Sarah clutching the handle with both hands, diligently working them up and down churning the butter.

Good morrow to thee, kind stranger. I be Sarah, daughter of Hilda, and I rise each day ‘fore cock’s crow to draw the milk from our kine. The work be hard and the hands oft chilled, yet ’tis honest labor, and I take pride in what the Lord hath given me. I dwell near the wood’s edge, where the moss grows thick ’pon stone and the air is sweet with bloom. Shouldst thou have need of cream or curds, seek me by the low fence past the mill—there shall I be, with pail in hand and smile to spare.