ON THE LANGUAGE OF THE FRONTIER

As a frontiersman—because that’s what I’m calling myself now—I have to adopt the habits and language of the frontier. In accordance with country law, every item I have must be exchanged for something rugged—my trainers for a pair of boots, my wool hat for a sturdy helmet designed to repel falling logs or teams of angry hawks—and every standard measure I know must be exchanged for something mysterious. Thus, my supplies for this week: a kinch of heating oil, a fatt of bacon, 9 hands of wood, 8 market fusts of berry wine, 4 &9/8ths swods of molasses, a shid of rye meal, 9 barlycorns of stewing apples, a crack of whittling tobacco, and a host of other things I just made up.

A word is a beautiful bird: appreciated greatly when it’s flitting around our heads; but mourned only by the last hunter to hold it’s limp body to the fading light and admire its elegant plumage; or, more accurately, by the last lexicographer to pause above its entry in his dictionary proof and give a heavy sigh before he strikes it through.

Here's a nice Deutsche Welle story about one man's efforts to keep fine old German words alive (via Languagehat.) Who would ever think that "Spielautomat" (slot machine) is a finer word than "Groschengrab"? (Literally, "Penny grave.")

And here's a Times story about the Collins dictionary people's efforts to enlist celebs to save 24 endangered English words.