This weekend I was talking to my Mom (one of my biggest fans!) about the short stories I’ve been working on. Of course my Mom is also one of my beta readers, so she’s familiar with the general idea of the collection of Steampunked Origin Stories I’m working on for Nursery Rhymes.

I told her about my “Peter, Peter” story and how this one has been harder for me to frame because it’s one of the first ones I’ve written with a more limited Point of View (POV). So far, I’ve done third person limited (though not very limited, just not as widely sweeping as third person omniscient).

I know one trick to writing when you are stuck is to try telling the story from a different POV, either just by switching the perspective of the narrator or by changing it entirely from first to third or second, etc. I’ve never written a story in second “You” and don’t wish to try that out here. All that to say, I’m trying this story out in first person limited POV now to see where it takes me. Here’s a small excerpt of before and after.

What do you think?

One brisk day as leaves skittered across the  road, there came into view the figure that ignited the rumors anew. No one could doubt he was the same boy, for his tangled mass of reddish hair could not be mistakenly assigned to any other soul in the village, but the boy had grown during the years the rumors of him lay dormant.

Mr. Wharton’s eyebrows raised in surprise, though had been standing outside his shop in anticipation of the haul of pumpkins. The boy navigated the stout horse to the correct shop as though he’d been the one delivering the pumpkins all these years. He nodded respectfully to Mr. Wharton as he approached.

Mr. Wharton cleared his throat and dipped his head in return. “Mr. Arden all right, then?”

The young man smoothly jumped from the carriage and jutted his hand out towards the shop keeper, who, being a tall man himself, knew this boy would soon be looking him in the eye. “Not to worry. It’s his back, you see? He says he can’t handle the road no more.”

Mr. Wharton’s smooth, long fingers met sturdy, calloused ones. The boy had an odd way of speaking that made him tilt his head to the side. “Mr. Wharton. Or Wharty, if you like. Can’t even remember when that nickname came about, but it seems to have stuck these years gone.”

“Peter. It’s a pleas— .”

Peter jumped out of the way just in time to not be clipped by the shop door as Mrs. Wharton charged up to her to husband. “Mr. Fletcher’s complaining again about them seeds as you gave him; Mrs. Harty’s saying her hay’s molded; and I ain’t caught a sight of that good-fer-nothing Wally boy you went and hired to help us around the shop.”

“Yes, my Bee.”

Mrs. Wharton straightened her back, raised her chin, and turned to see Peter and the wagon full of pumpkins. She shot an unreadable look back at her husband, then asked. “Mr. Arden in good health, lad?”

“Truly, he is well. His back ain’t fit for the road.”

Mrs. Wharton nodded. “You be selling for him now?”

“Yes ‘am. If you please. I also have something else I would like to try to sell here.”

Wharty couldn’t help but enjoy the sweet tenor of the young man’s voice, so unmatched to his rugged earth-packed frame. But he could not place what seemed off about the boy’s speech.

Peter reached up and brought down a covered basket. “These here are things I made from pumpkins. Small pies and treats and some sorts of things I been trying to make better over these months. Mr. Arden didn’t mind much me making these as he enjoyed testing them out. Well. Mostly, anyway. Sometimes things were best not eaten, if you catch my meaning.”

Mrs. Wharton failed to hide the doubt in her expression. Her mouth worked several times before she voiced the words, “Bless me. We know about pumpkin pies.”

Peter blushed and dug into the basket. “Oh, excuse me, Madam. I know. I got the idea to experiment while making one. But you can’t bash it ‘til you taste it.”

He pulled out a type of flat, crumbly pastry.

Mrs. Wharton gingerly took it from the boy, then turned and gestured to her husband that he should try a bite as well. Both stood in amazed silence at they tasted the confection.

“My boy,” Wharty cried. “These are delightful! What do you call them?”

“Oh, I hadn’t thought o’ that,” Peter replied with a sheepish grin. “I weren’t sure you’d even like them.”

“And you have more like this?” Mrs. Wharton interjected.

“I have made up a few different kinds of treats. Some more sweet than others. Some with the seeds baked in. My only regret is I have nothing to keep them warm on their journey.”

Mrs. Wharton clapped her hands, took the basket, and lead the boy into the shop. Wharty barely heard her talking prices and where she would place them. He squinted down at the ground as a thought nagged him.

The horse nickered and stamped.

“Ah, yes! I forgot you, Philippa.” Wharty dug into his pocket and fed her a sugar cube while absently stroking her warm neck. “That boy does talk so funny,” he whispered. “Like he had some bringing up before he learned more talk from Mr. Arden.”

