AUTOHYPONYMY, VERTICAL POLYSEMY, OR Q-BASED NARROWING

AUTOHYPONYMY, VERTICAL POLYSEMY, OR Q-BASED NARROWING is a feature of the English language that still baffles me in our days.
It's when a word itself is its own hyponym, depending of context. The cases referring to living beings and their anatomy below particularly puzzled me, since, having been born and raised in Spain, I grew up solely with the term being used for the hypernym, the so-called general sense, (not as a hyponym, for which there existed another, more scientific word, in Spanish) due to Linnean taxonomy being the most prominent influence on the "street-Spanish" (as opposed to "science-Spanish", in fact, both contexts use the same words)
To disambiguate, philologists usually number the words, using 1 for the hypernym or general sense and 2 for the hyponym or specific sense (by the way, each one of the senses of the word is known as an allosemon). Which I think is rather smart, not to get mixed up with both meanings.
It's such a shame that the words can't be numbered in everyday contexts...
I will never get this feature of the English language...

EXAMPLES

SHAPES

rectangle 1 (every quadrilateral with four ninety-degree angles)
rectangle 2 (every NON-EQUILATERAL quadrilateral with four ninety-degree angles)

LIVING ORGANISMS

fingers 1 (all digits of primates)
fingers 2 (NOT all digits of primates, opposable thumbs EXCLUDED)

animals 1 (whole kingdom Animalia, or all fauna)
animals 2 (ONLY TERRESTRIAL FAUNA: mammals and reptiles)

plants 1 (whole plant kingdom, or all flora)
plants 2 (ONLY HERBACEOUS FLORA: herbs, flowers, and vegetables)

Every case when the generic name of a species overlaps with the name of gender, for instance:
cow 1 (cattle, Bos primigenius taurus, regardless of gender)
cow 2 (ONLY ADULT FEMALE cattle or Bos primigenius taurus)

OBJECTS

shoes 1 (footwear in general)
shoes 2 (LOW footwear that COVERS THE WHOLE FOOT)


COLOURS
purple 1
purple 2 (a DARK shade, not mauve, not lilac, et cetera)

etc. (the list of colour autohyponyms is endless)


VERBS

close 1
close 2 (SOFTLY, AND WITHOUT LOCKING THE DOOR)

drink 1 (swallow any liquid)
drink 2 (swallow any ETHYLIC liquid)

etc.

Yet you can't number the words constantly for an ever-confused and baffled foreigner to realize which sense of the word is being used. Which means these words above are vague. VAGUE as in vague as hell. Not calling a spade a spade, or being something speciesist.

FAVOURITE POETRY: OLD STORYBOOKS

OLD STORYBOOKS

By Eliza Cook

Old storybooks! old storybooks! we owe ye much, old friends, 
Bright-colored threads in Memory's warp, of which Death holds the ends. 
Who can forget ye? — who can spurn the ministers of joy 
That waited on the lisping girl and petticoated boy? 
I know that ye could win my heart when every bribe or threat 
Failed to allay my stamping rage, or break my sullen pet: 
A promised story was enough — I turned with eager smile, 
To learn about the naughty pig that would not mount the stile.  

There was a spot in days of yore whereon I used to stand, 
With mighty question in my head and penny in my hand; 
Where motley sweets and crinkled cakes made up a goodly show, 
And storybooks upon a string, appeared in brilliant row. 
What should I have? the peppermint was incense in my nose, 
But I had heard of hero Jack who slew his giant foes: 
My lonely coin was balanced long before the tempting stall, 
'Twixt book and bullseye, but, forsooth! Jack got it after all. 

Talk of your vellum, gold embossed, morocco, roan, and calf, 
The blue and yellow wraps of old were prettier by half: 
And as to pictures! well we know that never one was made 
Like that where Bluebeard swings aloft his wife-destroying blade. 
Hume's England! — pshaw! what history of battles, states and men 
Can vie with Memoirs all about sweet little Jenny Wren? 
And what are all the wonders that e'er struck a nation dumb, 
To those recorded as performed by Master Thomas Thumb? 

