Mr. Tudd Spinney limped out of the gatehouse, shaking his walking stick aloft. “Whoa now, who’s a-doin’ all the cryin’ ’ereabouts? Spike me if it ain’t young Dumble. What’sa matter with ye, liddle laddo?”

The Abbess struggled to unfasten Dumble from her habit. “Would you believe it, Mr. Spinney, this rogue says that if I don’t choose a Nameday he’s going to cry and cry.”

The hedgehog threw his ash stick in the air and caught it. “Dumble, you liddle pudden, what a good idea. Come on, marm, pick a Nameday or I’ll join ’im. You ain’t heard me cry—I’m a champion wailer, an’ I c’n turn purple too!”

“Shame on you, Mr. Spinney. I can’t even think up a proper name for the season yet.”

Dumble fastened himself to the habit skirt again. “Owwww, ’urry up an fink of one, Muvva Vale!”

She set about detaching him once more. “The Summer of the Annoying Baby Dormouse—that’s about all I can think of at the moment!”

Mrs. Faith Spinney came bustling out of the gatehouse. “Summer of the Villainous Archer, more like it. Ooh, that dreadful young Samkim!”

Thrugg and his sister Thrugann trudged up to join them. Between them the two otters bore a fine netful of fresh water shrimp. Thrugg held them up proudly.

“Caught at dawn in our own Abbey pond, marm. They’ll make a tasty soup with plenty o’ pepper an’ bulrush tips. Stow me gaff, I’ve never seen so many shrimp in that pond as there be this season. I reckon that ol’ trout ain’t eatin’ ’em—he’s got too fat ’n’ lazy. Lookit, there he goes now!”

The ancient trout flopped noisily on the surface. As they walked in the direction of the pond, Tudd wagged his cane. “That there fish be older’n me. I recall he was near full growed when I was only a liddle ’og, y’know. Great walloper!”

They stood at the pond’s edge. From just beneath the surface the trout watched them, its mouth opening and closing slowly. Thrugg shook the dripping net at it.

“Look ’ere, matey, we pinched all yore shrimps!”

The big fish performed a moody half-leap, splashing them with water as it fell back into the pond.

Dumble stuck out his tongue and pawed his nose at it. “Lazy ol’ trout!”

Mrs. Spinney produced a dried plum from her apron pocket, and triumphantly she stuffed it in the infant’s mouth. “That’s it, the Summer of the Lazy Trout!”

The Abbess pulled a wry face. “Oh dear, I’m not sure I like that. Seasons are usually named after trees or flowers. Summer of the Lazy Trout, hmm, a bit irregular, but in the absence of a better name I suppose it’ll have to do. When do you want it held?”

A concerted shout went up. “Tomorrow!”