em at the right time o year. Very tasty with some of that bread I get from bakers in village.

Occsional coney. Dead stuff run over stuff. Not big but good roast.

The way it changes is grand. Them colours. Dead wood for a fire. And farmer looks after me from time to time. Lambing and clearing. Cutting and checking alls well.

And I walk round everywhere. Bump into folks. Get and do some singin in the house. The Robin or the Fox. No music. Just voice. Them good tunes. Tam Lin. Maria martin. I’ve seen them down my woods. Prancin and doins. Chantin and dancin.

Some says the divel gets all the good chewns. Good for the divel I say. Them down chapel are a right misery lot. Allus worryin about stuff. Not me. No. Not me.

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