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Gardener Proo ate sausages for breakfast. Hot, sizzling sausages, which he speared with gusto, taking great horsey bites from either end until there was nothing but fork in his hand, then he licked that clean and smacked his lips.
Proo's red-cheeked wife sat churning butter in the corner and beamed to see him enjoying his breakfast. "Will you be digging at the turnips today, Proo?" she glowed, giving the butter a right walloping.
"Yuss," said Proo. And he took his battered hat from the wooden peg where it lived next to the door, and stepped forth into the golden morning.
The turnip patch lay a tidy spell from the Royal Gardener's Hut, and Proo enjoyed the fine fresh air as he walked. The castle was awake too. Maids leaned out the windows, beating carpets. Flashes of sunlight glinted off the tall spears carried by the tall Royal Watchmen atop the castle's stone wall. The south gates had just been opened, and a trickle of gaily colored folk were coming in, packs on their backs full of odds and sods.
Proo went on, whistling through the corn.
Some ways past the corn lay the King's turnip patch. Proo emerged from the corn rows and as he did the wind picked up out of nowhere. The turnip tops rustled rustlingly. Proo's whistling faded, and he gripped at his hoe with calloused hands. There, in front of him, rearing out the ground and towering menacingly over the patch, was the biggest. Turnip. Ever.
Choose *Your* Own Adventure:
Gardener Proo ate sausages for breakfast. Hot, sizzling sausages, which he speared with gusto, taking great horsey bites from either end until there was nothing but fork in his hand, then he licked that clean and smacked his lips.
Proo's red-cheeked wife sat churning butter in the corner and beamed to see him enjoying his breakfast. "Will you be digging at the turnips today, Proo?" she glowed, giving the butter a right walloping.
"Yuss," said Proo. And he took his battered hat from the wooden peg where it lived next to the door, and stepped forth into the golden morning.
The turnip patch lay a tidy spell from the Royal Gardener's Hut, and Proo enjoyed the fine fresh air as he walked. The castle was awake too. Maids leaned out the windows, beating carpets. Flashes of sunlight glinted off the tall spears carried by the tall Royal Watchmen atop the castle's stone wall. The south gates had just been opened, and a trickle of gaily colored folk were coming in, packs on their backs full of odds and sods.
Proo went on, whistling through the corn.
Some ways past the corn lay the King's turnip patch. Proo emerged from the corn rows and as he did the wind picked up out of nowhere. The turnip tops rustled rustlingly. Proo's whistling faded, and he gripped at his hoe with calloused hands. There, in front of him, rearing out the ground and towering menacingly over the patch, was the biggest. Turnip. Ever.
Choose *Your* Own Adventure:
- Proo throws the tractor into reverse, knocking over a fruit stand and crushing several serfs, but escapes to the next kingdom where he starts life over again as a male moustache model.
- Proo puts his arm around their waist, and sits right down beside them. Poor pale green pants with nobody inside them.
- Gnaw. Scronch. Slurp. Nibble. Chew. Proo eats a scotch egg while he sits and thinks about this. And the turnip eats a couple of unlucky children.
- Proo, helped by his fairy godmother, becomes king through a series of improbable but hilarious events, in which the hundred or so people in line to the throne ahead of the Royal Gardener contract a mysterious ailment whose symptoms include being crushed to death by a very large vegetable-like object of some kind, according to the sherriff's report.
I would like to know what type of compost Farmer Proo has been using in his turnip patch. Cow manure? Elephant manure? Brontosaurus manure? Whatever it is, I could use some of that crap.