This is Willow's fault!

Willow's started a new blog -- "Magpie Tales" -- where she posts a picture of an object from her electic mix of household objects and invites people to write about it. It should be a bit of fun.

It was a dark and stormy night. The curtains had been closed against the howlings of the wind and the lashing of the rain against the casements. I had settled myself down in the chair by the fire, the better to read the "Strand" magazine. Every so often the fire guttered in the draught and disturbed my reading. As the spirit bade I would break off to pour myself another cup of tea. I was generally content despite the storm.

I don't know when I first noticed the noise. There was a faint sound outside, like the footfall of cats in the snow. I dismissed it as a product of the storm. The soft, metallic clink could just have been the wind catching the door knocker. I sat back and resumed my reading.

The knock on the door was unmistakeable. Soft, to be sure, but a knock. It was swiftly followed by a series of more urgent raps. I jumped out of my chair and went to the door. There was something strange about the knocks. They were weak and seemed to come from the base of the door. Was some injured body lying on my doorstep, hoping for succour? And then they stopped and I heard the faint foot steps once again.

I opened the door. On the doorstep was a small pewter jug, wrapped in a swaddling cloth. Pinned to the cloth was a ragged piece of paper. An illiterate hand had left a note:

"Please look after this jug. His name is Dennis. I am too poor to look after him."

I brought Dennis in and treated him as if he were my own. My wayward daughter fell in love with him. And the rest is history...