William Windsor.

The conspiracy of becoming, the inostensible ambit of poetic metamorphosis, in its pervasively abundant pith, redeeming the quiet angst of solitudinous longevity, into the prodigal munificence of spring. The touch of grace, immutably concomitant with the hardihood of pragmatic faith, and unyielding prayer, ...a life of passionate delirium. I was a peasant, once upon a deplorable langsyne, and could not find the adequate rudiments of pecuniary sustenance, in the art of carpentry. My industry was subservient to the wealthy men, who often rhapsodized of my mahogany poiesis, only to repudiate my penury with dimunitive sums of wage. I could not face my only daughter, young and destitute of education, without a mother for womanly commiseration. I was only a taciturn old man, madenned, at desultory intervals by insatiable alcoholism. It made me cruel and miserable, and my dear Linda, was my only witness. One night as I was working in my yard, I saw a woman. She was a brunette, with mauve hyaloid eyes, and rubescent lips. Her face was oval, with a gravity of mature benevolence, such as Davinci's Lady with an Ermine, and she was clad in motley colours. She paused at a juvenile distance, and inspected my countenance, until her eyes made me weary, weary as a camel.

"What is it woman, what is it that you desire from this, senescent lizard of a man?" I quethe with a quiver and in the most dulcet voluminous cadence, I have ever heard, she responded,

"I am Amaryllis" it was only this that she effused, and I grew more weary. My weariness turned, into horror, when she began to rapture into the air, and all the drapes upon her, became supernumerous white wings, and her volume was enveloped into her axis, so that a leviathanic mauve eye, was cast fourth. I tumbled onto the ground with a gasp of aghast awe, and she continued to speak,

"There shall be new spawns in your field, William Windsor" and in that instant, she evanesced, so that the echo of her voice, lingered in my marrow. It was upon the morning that, I received a peculiar missive, of sophisticated impletion from a solivagant knight. The bog of yesternight's thoughts still gyred me with overwrought ferment, but I cannot forget the words,

"You have been invited by her majesty, on the Sabbath. Your woodwork is commendable, and one of the lords has spoken well of you Mr. Windsor."