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Medieval peasant Bartholomew Chestershire’s butter-churning party is going to be a total bust after the death of his family milk cow.
“How now shall I throw mine butter-churning party with no milk? I hath spent a fortnight’s wages on a half dozen loaves of bread from the village market, and twas all for naught!” remarked Chestershire after tuning the fiddler’s mandolin for the evening’s music. “For what ist bread without butter upon which to spread thee?”
“Fare thee well, my sweeting!” added Chestershire, delivering his cow’s body to the butcher in his wagon. “Though I am now filled with woe, your sacrifice shall not be forgotten! Perhaps your salted beef will quench the appetites of the village when they come to dine. But whatever shall entertain such a crowd without butter to churn?” questioned Chestershire, searching his cottage for other sources of entertainment. “Perhaps, a game of masquerade? Charades? Such tomfoolery will never be satisfactory to the vassal. Why must you perish on this, the night of high stakes and jolly spirits, my cow? My spirits have plummeted in the wake of thy death, dear heifer.”
“Lord, I pay my tithes to thee, and yet you plague me so? I pray thee grant mercy upon my evening’s festivities, that my party will not meet the same bitter fate as my dear cow. The party must commence henceforth!”
At press time, Chestershire was discovering his plans for a wine keg stand were ruined after disease struck the village grapes.