Wharty heard his name and knew by the tone he would have no more time trying to puzzle out his thoughts.

CHANGED TO FIRST PERSON – Mr. Wharton’s POV

One brisk day as leaves skittered across the  road, there came into view the figure that ignited the rumors anew. No one could doubt he was the same boy, for his tangled mass of reddish hair could not be mistakenly assigned to any other soul in the village, but the boy had grown during the years the rumors of him lay dormant.

My eyebrows raised, though I had been standing outside my shop in anticipation of the haul of pumpkins, I had not expected this. The boy navigated the stout horse to the correct shop as though he’d been the one delivering the pumpkins all these years. He nodded respectfully to me as he approached.

I cleared my throat and dipped my head in return. “Mr. Arden all right, then?” I asked as the boy steadied the horse.

The young man smoothly jumped from the carriage and jutted his hand out towards me. I am used to looking down from my height at many men, but I knew this boy would soon be able to look me in the eye.

He shook his head with a smile. “Not to worry. It’s his back, you see? He says he can’t handle the road no more.”

I felt the callouses of long hours on the farm on his sturdy hands as he respectfully grasped my own slender hand. The boy had an odd way of speaking that made me pause long enough to nearly forget my place. “Mr. Wharton. Or Wharty, if you like. Can’t even remember when that nickname came about, but it seems to have stuck these years gone.”

“Peter. It’s a pleas— .”

Peter jumped out of the way just in time to not be clipped by the shop door as my wife burst upon the scene. “Mr. Fletcher’s complaining about them seeds as you gave him again; Mrs. Harty’s saying her hay’s molded; and I ain’t caught a sight of that good-fer-nothing Wally boy you went and hired to help us around the shop.”

“Yes, my Bee,” I answered patiently.

She straightened her back, raised her chin, and turned to nearly smack into Peter. It wasn’t like her to be so out of sorts, but I knew her heart was troubled. She shot an unreadable look back to me, then asked. “Mr. Arden in good health, lad?”

“Truly, he is well. His back ain’t fit for the road.”

My wife nodded. “You be selling for him now?”

“Yes ‘am. If you please. I also have something else I would like to try to sell here.”

I couldn’t help but enjoy the sweet tenor of the young man’s voice, so unmatched to his rugged earth-packed frame. But I simply could not place what seemed off about the boy’s speech.

Peter reached up and brought down a covered basket. “These here are things I made from pumpkins. Small pies and treats and some sorts of things I been trying to make better over these months. Mr. Arden didn’t mind much me making these as he enjoyed testing them out. Well. Mostly, anyway. Sometimes things were best not eaten, if you catch my meaning.”

My wife failed to hide the doubt in her expression. Possibly, she hadn’t even tried. She was known for expressing whatever she felt. Her mouth worked several times before she voiced the words, “Bless me. We know about pumpkin pies.”

Peter blushed and dug into the basket. “Oh, excuse me, Madam. I know. I got the idea to experiment while making one. But you can’t bash it ‘til you taste it.”

He pulled out a type of flat, crumbly pastry.

Mrs. Wharton gingerly took it from the boy, then turned and gestured at me to try. I knew she wanted support in telling the lad his treats would not hold to her standard. As I was all curiosity, I gladly took a small bite.

“How delightful!” I cried.

The boy’s smiled like the sun breaking through the clouds.

I watched my wife’s face contort into an acknowledgement of defeat. “That they are,” she said with narrowed eyes.

“I have made up a few different kinds of treats. Some more sweet than others. Some with the seeds baked in. My only regret is I have nothing to keep them warm on their journey.”

I could see the calculations and ideas spinning around in my darling’s mind as he spoke. Gradually, her scowl lifted to a smirk, and then finally into a genuine agreement of partnership. I almost felt bad for the lad, but he seemed fit to handle her fits, and, though she was ruthless when it came to keeping a good shop with me, she was always fair and trustworthy.

I barely heard them talking as they went inside. I began to sort out how I would deal with my constantly complaining customers. No matter what I did and how fresh my hay was, there was always someone who had something to complain about. The horse nickered and stamped.

“Ah, yes! I forgot you, Philippa.” I dug into my pocket and fed her a sugar cube while absently stroking her warm neck. “That boy does talk so funny,” I whispered. “Like he had some bringing up before he learned more talk from Mr. Arden.”

“Wharty!”

I knew by the tone of my wife’s voice I had no more time to puzzle through this.