“Tatter, tatter, now’t of matter!” the young boy chirped as he skipped across the cobblestone. The bright sun scattered off their surfaces, half-blinding him as he stopped to look up at the clear blue sky.

He found himself on the dock, the wind sweeping his hair back. He turned to face the land and called out to his little village: “Mind me little, jot and tittle, but ere the dawn, I will be gone!” He smiled at his rhyme, and then considered his words.

Looking homeward once more, the boy blew a kiss for his mother. Then, as the sun crept ever higher in the mid-morning sun, he back his way down the dock and stopped by a grand shanty with billowing sails.

The boy gazed out to sea, and was filled with a curiosity he had never before experienced. His eyes turned back to the ship, standing proud on the constantly churning waves. His feet led him up the gangway, fueled by madness, or so it seemed, so much was this new hope.

“’Tis the time, ’tis the season, to find a better rhyme and reason!”