Miss Riding Hood, poor luckless child! my heart grew big with dread, 
When the grim wolf, in grandmamma's best bonnet, showed his head; 
I shuddered when, in innocence, she meekly peeped beneath, 
And made remarks about great eyes, and wondered at great teeth.  
And then the house that Jack built, and the beanstalk Jack cut down, 
And Jack's eleven brothers, on their travels of renown; 
And Jack, whose cracked and plastered head insured him lyric fame, 
These, these, methinks, make vulgar "Jack" a rather classic name. 

Fair Valentine  I loved him well; but, better still the bear 
That hugged his brother in her arms with tenderness and care. 
I lingered spell-bound o'er the page, though even-tide wore late, 
And left my supper all untouched to fathom Orson's fate. 
Then Robin with his Merry Men, a noble band were they, 
We'll never see the like again, go hunting where we may. 
In Lincoln garb, with bow and barb, rapt fancy bore me on, 
Through Sherwood's dewy forest-paths, close after Little John. 

Miss Cinderella and her shoe kept long their reigning powers, 
Till harder words and longer themes beguiled my flying hours; 
And Sinbad, wondrous sailor he, allured me on his track, 
And set me shouting when he flung the old man from his back. 
And oh! that tale — the matchless tale, that made me dream at night 
Of Crusoe's shaggy robe of fur, and Friday's death-spurred flight; 
Nay, still I read it, and again, in sleeping visions, see 
The savage dancers on the sand — the raft upon the sea. 

Old story books! old story books! I doubt if Reason's Feast  
Provides a dish that pleases more than Beauty and the Beast; 
I doubt if all the Ledger-leaves that bear a sterling sum, 
Yield happiness like those that told of Master Horner's plum. 
Old storybooks! old storybooks! I never pass ye by 
Without a sort of furtive glance — right loving, though 'tis sly; 
And fair suspicion may arise — that yet my spirit grieves 
For dear Old Mother Hubbard's dog and Ali Baba's Thieves. 

FAVOURITE POETRY: THE WREATHS

THE WREATHS
By Eliza Cook

(This is a poem I have translated into Swedish and whose translation opens the Baratheon Saga):

Whom do we crown with the laurel leaf? 
The hero god, the soldier chief, 
But we dream of the crushing cannon-wheel, 
Of the flying shot and the reeking steel, 
Of the crimson plain where warm blood smokes, 
Where clangor deafens and sulphur chokes: 
Oh, who can love the laurel wreath, 
Plucked from the gory field of death? 

Whom do we crown with summer flowers? 
The young and fair in their happiest hours. 
But the buds will only live in the light 
Of a festive day or a glittering night; 
We know the vermil tints will fade — 
That pleasure dies with the bloomy braid: 
And who can prize the coronal 
That's formed to dazzle, wither, and fall? 

Who wears the cypress, dark and drear? 
The one who is shedding the mourner's tear: 
The gloomy branch for ever twines 
Round foreheads graved with sorrow's lines. 
'Tis the type of a sad and lonely heart, 
That hath seen its dearest hopes depart. 
Oh, who can like the chaplet band 
That is wove by melancholy's hand? 

Where is the ivy circlet found? 
On the one whose brain and lips are drowned 
In the purple stream — who drinks and laughs 
Till his cheeks outflush the wine he quaffs. 
Oh, glossy and rich is the ivy crown, 
With its gems of grape-juice trickling down; 
But, bright as it seems o'er the glass and bowl, 
It has stain for the heart and shade for the soul. 


Here is the Swedish translation:

Vem kröner vi...?
Efter "The Wreaths" av Eliza Cook
Direkt från engelskan av Sandra Dermark

Vem kröner vi med lagerkrans?
Krigarhjälten i all sin glans.
Men vi drömmer om kanonskott och gälla vrål,
om vinande kulor och blodbestänkt stål,
om öppna landskap vattnade med ädelt blod,
där krutröken kväver och visst krävs det mod...
Säg, vem kan älska en lagerkrans
plockad på slagfältet i blodig trans?

