Actually, I've been visualizing fourteen-year-old Sarah, throwing down her embroidery hoop, stamping her foot, and yelling "Phooey" or whatever the Welsh equivalent for an exclamation of disgust and dismay would have been in 1833.
Please note the left side of the top of the sampler:
See how the motifs are nicely spaced, each set off in its own area.
Now look at the right side of the top of the sampler:
Not so much space here, and the dive-bombing butterfly has clipped the edge of a flower.
I have a feeling that Sarah miscalculated or miscounted or just plain missed something. I bet she had the border worked in and suddenly realized that . . . oh, dear . . .things just weren't fitting the way she had planned.
And, oh, wow, I've had those very same feelings on occasion.
I can see Sarah trying to decide what to do. She could have ripped out and restitched and spaced things a little more closely on the left side so everything would fit a little better on the right. And I can also see her thinking about the hours of work and wondering if anyone would ever really notice. If it can't be seen from the back of a galloping horse, does it make a lot of difference?
This is one of the things I love about stitching reproductions. You find that the stitchers who lived before us were just like us in so many, many ways.
Including the desire to avoid frogging if possible.
(Although, I have to admit, I probably would have frogged. But then, I'm not fourteen years old. Except possibly mentally.)