12.29

What fortunate circumstance drew me outside to see the carriage crash I cannot recall. Perhaps it was the abominable barking of my neighbor's small dog, Bartlett, whose body shakes miserably with each violent sound until he has expelled all his own misery into the street for other people to have. While I am usually the main recipient of the unfortunate fusillade, on this occasion, Bartlett made sure to include others, I am certain. What else but the excreta of this deplorable fiend could have so quickly and soundlessly turned the carriage, jamming it permanently into the tightest part of the lane, necessitating my swift extrication of the unfortunate occupants? That, sir, is my report to you, and though I know you cannot charge canines with civil crimes, I hope you can find in the law an exception for the fiend Bartlett. Good day, sir. 

12.27

Metallurgy had always been one of his prime pursuits. Pouring the molten metal, watching the microscopic crystals form, so small and so quick that he couldn't catch their making, even though he knew it was happening, he had a chance to feel like some ancient scientist alchemizing from basic elements. The unknown was happening right in front of him. He was destroying the raw elemental heat with water or air, leaving only the earth, pristine and smoking. Looking at the castings he had made, he could almost believe he was making primal alchemical constructions. He tried to ignore this fact when working with chromium and molybdenum in his steel, at least for as long as it took to choose the precise proportions to improve the working product. He tried to forget the scientist when pouring, to become the alchemist again. 

Sometimes, the effort was too much, and a strange first-and-twenty-first century laugh could be heard ringing out across the courtyard from his shop.