Vem kröner vi med färger och blom?
Den unga bruden, lycklig och from.
Men sommaren är kort och dag blir till natt,
och glitter och fröjd hinner vardag ifatt.
Ja, färgen försvinner och blommor dör ut,
och all fägring måste ändå ha ett slut.
Säg, vem kan prisa en blomsterkrans
vars sista öde är att mista sin glans?

Vem kröner vi med sorgeflor?
Den tårögda, vars sorg är så stor.
Med grenar och flortyg så mörka som natt
kröns huvuden som en tung sorg hann ifatt.
Ett hjärta som krossats, berövats allt hopp,
vill helst vara ensamt och ej lyftas opp.
Säg, vem älskar sorgeslöjans band,
som har vävts ihop med ett tungt svårmod i hand?

Vem blir med klätterväxter krönt?
Den som skrattar åt allt, skönt eller ej alls skönt,
med tankarna dränkta i ett töcken så tungt,
och blossande kinder, dock hjärtat än ungt.
I den starka strömmen vi dricker finns glans,
en fröjd och en värme som leder till trans.
Först, i kalken och strupen, vill den skenbart väl,
dock här finns gift och mörker för hjärta och själ.

THE SACRILEGIOUS GAMESTERS

THE SACRILEGIOUS GAMESTERS
By Eliza Cook

This is an alleged legend that there happened in an English village about some gamblers who lived there.

A stranger journeyed through our town, 
One dark and wintry night; 
And, as he passed the ivied church, 
He marked a flitting light. 

It shed a restless waving gleam 
Through the Gothic window pane 
And now it vanished for a space, 
And now it came again. 

He stood, and thought it wondrous strange 
That such a scene should be; 
He stood, and now the pale red beam 
Shone strong and steadily. 

He looked around; all else was dark, 
Not e'en a star was left; 
The townsfolk slumbered, and he thought 
Of sacrilege and theft. 

He roused two sleepers from their beds, 
And told what he had seen; 
And they, like him, were curious 
To know what it should mean. 

They hied together to the church, 
And heard strange sounds within 
Of undistinguishable words, 
And laughter's noisy din! 

The window's high; a ladder, quick, 
Is placed with stealthy care, 
And one ascends — he looks below; 
Oh! what a sight is there! 

The white communion-cloth is spread 
With cards, and dice, and wine; 
The flaming wax-lights glare around, 
The gilded sconces shine. 

And three of earthly form have made 
The altar-rail their seat, 
With the Bible and the books of prayer 
As footstools for their feet. 

Three men, with flashing bloodshot eyes 
And burning fevered brows, 
Have met within those holy walls 
To gambol and carouse. 

But the darkest work is not yet told: 
Another guest is there, 
With the earth-worm trailing o'er his cheek 
To hide in his matted hair! 

He lifted not the foaming cup, 
He moved not in his place; 
There was slime upon his livid lips, 
And dust upon his face. 

The foldings of a winding-sheet 
His body wrapped around, 
And many a stain the vestment bore 
Of the clay from the charnel ground. 

A rent appeared, where his withered hands 
Fell out on the sacred board; 
And between those hands a goblet stood, 
In which bright wine was poured. 

Oh! he was not like the other three, 
But ghastly, foul, and cold; 
He was seated there a stiffened corpse 
All horrid to behold. 

He had been their mate for many a year, 
Their partner many a game; 
He had shared alike their ill-got gold 
And their deeply tarnished fame. 

He had died in the midst of his career, 
As the sinful ever die, 
Without one prayer from a good man's heart, 
One tear from a good man's eye! 

He had died a guilty one, unblessed, 
Unwept, unmourned by all; 
And scarce a footstep ever bent 
To his grave by the old church wall. 

The other three had met that night, 
And revelled in drunken glee, 
And talked of him who a month ago 
Formed one of their company. 

They quaffed another brimming glass, 
And a bitter oath they swore 
That he who had joined their game so oft 
Should join their game once more. 

