Les Lutins a Les Fraises!

It is oonly now that I mighte deign to speke of thyse, so dredful hit was.

Went we, my childeren and Ich, to goon and gathere strewen-berries atte feldes nere Southwark. As ye wote, strewen-berries be so strewen aboute by elves who shal catche an ire yf thou takest alle the fruites any oone herb haveth.
We are wendynge the feldes, and we are pikeynge the fruites, and we are dropeyng hem in ower buquets, whan I see – horrures! – estupide Henry hath pullen alle the fruites fro an herb!
“Henry, what hastow doon!?” I cryed. And he saw I was aguisshed, so he sterted to creyen, and so I sterted to creyen, then al gan to creyen and I sayd “Now we may alle deye and be mordred by elves!”


I speke verrily, with ne ne oon falsitye ne. ELVES LOKEN JUST LYKE CATTES! I mighte nat have shryked: Ful my vois was stopped. Then, the elf lett forth hites demone-crey and I toke lite Johnes arm and Thomases arm eke and put Joane neath myn arm let Henry runne hymself sin thyse was al hys fault anywey, and we flowen schremefuly fro the elf!

Swych confort got we as we founde the bloody heedes of felones! A, ne were I nevere so gladd forto seen the chopped-off heedes on London Brygge! Yet – had the elf us followed! Hit was there ayein! And now hit gurgled forth an yvel sound, lyk an hundred tabours in hits bely, and gan to wipen hits demon-elf-flesshe on Henryes leg, sikerly for that he hath bidden hit forth, but I thoughte: “Though hit be Henry who shal cwell us al, I shal nat lette him to deye!” And wyth al my corage and strengthe, I cized the elf and threwe hit a the riveer! Deye, elfe, deye!

And thilke, I feynted, and I droped Joane on hir heede, but lite Johne had saven the strewen-berries, so hit was alle “Oll Korrekt,” whych methinketh be a doublyng of wordes unnecesste. Whan her atte Savoye ayein, I maked strewen-berry cakke, and for hys gode werkes I gave Johne the broodest pece; and though he would have mordered us al, I gave some to Henry eek.

Whan Constaunze came yby my chaumbres, though, I toold hir we hadde eten hit al, though there was an whool cakke that remaineth yet. The bytch shal nat deliten of my cakke!


10 comment "Les Lutins a Les Fraises!"

  1. Legolas GreenleafJuly 2, 2006 at 5:39 PM

    Thou shalt fromme the Royale Societee for the Prevencioun of Crueltie to Elves heren.

  2. Thou shalt fromme the Royale Societee for the Prevencioun of Crueltie to Elves heren.

    Wicches! Wicches! Wicches! By Saint Margaret, I shal send for the bisshop at ones!

  3. Robertus de Braybrook, Episcopus LondinensisJuly 3, 2006 at 6:37 AM

    Alle Goddes creatures ben deserving of fayre treatment, and nowhere in the Holy Boke doth it say 'thou shalt into the river casten elvis'.

  4. Dere Bisshop --

    Thyse be just the mannir of thynge which causeth me to thinken what the bible nede be made in Englyssh, that al menn mighte rede hit herselves sanns nede to beknowen Latin, and thereby preven thyse wordes interessyng; though ywit that then pesaunts could rede hit eke, and so I know why that might nat be letten. But dere and nooble bisshop, witten yow nat that elves be ne creat of Gode, but of the Devil?
    But hit hath come to me that, the oonly wey I shal ever undrestonde thyse mattirs, is yf my childeren becomen nonnes and prestes. So I now givde hit troth: my sonne Henry (sin thyse be all his fault) shal becomen a grete prest, ne, bisshop, ne cardinal! He be VI yeres elde ynow, so there be muchel time for thyse scheme to werken.

  5. Pesaunts that conne rede? Nevere have Ich herde soche wan-sense.

  6. Hit is a ferly thynge, but yis, ywit, moost of hem can how to rede. Writen hem her own names and al! Hit be a sore dredful thynge, and yf thys be nat given laxatif, neightest thou knowest, shall hem be burnyng the Savoye ydoun! (O, I should nat speke swych thynge, ower I shal give unto hit a jynges...)

  7. Doe goe strayghtly to Oxenford, to ye Universitie, y-speak with ye Proffessour of ye Englyshe tounge, Maister Ronaldus. Certes will he y-sette thee straigth vppon ye Elves.

    Joseph de Mauger

  8. Yn verray sooth, the moste wise Maistre Ronaldus de Tolkienne doth knowe manie curious things abouten elvis.

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