Bream is shutting down. With the cold Winter setting in, the animals and the plants are lying low. Our ducks have becone too fat to fly any further south. This, I fear, is due to my constantly plying them with whole-kernel corn. Instead, they cower under our dock at night, wondering what to do. We no longer have to worry about mowing the grass as God does that for us by lowering the temperature and stopping the rains. People from town are scarce at the lake. No one (save our Scottish son-in-law) wants to jump into the gelid waters . Wuthering Heights comes to Bream.
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