THE PASS-AROUND

Found paper — one much-thumbed sheet, folded in eight, corner worn soft. The parish's own periodical: hand-copied, one copy, passed house to house. This one was recovered mid-circulation, on its way to the Hobys.

THE PASS-AROUND · the parish's own · one copy, mind the corners · on to the Hobys by Friday, they've waited a fortnight and Nan's not getting younger

TEA WEATHER IS HERE, GIRLS

Three dry days running and the Rennie boys are up on the chapel roof re-reeding the north slope in nothing but their shirts, and this office has never seen the lane so swept. Six doorsteps done twice. Widow Marle has cleaned the same step since Tuesday and it was clean on Monday.

Is there tea? There is always tea. Keep your dignity and your kettle hot, and remember the one parish rule that matters: you may look at a thatcher, at length, over a cup, for as long as the dry holds — but the moment you carry the cup out to him, you have declared yourself in front of the whole lane, so time it, girls. Time it.

DEAR GAMMER

Our problem page. She forgives nobody and answers everything.

Dear Gammer — a young man walks the long way past my gate four times a week and will not speak. My aunt says the roof's bad this year. What do I do? — Anxious, of Mucklecombe

Gammer says: Your aunt is a liar and a saint and you should thank her, because the roof is fine. Put a bucket out you do not need. If he stops to help you carry it, that is his answer. If he offers to mend it, marry him. On the rest of it, depth not established; give it till autumn and stop wearing the good apron to fetch water, everyone can see you.

Dear Gammer — my neighbour has had the Pass-Around three days and will not send it on. — Waiting, Peatdike

Gammer says: Knock. Take a scone. Leave without it and you have lost both. This is why the rule is on the masthead, child, and the rule is not a joke.

THE DRY STRANGER — a penny-reed, Part the Ninth

When last we left her, Prudence had been cornered at the Drudgeford ford by the Tithe-Man's clerk, and a stranger in a dry coat — a dry coat, in this — had stepped out of the reeds and said nothing at all… Turn to the middle plate for his likeness, and mind the fold — the last reader tore it clean across his shoulders and we are all, still, very disappointed in the Podds.

QUIZ · WHICH BELL ARE YOU?

Count your answers and consult nobody.

• Mostly the Iron Bell — you ring whether the rope is pulled or not; people find you a great deal, and

cannot always say why they came.

• Mostly the cracked one in the tower — beautiful, unreliable, and everybody's favourite; you will be

mended one day and it will be a shame.

• Mostly the Fog-Bell — heard only when things are at their worst, and never once resented for it.
• Mostly one of the four nobody can account for — do not answer question three. That one is about you.

THIS SEASON EVERYONE IS SAYING

"It's manners" — of anything you insist on doing the long way. · "Daddy or chips?" — of any hard choice, usually supper. · "Straw is not a wall" — to a man who has just found out. · "Is there tea?" — you know full well. · and, still, always, "mind the bucket."

That's your lot. Pass it ON. Do NOT keep it a second day — you know who you are, Peatdike. The Hobys are waiting, Nan's eyes are going, and a periodical kept is a periodical killed.

(Archivist's note: this is the only publication in the realm with a circulation of exactly one and a readership of the entire district. No copy has ever been sold, because there has only ever been the copy, and it has never once, in living memory, failed to arrive.)