And away they strode to the old church wall, 
Treading o'er skull and tomb, 
And dragged him out triumphantly, 
In the midnight murky gloom. 

They carry him down the chancel porch, 
And through the fretted aisle, 
And many a heartless, fiendish laugh 
Is heard to ring the while. 

They place him at the hallowed shrine, 
They call upon his name, 
They bid him wake to life again, 
And play his olden game. 

They deal the cards: — the ribald jest 
And pealing laugh ring on. 
A stroke — a start — the echoing clock 
Proclaims the hour of one! 

And two of the three laugh louder still, 
But the third stares wildly round: 
He drops the cards, as if his hand 
Were palsied at the sound! 

His cheeks have lost their deepened flush, 
His lips are of paler hue, 
And fear hath fallen on the heart 
Of the youngest of that crew! 

His soul is not yet firmly bound 
In the fetters of reckless sin! 
Depravity hath not yet wrought 
Its total work within! 

The strong potation of the night 
Drowned all that might remain 
Of feeling; and his hand shrunk not 
While madness fired his brain! 

But now the charm hath lost its spell, 
The heated fumes have passed; 
And banished reason to her throne, 
Usurped, advances fast. 

He rises — staggers — looks again 
Upon the shrouded dead! 
A shudder steals upon his frame: 
His vaunted strength is fled! 

He doubts — he dreams — can, can it be? 
A mist is o'er his eyes; 
He stands aghast. — " Oh! what is this? 
Where? where? " — he wildly cries. 

" Where am I? — see the altar-piece — 
The holy Bible: say — 
Is this the place where I was brought 
A tiny boy to pray? 

" The church — the church-yard too — I know 
I have been there to-night; 
For what? Ha! mercy! see that corpse! 
Oh, hide me from the light! 

" I have been deemed a profligate, 
A gamester, and a knave, 
But ne'er was known to scoff at God 
Or violate the grave! 

" I've long been what man should not be, 
But not what I am now. 
Oh help me! help! My tongue is parched! 
There's fire upon my brow! 

" Oh save me! hide me from myself! 
I feel my pulses start: 
The horror of this drunken crime 
Hath fixed upon my heart! 

" Again! I feel the rushing blood! 
I die! — the unforgiven! 
Again, it comes; all — all is dark — 
I choke — Oh! mercy, Heaven! " 

One struggling groan — he reels — he falls — 
On the altar-steps he lies; 
And the others gasp with fear, for now 
Two corpses meet their eyes! 

But, hark! swift footsteps echo round: 
Encircled now they stand: 
Surprised, detected, they are seized 
By many a grappling hand. 

And soon the dreadful tale is spread, 
And many a finger raised 
To point them out; while the listening one 
Looks fearfully amazed. 

They are shunned by all; the son, the sire, 
The heedless and the gay; 
Their old associates leave their side, 
And turn another way. 

Hate, shame, and scorn, have set a mark 
Upon them. One by one, 
Of all they knew, forsakes their path, 
Till they are left alone. 

And they have sought another land, 
And breathe another clime; 
Where men may deem them fellow-men, 
Nor hear their blasting crime! 

And gossips, in their native town, 
Even now are heard to tell 
Of the sacrilegious crew that turned 
The old church to a hell.

FAVOURITE POETRY: UNDER CANVAS

UNDER CANVAS
By Owen Meredith

Oh, is it a phantom ? a dream of the night ? 
A vision which fever hath fashion'd to sight ? 
The wind, wailing ever, with motion uncertain 
Sways sighingly there the drench'd tent's tatter'd curtain 
To and fro, up and down...

But it is not the wind 
That is lifting it now ; and it is not the mind 
That hath moulded that vision. 

A pale woman enters. 
As wan as the lamp's waning light, which concentres 
Its dull glare upon her. With eyes dim and dimmer. 
There, all in a slumb'rous and shadowy glimmer, 
The sufferer sees that still form floating on. 
And feels faintly aware that he is not alone. 

