David Thayer

Wellington Leg: In the camp of the High Constable, the Dauphin’s Deputy in War: The Legate Phineas notes in his diary: “We’ve come at last to the enemy’s dreadful redoubt, a rather squalid towne by the look of it, this Wellington Leg. The High Constable prepares to dispatch his horde at the Earl of Watership Down who we plainly see is being hoist by a great petard onto his steed. Then we hear a terrible clamor and watch, dumbfounded, as a clanking, wheezing montrosity of a device crosses the muddied field in our direction; the High Constable brings forth the prisoner, Eddie, for an explanation. What, he demands to know, is that contraption?”

“A Search Engine, my lord.”

“You mean a siege engine?”

“A Search engine, powered by steam and grass and bits of lumber, the search engine is even now counting and calibrating, edging and squaring, reckoning, fiddling, shuffling and discarding thousands of informations, my lord.”

“That’s preposterous. How does it work?”

“We must give it your scent, then it will search High Constable and offer thousands of helpful suggestions. Of course, it is frightening your men and they are fleeing for their lives.”

“Who invented this terrible machine?”

“Twas the earl, sir, with his pocket knife and tweezers. Look, sir, he’s been unhorsed!”

“We quit the field. This man is a genius!”

“He’s lying face down in the mud.”

“It’s a trick. Inform the Dauphin. We are undone.”

Wellington Leg: Secret negotiations are afoot that would swing the Duke of York’s mighty army to support the Dowager Princess and her claims against the European Union. In an exclusive to the Druidical & Literary, local pastry chef and Burgundian spy Natasha reveals the machinations at work behind a simple dispute between Wellington Leg and the Euro Zone powers. La Femme Natasha did not want her real name used; she came to the meeting with D&L reporters in the guise of a Lancastrian waif.

Why haven’t the EU armies crushed the earl and his Force du Frappucino?

The earl is too clever for them. Yesterday they invaded his camp only to find that he’d moved on during the night when everyone else was asleep. The tide turned after Mrs. Phaeton located a babysitter and joined the Force.

Who is giving the better battlefield speechs?

At Agincourt the earl made reference to the enemy’s funny hats and resorted to Shakespearean asides during the engagement. His hogs wallowed in the mire creating more difficulty for the EU divisions closest to the action.

Is there still time to wallow in the mire?

Several fires have been lit: there is smoke on the water.

And brave Gloucester? Where is he?

Gloucester has moved his army into the hills. He plans to launch an enveloping assault on the earl, capture him, and demand an extraordinary ransom. Of course Gloucester must pass through Hermit Country exposing his soldiers to the Sirens’ Song.

Hennery the Eighth?

Hennery the Fifth.

And so the fate of Wellington Leg hangs by a song lyric. Will Gloucester pounce on the unsuspecting earl? Will bluing skies and freshening breezes be our undoing? Is the Force du Frappucino doomed? Our hopes ride with the earl deep in the heart of Hermit Country.

Agincourt: Near this tiny village in the Vale of the White Mouse, the mighty armies of Bergerac, Armagnac, Prussia, Lombardy and the Canary Islands seem on the verge of routing the Legian Home Forces, so ably commanded thus far by the Earl Who Slumbers Yet. Fresh recruits, their numbers swollen by the sudden availability of nannies from around the realm, are rushing to Yasgur’s Farm despite the sea of mud near the Toll Road, and an Al Pacino retrospective at the Metroplex.

The Earl Makes an Inviting Target in his Hammock: in a stroke of genius the earl’s extended nap continues, frustrating the army of the Bourbon contender and his Scottish allies. With forty thousand men up to their knees in mud the Franco-Scot forces have been subjected to merciless taunting from Mrs. Gladys Taunton-Haunton whose tomatoes are ripe at last, she reports. Her heckling has demoralized the EU invaders who await the arrival of Faire Yorke to put things right. Yorke is carrying a quantity of beer in his baggage train, hoping to provide one beer to each Bourbon and Scot.

