The rules run thusly:
1. Create a lovely blog post that links back to this one.
2. Pick an old word you want to save from extinction to feature in your blog post. It really must be an old word, not just a big one. We are trying to save lovely archaisms, not ugly giants (for example, “Dihydrogen Monoxide” is not an acceptable choice). Luciferous Logolepsy is a great database of lovely words if you’re having trouble coming up with something on your own.
3. Provide a definition of your word. Use your word in a sentence (or even a short paragraph) vaguely related to the theme chosen this week. You may also add visual or musical interpretations of your word or your sentence. In fact, add anything that moves your creative spirit.
4. Add your post to the linky list below (it’s down there somewhere). Then hop to as many other blogs as you can in search of as many wonderful words as possible!
5. Use as many of the words as you can on the people in your life. Do leave us a note or add something to your own post to let us all know what wonderful old word you whipped out to befuddle your friends and relations.
I am late again ! But it is still Saturday …
This week’s words I have chosen are:
Dapifer – meat-bearer to table, a steward
Macarize, v. pronounce blessed; praise; congratulate.
And the theme was : Weddings…
‘Primroses? I think not, my dear. Something a little more genteel…try these lilies of the valley, and some lilacs,’ Aunt Zephira clucked and fussed, while her niece fidgeted.
‘This train will be far too long, the bride’s maids will be tripping over it half the time,’ complained her niece, tugging at the heavy white satin.
‘Hush dear, you’ll upset the Count’s mother- it is tradition after all.’
‘I know, but twenty feet long? A little outré, I do think.’
‘Never mind, that’s what the page boys are for.’
‘And don’t make noises like that, please, Griselda – you don’t want to be mistaken for a camel, now, do you…’ Zephira continued to fuss, while a few hand –maids hovered respectfully at a distance. Aunt quickly dealt with them by sending them off on various tasks. At last, they were ready, and a chain of whispered announcements were passed along the long, draughty corridors of the castle.
Down the steps they went, Griselda complaining she could hardly see where she was going, owing to the thick veil over her face, her aunt tut-tutting and issuing more commands to various other servants.
A gaggle of nervous and multi-sized damsels in white silk dresses were waiting in the hall; they took their positions, and the little procession continued out across the courtyard to ancient roman temple at the far end. The Count had a leaning towards Romantic Gothicism, and had requested that the ceremony be conducted on this ancient spot, in imitation of Theseus and Hippolyta. There was even a threat of the Bard’s play being performed that evening. Griselda had no great liking for the stage and indeed wished the whole scenario over and done with so she could go and lie down in a dark corner somewhere and … chew some … straw …? Why was she thinking about straw ? ‘Humph,’ she went again. Her aunt signalled her to restrain herself, but her nose simply twitched in reply.
A fanfare sounded : the Count had arrived at the temple and made his way to the altar.
The ceremony passed without a hitch, although guests noted the bride’s tendency to snort and mumble her vows somewhat, and by the end of it, she was displaying a marked inclination to paw at the ground with one foot. As the final words were uttered, there came one more distinct ‘humph!’ from under the veil – pronounced enough to startle even the Count slightly.
They proceeded to banqueting hall, amidst much macarizing, and there a gargantuan meal was served – again, to satisfy the Count’s demands for spectacle and grandeur. Still the bride maintained a sturdy silence, munching her way through several dishes brought in by the dapifers, from behind her veil, (which proved a messy business), snorting and huffing.
There was drinking and dancing, and out everyone tripped, to enjoy a quadrille by the light of the moon, before making their various ways home.
‘But where is my bride?’ asked the Count, suddenly – and immediately a search was made. When and how she had disappeared nobody saw, but vanished she most surely had.
Lanterns, candles, rushes were lit – all the servants and those few remaining guests who had not yet left, joined in the hunt. The moon had sailed half across the sky when a screech was heard, from the direction of the stables. All rushed madly hither, to be greeted by the sight of Aunt Zephira, pointing at a camel in a veil and wrapped up in the train of Griselda’s dress, finishing off the remains of her bouquet.
‘But there is surely not – that cannot be…’gasped the Count.
‘Humph,’ went Griselda, as she munched at another lilac.
‘My dear, it is not lady-like, to eat one’s own bouquet in public like that,’ faltered Aunt Zephira.
But it was very comfortable in the straw in the stables, and finally, Griselda felt at ease.
A taunting hoot wafted across the courtyard.
‘Look ! Tis she – the fortune teller of legend come again as an owl!’ cried out some.
‘The curse, the curse, again !’cried out the others.
The Count straightened his cravat and ordered fresh straw. Soon, the sound came of duplicate munching, as he joined his spouse in her evening snack….
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