The harvest is almost behind us here in Pennygown. This year saw a larger than usual number of our neighbors turn up to help reap the corn. They always come after the blessing given by Father MacMillan. Several Pennygowners will help them in turn. The harvest everywhere has to be in soon, no later than St. Michael’s Day for certain. It was a joy to watch all the young children try to make corn dollies just for fun, annoyed as usual by the older children who put down their sickles to spoil the bairns’ efforts. As the days get shorter and shorter now, all look forward to celebrating the maiden fashioned of the last sheaf cut brought in on the hock cart. The maiden is a treasured thing, held high as it arrives back to the stackyard. Missing this year at the much-awaited kirn feast will be old Caleb, the sailor, whose death was mentioned last time.

We must apologize to Claton the beekeeper. Seems a mere mention of his resident brownie in this column was enough to cause the brownie to leave in high dudgeon. If anyone knows of any brownies willing to help poor Claton with his bees, please call on him. His gudewife Letta reports that he is really down.

Alexander McConical reports that he’d been over to the Morrison’s cottage where he was invited to partake of a rare treat. Potatoes were boiling over the fire. The pot was almost musical as the lid danced upon it. He watched as the water disappeared, leaving steam in its place. This prompted Jennie Morrison to quickly hoist the pot a few links up. She then placed some fresh herring upon the potatoes. The lid was tightened over this and allowed to stand. Eventually the pot was lifted off the fire and placed in the middle of the floor. The family said grace then all scrambled to dip their hands into the pot to scoop out a potato in one hand and a nip of herring in the other. Though embarrassed, Alex followed suit. "A taste fit for a king," he said of the experience.

Overheard at the inn: Outrage was expressed by one old traveler who said he’d watched a grave stone being stolen from atop a coffin being borne to a nearby cemetery. There was a skirmish, but the thief got away with the stone. This remark was followed by a story told by a tipler who was cursed (as he called it) with second-sight. He remarked that he actually saw the wraith of a dead man carrying a stone away from a cemetery to put on his own grave which lacked a marker. Scary stuff I’d say.

Auld Annie tells us: "If September comes in caul’ an’ weet, ye’ll shear your corn amon’ snaw an’ sleet."