Our Compressed Old English Novel: Swearword, the Unpronounceable

by Stephen Leacock

Chapter One and Only

"Ods-bodikins!" exclaimed Swearword, the Saxon, wiping his mailed brow with his iron hand, "a fair morn withal! Methinks 't wert lithlier to rest me in yon green glade than to foray me forth in yon fray. Wert it not?"

But there happened to be a real Anglo-Saxon standing by.

"Where, in Heaven's name," he said in a sudden passion, "did you get that line of English?"

"Churl," said Swearword, "it is Anglo-Saxon."

"You 're a liar!" shouted the Saxon. "It is not. It is Harvard College, Sophomore Year, Option No. 6."

Swearword, now in like fury, threw his haubeck, his baldrie, and his needlework on the grass.

"Lay on!" said Swearword.

"Have at you!" cried the Saxon.

They laid on and had at one another.

Swearword was killed.

Thus luckily the whole story was cut off on the first page and ended.