Large bombardments aimed at the earl have proven futile thus far: sheltered as he is by a chestnut tree the great gobs of mud hurled from ballistic devices mounted on wagons have proven ineffectual.

The Duke of Yorke is reported in the neighborhood having stopped for refreshment after a long march. His vast army landed on the coast near Carthago Nova where skirmishers and foragers located a B&B of sufficient size to accommodate 10,000 guests. The Inn is a wholly owned subsidiary of Gastropod Enterprises: the Dowager recuperated there last winter. Rumors are flying that the Duke and the Princess may be negotiating while the earl holds the EU hordes at bay.

Mrs. Emma Phaeton is prepared to join the earl if a suitable babysitter can be found. The candidate will have references, a working knowledge of kitchen machinery, and be experienced. A background in quantitative hedge fund modeling is considered a plus.

Geraldo reporting.

Wellington Leg: A vast host of EU troops arrived near Middle Olde Park according to property owner Magnus Versterking. Magnus was painting a white picket fence when confronted by an assemblage of officers on horseback: the group included a Generalissimo, five colonels, and a portable kitchen. “They want a parley,” Magnus said.

Eyewitnesses report that the earl sallied forth to meet the intruders not far from the Versteking property. Recent rain left the field muddy and after little Timmy Versteking spilled his milk conditions worsened. Heavily armored French cavalry sank into the mire while the earl, fresh from a recent diet, managed to keep his feet. Both sides maneuvered during the afternoon with the EU moving closer to the river while the earl skillfully withdrew to a hillock. He swung from a hammock as EU artillery fired mud balls from a great distance.

Who is winning the war? Retired general Waldo Gruff believes that the earl’s tactics are designed to inspire epic poems rather than seize the day: “He lured the invaders onto a vast muddy plain only to retreat across the river. He must engage or be surrounded by a superior force.”

EU forces were equipped with earplugs in case the earl resorted to reading aloud from his work. The Generalissimo’s mud stained tunic will be dry-cleaned according to adjutant general Armani: “Right now the combined might of the European Union is facing a cleaning bill of monstrous proportions,” he said.

A consulting crone predicted more rain. “She always says that,” noted farmer Magnus. The crone pointed a crooked stick toward the earl’s fortified position: “the trees are moving,” she said.

Magnus pointed to a damaged laurel hedge. “Who’s going to pay for this?” he asked. To defray expenses he will be serving tea until eight pm. Geraldo reporting.

Wellington Leg: According to sources with no insight or knowledge The Federal Reserve lowered the discount rate after frantic telephone calls to Wellington Leg’s own Eugenia Phaeton. The Fed governors called Eugenia several times but were thwarted by Eugenia’s mom, Emma Phaeton. As the yen carry trade unwound and secondary financing alternatives evaporated, Eugenia completed her homework allowing the monetary system a breather.

Here is the chronology: Ben Bernanke telephones: Eugenia is eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Mrs. Phaeton warns Eugenia about speaking with her mouth full: commodity traders panic.

William Poole calls: Eugenia is taking a nap. Word passes to the White House that Eugenia is taking a nap. The NYSE gyrates.

13:45: Eugenia awakes from her nap and closes her yen position. London trading collapses, the euro spikes, gold plummets. Mrs. Phaeton announces spaghetti for dinner. Ben Bernanke wants spaghetti too.

14:12: Wheat futures rise on pasta consumption. Eugenia would rather have meatloaf. The Fed notifies the White House: it’s meatloaf tonight. Shanghai trembles, Hong Kong crumples. A woman in Plano Texas sees “Meatloaf” at the mall.

15:01: Little Timmy from next door asks if Eugenia can come out to play. Fed Governors assemble in Mrs. Phaeton’s driveway: reluctantly she makes iced tea. Eugenia offers Ben a gummi bear and says “cut the discount rate.”

