worker of the far strip, of Kuttenberg
“I grow cabbages and onions past the Pschitoky road. It is honest dirt and I pull a fair crop.”
Things John Alder had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of Whitsun, at None
The onions are coming up nicely, despite the hard earth. I hauled ten buckets from the stream before Terce. Then Christina came out to the plot, squawking like a blind sheep about selling it again. I just gave a groan and kept hoeing. Sakra, a man cannot even sweat in peace.
Nota scribaeDictated at the field edge. The man wiped his filthy hands on his breeches before speaking.
the feast of St Mark, at Vespers
Robert paced the hall until Matins again, worrying over the new levy lists Anthony is writing at the town hall. I told him he's fretting over wind. If they take him, they take him. The soil doesn't care who goes to war, it only cares who hauls the manure.
It is easy for you to say, John. You just hide in your cabbages while the rest of us wait to die.
the Thursday after Easter, at Compline
Three winters since my father Maurice took the coughing sickness and died. Mother cooked a decent stew to mark it, but she still portions my bowl like I am a boy. I am the one who kept this family from starving, working that dirt when father left us nothing but debts.
You eat what you are given, John, and you will speak well of your father in this house.
Standa says a learned man makes his own fortune, without getting covered in muck every day.
Nota scribaeThe mother was present and glared at him the entire time he spoke.
the second week of Lent, at Terce
Broke three clods the size of anvils this morning. The frost is deep this year, but my back is broad enough to bear it. I pulled roots until None. A weakling like that scribe Standa would have wept after one row, but I had the whole patch turned by Vespers.
Standa has soft hands because he works with a pen at the Italian Court, not because he is weak!
Candlemas, at Prime
Candlemas, and the ground is still frozen solid as a stone. Christina cornered me before the bells even rang, demanding we go to the bailiff to divide the strip. I told her the land is my birthright as the only son. Without it, I am just a beggar sleeping under another man's roof.
Father never made a will! It is not your birthright just because you are too stubborn to listen!
Both of you, hush. You give me a headache thicker than a millstone.
Nota scribaeThe dictation was interrupted by a long, heavy groan from the speaker.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
It is half mine, John! Bartholomew needs that silver for us to wed before the summer!
Bartholomew needs silver to drink at the alehouse. He is as useless as a rooted stump.