Foxen in the Henhice

Recently I undertook an extensive study of American dialects, and a friend told me about a farmer named Eben Pluribus who spoke a most unusual kind of English. So I went to visit Farmer Pluribus, and here is a transcript of our interview:

“Mr. Pluribus. I hear that you’ve had some trouble on the farm.”

“Well, young fella, times were hard for a spell. Almost every night them danged foxen were raiding my henhice.”

“Excuse me, sir,” I interjected. “Don’t you mean foxes?”

“Nope, I don’t,” Pluribus replied. “I use oxen to plow my fields, so it’s foxen that I’m trying to get rid of.”

“I see. But what are henhice?” I asked.

“Easy. One mouse, two mice; one henhouse, two henhice. You must be one of them city slickers, but surely you know that henhice are what them birds live in that, when they’re little critters, they utter all them peep.”

“I think I’m beginning to understand you, Mr. Pluribus. But don’t you mean peeps?”

“Nope, I mean peep. More than one sheep is a flock of sheep, and more than one peep is a bunch of peep. What do you think I am, one of them old ceet?”

“I haven’t meant to insult you, sir,” I gulped. “But I can’t quite make out what you’re saying.”

“Then you must be a touch slow in the head,” Farmer Pluribus shot back. “One foot, two feet; one coot, Iwo ceet. I’m just trying to easify the English language, so I make all regular plural nouns irregular. Once they’re all irregular, then it’s just the same like they’re all regular.” “Makes perfect sense to me,” I mumbled. “Good boy,” said Pluribus, and a gleam came into his eyes. “Now, as I was trying to explain, them pesky foxen made such a fuss that all the meese and lynges have gone north.”

“Aha!” I shouted. “You’re talking about those big antlered animals, aren’t you? One goose, two geese; one moose, a herd of meese. And lynges is truly elegant – one sphinx, a row of sphinges: one lynx, a litter of lynges.”

“You’re a smart fella, sonny,” smiled Pluribus. “You see, I used to think that my cose might scare away them foxen, but the cose were too danged busy chasing rose.”

“Oh, oh. You’ve lost me again,” I lamented. “What are сosе and rose?”

“Guess you ain’t so smart after all,” Pluribus sneered.

“If those is the plural of that, then cose and rose got to be the plurals of cat and rat.”

“Sorry that I’m so thick, but I’m really not one of those people who talk through their hose,” I apologized, picking up Pluribus’s cue. “Could you please tell me what happened to the foxen in your henhice?”

“I’d be pleased to,” answered Pluribus. “What happened was that my brave wife, Una, grabbed one of them frying pen and took off after them foxen.”

I wondered for a moment what frying pen were and soon realized that because the plural of man is men, the plural of pan had to be pen.

“Well,” Pluribus went right on talking, “the missus wasn’t able to catch them foxen so she went back to the kitchen and began throwing dish and some freshly made pice at them critters.”

That part of the story stumped me for a time, until I reasoned that a school of fish is made up of fish and more than one die make a roll of dice so that Una Pluribus must have grabbed a stack of dishes and pies.

Pluribus never stopped. “Them dish and pice sure scarified them foxen, and the pests have never come back. In fact, the rest of the village heard about what my wife did, and they were so proud that they sent the town band out to the farm to serenade her with tubae, harmonicae, accordia, fives, and dra.”

“Hold up!” I gasped. “Give me a minute to figure out those musical instruments. The plural of formula is formulaie, so the plurals of tuba and harmonica must be tubae and harmanicae. And the plurals of phenomenon and criterion are phenomena and criteria, so the plural of accordion must be accordia.”

“You must be one of them genii,” Pluribus exclaimed. “Maybe,” I blushed. “One cactus, two cacti; one alumnus, an association of alumni. So one genius, a seminar of genii. But let me get back to those instruments. The plurals of life and wife are lives and wives, so the plural of fife must be fives. And the plural of medium is media, so the plural of drum must be dra. Whew! That last one was tough.”

“Good boy, sonny. Well, my wife done such a good job of chasing away them foxen that the town newspaper printed up a story and ran a couple of photographim of her holding them pen, dish, and pice.”

My brain was now spinning in high gear, so it took me but an instant to realize that Farmer Pluribus had regularized one of the most exotic plurals in the English language – seraph, seraphim; so photograph, photographim. I could imagine all those Pluribi bathing in their bathtubim, as in cherub, cherubim; bathtub, bathtubim.

“Well,” crowed Pluribus. “I was mighty pleased that ererybody was so nice to the missus, but that ain’t no surprise since folks in these here parts show a lot of respect for their methren.”

“Brother, brethren; mother, methren.” I rejoined. “That thought makes me want to cry. Have you any boxen of Kleenices here?”

“Sure do, young fella. And I’m tickled pink that you’ve caught on to the way I’ve easified the English language. One index, two indices and one appendix, two appendices. So one Kleenex, two Kleenices. Makes things simpler, don’t it?”

I was so grateful to Farmer Pluribus for having taught mе his unique dialect that I took him out to one of them local cafeteriae. I reported my findings to the American dialect Society by calling from one of the telephone beeth in the place.

Yep, you’ve got it. One tooth, two teeth. One telephone booth, two telephone beeth. Makes things simpler, don’t it?

Date: 2015-01-02; view: 1293