Nichol Fairfiddle

8/15/1774

Monday

Dear Diary,

Today was strange. I met a man riding a mule. He was a queer looking sorta man, all sticks and bones and hair. He even had an eye-patch!

The floorboard creaks as I tiptoe to my seat, eager to watch the first time children meet.

I walk through the graveyard, carefully avoiding the flowers on the graves. It’s a yearly trip to keep up appearances. I hated coming here. I sigh stopping at the grave marked William Piller.