Brachet is here, with its rain and sleet and frost. When we see the sun it has no warmth. We keep our fires burning, and beat the caked mud from our boots. Brachet once was joy and here seems sorrow. How many children have died in Brachet and Heuert, the months of fen and fog! You have no love for it: it has not the cleanliness or cold of snow. Build your houses strong and clean and warm, and shake the rain from your shoulders and strike the mud from your boots before you enter! Do you think the Lord has no reason for the fen and fog? I assure you He does!

Now is the season for the newlywed brides to plant their orchards, with eleven apple trees and seven pears, each kind to flower and fruit one after the other, so their fruiting will be a joy not a burden. Give them your saplings and cuttings that their gardens may flourish from the strength of yours.