Spider-Man hanging from a web on a calf

The beeches above Hollin Wood have gone gold, and Mrs Pardoe says the frost will come early, so I've been out gathering the last blackberries before the lane turns to mud. You'll laugh, but I went to the old oak where you carved your initials and found someone had strung a line from the lowest branch and hung a little figure from it, upside down, red and blue, as if it were only thinking better of falling.

Dad says it's the Pritchard boys, who've been sneaking up the ridge with a ball of garden twine. I'm not so sure. The thread climbs into the leaves further than any boy could throw, and at the top someone has pinned a web of fine wire, neat as a lace cloth, strung across the gap between two trunks. When the wind comes off the common the figure turns slowly on its line, and every time it comes round I expect it to look at me.

Mother wanted me to tell the vicar, but I didn't. I sat on the stile with my sketchbook and drew the thing from three angles. While I was drawing, a crow landed on the web and couldn't get off again, so I climbed up with my penknife. When I cut it free it flapped away with a strand of wire tangled in one wing, the figure dropped a full arm's length, and I swear the whole web gave a little shiver, like a held breath let go.

I've kept the sketch. Come home at Christmas and we'll go up together. Bring your good boots, and don't you dare bring a rope.

Your loving sister, Nell