Little Monsters script lettering design

I am writing from the back of the wagon because the tent has finally sagged in the middle and Mr Pruitt says we cannot put up the big top again until the canvas is patched, which means the patching money has to come from somewhere, which means I have sold the piano to a man from Leicester who wept when he tried it. You will laugh. Everyone laughs at Leicester.

The children are still the children, though nobody calls them that now. Since the trapeze went, the twins have taken to the name the old posters gave them, the Little Monsters, and they paint it on every spare board they can find. Sol did the first one in tar on the side of the feed cart, and the letters ran at the bottom where the tar pooled, so it reads like something dripping out of a mouth. Mother Hesper says it looks like a warning. I say it looks like a promise, which is harder to keep.

Yesterday they had their first real audience in a month, six farmers and a dog, and the younger one, Wren, walked the tightrope we strung between two hay bales. She fell twice and got up grinning both times, the way you taught her to. When the farmers clapped she bowed so low her hat rolled into the mud, and the dog fetched it back for her. I have never been prouder of a pair of ugly boots.

Come home at the end of the season if you can. Bring your brother's violin, and bring the chalk. We are going to need a new name on the tent before the frost, and I have a feeling it will be one we can afford.

Yours in sawdust, Beatrix