The White House is notified. Ben cuts the discount rate. NYSE stabilizes before the bell. Mrs. Phaeton searches for lemons.

19:45: Asia stabilizes. Eugenia brushes her teeth and says her prayers. The telephone rings and Mrs. Phaeton answers saying, “If this is a Fed Governor, this is too late to be calling.” Ben Bernanke hangs up hoping the Phaetons don’t have caller ID.

“Eugenia Saves Capitalism” is the headline at the PS 117 Terrier Notes. A woman in Valdosta Georgia sees Ben Bernanke at the mall. Thirty. Whew, that was close. Tex Lex reporting.

Wellington Leg: On the day of hedge fund manager Eugenia Phaeton’s seven birthday all of Wellington Leg turned out for a parade down the Boulevard of Broken Seams in celebration. Among the gifts presented by towne officials: the Prince of Denmark Shopping Centre and the Goth Metroplex, filigreed municipal bonds, a condo at HRH J. Mansfield Prison, a signed copy of Voltaire’s Miasma and a quick spin in Hizzoner’s armored Lexus. “She wanted a Barbie doll,” said Mrs. Emma Phaeton of Smoldering Close. “She got a shopping center.”

Experts agree that some of the collateral offered Ms. Phaeton may be less than investment grade. Since the Roman occupation began the Prince of Denmark has suffered the slings and arrows aging structures must endure before being declared “historic.” Eugenia’s architectural committee has yet to declare the 1950s cinder block construction a mid-century classic.

City workers will not be paid until Eugenia signs off on the debt restructuring. Her Big Scary Things hedge fund unwound its yen position seconds before a plunge on the Tokyo exchange rattled traders. Work on the rhododendron bushes near the Rotunda was suspended during a wildcat strike.

In other news the Royal Navy denied bombarding the Leg. Some say her sailors will mutiny if forced to listen to the earl’s latest potboiler RIMBAUD’S HEADBAND. Out of an abundance of caution Wellington Leg’s own fleet was recalled to Ballard Harbor and lookouts posted on the fishladder. Due to official confusion the lookouts were permitted to attend Eugenia’s birthday fete as men on stilts.

Trading at the Live Hog Pit resumed after holding pens, damaged by the English onslaught, were put back together by Mrs. Ferguson’s fourth grade class. “Most of them want to be hedge fund managers,” she said. “Although little Gus wants to be a fireman.”

Floor specialists eyed the fourth graders with suspicion. “They’re all short,” said one. “Maybe I  should be short too.” Frantic selling ensued. Tex Lex reporting.

Wellington Leg: Quick thinking by the earl drove British naval forces into retreat as the Literary Faire entered its third exciting week. The earl was droning on before a packed house of French drama critics when the Royal Navy sailed into Gastropod Alley undetected. Alerted by a series of concussive blasts, the earl turned the microphone seaward, exposing British sailors to lengthy examples of his prose style.

First to flee was the HMS Lady Chatterley: her captain, a Mr. Kangaroo, ordered a broadside fired as she retreated. Severe tire damage to Mrs. Mayhew’s Volvo 240 D was blamed on Lady Chatterley’s array of big guns. Mrs. Mayhew, perhaps unaware that alternate side of the street parking regulations were in effect, shook her fist at the frigate near the Promenade.

The earl’s endless speech then claimed the pride of the Royal Navy, HMS TERRIBLY SORRY.  HMS TS Elliot rocked the casbah with a water balloon crescendo enabling the crew of the TERRIBLY SORRY to avoid the climax of the earl’s recitation.

With the three legged race due to begin Saturday the outcome of the battle for the Literary Prize may be overshadowed by foreign policy imbroglios. While we at the Druidical & Literary remain staunchly feudal in our view, we do wonder if the Dowager Princess can possibly win a war with the great powers in the heat of a pennant race.

Time will tell.  Once again we thank the earl for his bombastic blather without which the Royal Navy may well have sunk the Gastropods and Wellington Leg with them.