Re: She Tells Her Story - Letter to The Gnome

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Posted by Gnome on October 28, 2000 at 16:11:23:

In Reply to: She Tells Her Story - Letter to The Gnome posted by She Who Tracks La Longue Carabine on October 28, 2000 at 14:19:51:

Dear She,

My, you HAVE gotten around, haven't you? You are very lucky - or I should say Hector is! I've heard some tribes, especially the western tribes, have a taste for canine. (That's CANINE, dammit Doc, NOT cannibis. Don't you have a sick customer to flog or something?)

I do know the north territories of Wiscone sin are very pretty most times of the year with nary a sin to be seen, however we are I am told coming into the sinful season. Snow. Snow is bad.
Snow is evil. Evil evil evil. As anybody who has lived in the regions where snow is unknown can tell you, Gnomes hate snow. This gnome does. Hates it almost more than Huron. More than sneaky Frenchie traders - and THEY would steal the pennies off a dead man's eyes! Why, I hate snow almost as much as I do a certain depraved Doctorus Lascivious who delights in tormenting wee folk and doing them harm. Yes, Dear She, there is evil in Wiscone sin and is to be found in the months of December through March sartain. During those months the snow is likely over a gnomes head, and let me tell you it is TOUGH trying to wade through that crap when it is over your head. Plus, nobody can see us under all that white stuff chugging along and often we get tromped on by careless humans. It is a sad thing to see the small pathetic gnomely grease stains of flattened wee folk come spring thaw. Even more horrifying is when those same careless humans are wearing *gasp* snow shoes. Why, then they put their huge feet down and we are cubed like so much cheese. That's when you see a certain demented old hag running around gleefully at first thaw picking the poor gnome croutons up cackling "butter, ah, soon we have butter - a little warming, a little stirring and straining and walla! The finest gnome butter".

However, gnomes are fortunately prolific folk and our numbers continue to increase. Only were we ever threatened with extinction once during the great mushroom drought.

Well, She, I will let you get back to your hunt for another pot of berry ink and wait to hear further of your journeys.


: Dear Gnome,

: Well I finally got that birch bark stripped and dried out enough to make paper for a letter, but then I had to find me some ink for my goosequill pen, and that took a while. Fort'nately there was a blackberry patch under the birches, and mixed with a leetle mud for stickin' power, I hope the blackberry juice holds onto the bark long enough for ye to read the story o' my trek around the colonies and the western territories where I never been afore.

: I was bendin' over pickin' some fine mushrooms for ye, and when I straightened up to take the crick outten my back, everwhere I looked I seed a red face and the trappin's o' the Hurons. Well, sartain I was surrounded, and there was no use fightin' it, so they took me prisoner. Come to find out they thought I was La Longue Carabine until they tied me up to a sappling by my wrists, and then one of 'em looked closer at my hands and pointed to my thumbs. "Not La Longue Carabine", he said. "Thumbs too short."

: It was then they discovered, besides not bein' La Longue Carabine, I was a woman instead, and they figgered I might could be useful for carryin' their pelts to their huntin' camp. So off we went into the howlin' wilderness at a mighty pace and kept on for most o' two days afore they run across a Delaware huntin' party. By this time, they decided I was not so good for carryin' pelts, since I tended to lag some under more than a hundred pounds. So they traded me to the Delaware tribe for a quart o' parched corn and a mule which the Delawares had stole from a French trapper a while back.

: Well, the Delawares was a skinny and starvin' pack of Indians, but they was a gentle folk and let me and Hector go with 'em 'cause Hector is a good squirrel catcher, and they love squirrel stew, which we ate mornin' and night ever day on the whole trip, and I don't care if I never eat a squirrel agin, sartain. Thus, we traveled all across Pennsylvania and further and finally around the bottom of a lake which makes the Glimmerglass look like a frog pond in the woods, and then the Delawares, also bein' tired o' squirrel stew by this time, met up with a northern war tribe and traded me for a pot o' bear grease and two venison haunches.

: This tribe did not speak any language I had come across, despite knowin' most o' the eastern languages and much o' the Delaware tongue. They kept pointin' to themselves and sayin' "Men O' Mini Knees", but I never seed as their knees was much smaller than anybody elses, so I don't know where they come by that name. Then they started pointin' northward and sayin' "Wiscone's Sin", by which I believe they meant an evil place o' some sort, but since I never heerd o' any partic'lar sins Uncle Wiscone committed that might could've got a place named after him, I decided to wait 'til I got home to ask the details. Then these Indians started pointin' agin and sayin, "Men O' Mini Knees Falls". Well, sartain, I figgered men with mini knees would have a harder time gettin' along a trail than ordinary, but I didn't want to offend anybody, so I said nothin' - just nodded and followed along.

: Unfort'natly, I'm runnin' outten birch bark and BLOB BLOB SMEAR the black.....r r ry j........smear is about gone, so wi . . . . l finish the st.......smear drip.....ory when I get BLOT BLOT BLOT m......or.....e.

: She
: driiiiiiiiippppppppppp

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