roofer and timber worker, of Kuttenberg
“I mend what others let fall into ruin, and I take my time doing it. A rushed job is a ruined job, as the proverb goes.”
Things William Miller had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Thursday after the Invention of the Cross, at Vespers
Grain prices soar again. I shared a cup of sour beer with Thomas Welvara today. The Hungarian soldiers eat everything the town produces, while our wages stay the same. It is a hard season for a man who must climb ladders.
Nota scribaeThe man spoke very slowly and crossed his arms often while dictating.
the Monday before St George, at None
Jan Miller has pawned a padded jack belonging to Heinz the hired hand. The boy throws his groschen away on ale instead of saving for his own tools. A beating is exactly what he needs to learn the value of a promise.
Keep your nose out of my affairs, old man. Old Godfrey will have it back to me soon enough.
He better, or I'll be the one delivering that beating, William.
the second day of Easter week, at Prime
I heard Claus Herzog and John Carter shouting at their fathers again. Washerwomen and banished girls! This town has lost its discipline. A young man should respect his elders and focus on his trade, not chase skirts until his family is ruined.
Rosa is a saint, William! You know nothing of it.
Milena is the only good thing in my life. Mind your ladders and leave us be.
the Wednesday of the second week of Lent, at Terce
Richard Field demands the iron adze back again, like a spoiled child impatient for a toy. He said there was no rush when he lent it at Candlemas! My shed roof is still not whole, and every day I find a new loose board. He must wait.
It has been weeks, William! I have my own work to do, and I cannot scrounge for tools while you take a month to fix one shed!
A rushed job is a ruined job, Richard. You will have it when the shed is sound, and not a day sooner.
Nota scribaeThe man planted his feet apart and glared at the inkwell while speaking.
the day after Candlemas, at Sext
God rest Master Denis. He died of a winter fever just before the feast. He ran the timber yard with a fair hand and paid a decent wage. Now we are at the mercy of harsh German foremen who expect a man to break his neck hurrying.
Aye, Denis was a good master. The yard will never be the same.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Aye, William. And with disobedient sons to feed, it is a bitter draught indeed.
A father's word is absolute, Thomas. If the boys learned discipline, we'd all fare better.