24th of February 1897


Editorial

The boy who fell in love with a Goddess
By R. J. Frogvarian

Once upon a time, in a far away land, there lived a boy at the edge of a forest. He lived in a small, single-room house with a small bed, a pot to cook with, and a book of stories. He fed himself with what he found in the forest, fruits, fungi, furry creatures he hunted, always taking only what was necessary for his survival.
One day, as he ventured into the forest, he heard a cry of great pain. Then again. Again. Cautiously he followed the sound. Very soon he came upon a clearing. In the middle of it was a fallen tree and under it, a great crow twice his size. The crow shrieked and cried and shook, trying to free itself from under the tree. The boy watched with awe. Then, slowly, he approached. The crow’s eyes darted towards the boy. It watched as he walked towards the tree and pushed. He pushed and pushed and pushed, until the great bird was free. It shook once more and let out another shriek. The boy could see its wing was broken, and though the crow was calm, he could see pain in its eyes. He took a few branches from the tree and bound them with vines, making a support for the wing. However, it was getting dark, and the boy could not linger. He placed a rabbit, the result of today’s hunt, in front of the crow.
“I’ll be back tomorrow. I promise,” he said. And it was true.


Art of London

Letters From the Surface, Part V
A Letter for Someone Else
by Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick

One of the orphans ran down the stairs. He said, “A letter.”
The letter was addressed to a one Mr. Netae. I recognized the name. Mr. Netae was one of my acquaintances, who once poisoned me unprovoked. I considered the dilemma carefully.

I walked to a smoky flophouse, the address of my acquaintance. … They had been scandalized! Off to the tomb colonies! Five minutes too late. My adversary began to snigger.

Later that night, I couldn’t remember what had been done for the scandals.

Steadfast is increasing…
Shadowy is increasing…
An occurrence! Your “Irrigo” quality is now 7!
An occurrence! Your “Letters From the Surface” quality is now 5!


News of Art, Art of News

Lady in Lilac, artist drenched in Irrigo

It is a wonder that this Lady can even be remembered.
The Feast is behind us, dear readers, and with it has gone the Lady in Lilac. There are few – and possibly none – who can match her skill with the needle, and a few with a brush, perhaps. She is, undoubtedly, one of London’s most wonderful artists. Not only for her skill, but also for the nature of her craft – making all of London your canvas, after all, is a worthy stunt – and, much more so, her existence. Bathed to the core with Irrigo, she easily evades memory. For this reason, we have tried to procure a photograph of the Lady; alas, it seems that not even cameras are willing to remember this Lady’s image. See you in a year, Lilac!

We do hope you yourself have gotten one of her tattoos, dear readers.


Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
How can I escape?
Yearning


Dear Yearning,
patience is the greatest of virtues. Work hard.

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