Monday, January 27, 2014

In Which I Butchereth Olde English--Oh! Yon Tale Awaits!

When in the course of an afternoon, a most middleth-aged yet sprightly Rebecca is fading from a shortly quenchable thirst, she looketh to satisfy the parched gullet. Indeed, she even hopeth to repine while sipping smoothly from her crystalline goblet--er, translucent life-giving liquid receptacle, which she may reach for in haste:

Oh, blessed vessel of mountainous spring refreshment (in truth, from the village water treatment facility)

In her mad lunge to avail her thirst--oh! The youngishful mistress mistakenly grabbeths the following artist's masterpiece, carved with much painstaking from the heart of a tree, raw timber brought to sinuous lines of golden glory:

'Tis a pepper mill

She doth not recommend it. Nay, not one whit of recommending she giveth, for indeed, spheres of gray-black spice doth not one's thirst, quench.

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