It's been a while since we talked, but in that time the demographics of Bent Barrow Farm have radically shifted. This summer, a weasel struck (nine hens dead in 72 hours), then we found other homes for all but our oldest remaining chickens. Our barnyard fowl population is now down from nineteen to three (Chanticleer, Daphne, and Feather). Those three are moving to Granny Joan's house this fall. Daphne and Chanticleer were originally hers before they moved here 7 years ago and she says she would be glad to take them back. It is just as well: the humans need more room to grow delicious apples, pears, carrots, and similar delectable edibles for me, Fenway Bartholomule. Here's the permanent cast: Me, Fenway Bartholomule. I am the king and benign overlord of Bent Barrow Farm. I am in charge of eating the grasses, braying the news of the day, and standing vigilant against suspicious atmospheric apparitions*. (*I am afraid of rainbows). My darling, Miss Arrietty G. Teaspoon....