Strangely, I stumbled upon a writer last night as I took a stroll in my background.

 My background had been neglected- I had not mowed my lawn for what seemed like ages and it overgrown with tall stalks of strange vegetation, entangled roots, thistles and brambles.  Even the knee-high stonework garden fence- which had once protected the roses and flowers from burrowing creatures, had toppled down into the muck and they were merely grey stepping stones covered with weeds and dirt. 

The author I happened upon was one of those Victorian writers from the 1800s that told stories of small talking animals; polite, furry, woodland creatures that greeted each other every morning with tea and biscuits.  The creatures were best known  for spending their days doing good deeds and solving mysteries. I even found two of her illustrated books, dusty and brittle with age, covered with dust and soot. 

I stooped down to dust off some of the concrete stones, as I tried  to pry the heavy stone from the earth with my fingertips in order to restore it to its original upright position.  It was no use- but as I swiped the soil from its surface, the name on the stone as well as the two sets of dates were clearly visible.