She is flitting before him. She pauses. She stands 
By his bedside all silent. She lays her white hands 
On the brow of the boy. A light finger is pressing 
Softly, softly, the sore wounds : the hot blood-stain'd dressing 
Slips from them. A comforting quietude steals 
Thro' the racked weary frame ; and throughout it he feels 
The slow sense of a merciful, mild neighborhood. 
Something smooths the toss'd pillow. Beneath a gray hood 
Of rough serge two intense tender eyes are bent o'er him, 
And thrill thro' and thro' him. The sweet form before him. 
It is surely Death's angel Life's last vigil keeping ! 
A soft voice says, " Sleep !" 

And he sleeps : he is sleeping. 

He waked before dawn. Still the vision is there : 
Still that pale woman moves not. A minist'ring care 
Meanwhile has been silently changing and cheering 
The aspect of all things around him. Revering 
Some power unknown and benignant, he bless'd 
In silence the sense of salvation. And rest 
Having loosen'd the mind's tangled meshes, he faintly 
Sigh'd, " Say what thou art, blessed dream of a saintly 
And minist'ring spirit!" 

A whisper serene 
Slid softer than silence :' The Soeur Seraphine, 
A poor Sister of Charity. Shun to inquire 
Aught further, young soldier. The son of thy sire. 

For the sake of that sire, I reclaim from the grave. 
Thou didst not shun death : shun not life. 'Tis more brave 
To live than to die. Sleep !" 

He sleeps : he is sleeping. 

He waken'd again, when the dawn was just steeping 
The skies with chill splendor. And there, never flitting, 
Never flitting, that vision of mercy was sitting. 
As the dawn to the darkness, so life seem'd returning 
Slowly, feebly within him. The night-lamp, yet burning. 
Made ghastly the glimmering daybreak. 

He said: 
" If thou be of the living, and not of the dead, 
Sweet minister, pour out yet further the healing 
Of that balmy voice ; if it may be, revealing 
Thy mission of mercy ! whence art thou ?" 

" O son  Of Matilda and Alfred, it matters not ! One 
Who is not of the living nor yet of the dead : 
To thee and to others alive yet," she said, 
" So long as there liveth the poor gift in me 
Of this ministration : to them and to thee 
Dead in all things beside. A French nun, whose vocation 
Is now by this bedside. A nun hath no nation. 
Wherever man suffers, or woman may soothe. 
There her land! there her kindred!" 

She bent down to smooth 
The hot pillow, and added : " Yet more than another 

Is thy life dear to me. For thy father, thy mother, 
I know them — I know them." 

" Oh, can it be ? you ! 
My dearest, dear father ! my mother ! you knew — 
You know them?" 

She bow'd, half averting her head, 
In silence. He brokenly, timidly said, 
"Do they know I am thus?" 

" Hush !" — she smiled as she drew 
From her bosom two letters ; and — can it be true ? 
That beloved and familiar writing! He burst 
Into tears : " My poor mother ! my father ! the worst 
Will have reached them!" 

" No, no !" she exclaim'd, with a smile, 
"They know you are living; they know that meanwhile 
I am watching beside you. Young soldier, weep not!" 
But still on the nun's nursing bosom the hot 
Fever'd brow of the boy weeping wildly is pressed. 
There, at last, the young heart sobs itself into rest ; 
And he hears, as it were between smiling and weeping, 
The calm voice say, " Sleep !" 

And he sleeps: he is sleeping. 

FAVOURITE POETRY: THE TRAILING BANNER

THE TRAILING BANNER
J.A. RYAN

Take that banner down! 'tis weary, 
round its staff 'tis drooping dreary, 

Furl it, fold it, let it rest ; 
For there's not a man to wave it, 
For there's not a sword to save it, 
And there's not a hand to lave it 
In the blood that heroes gave it. 
And its foes now scorn and brave it. 

Furl it, hide it, let it rest. 

Take that banner down ! 'tis tattered ; 
Broken is its staff and shattered, 
And the valiant hosts are scattered 

Over whom it fluttered high. 
Oh, 'tis hard for us to fold it! 
Hard to think there's none to hold it; 
Hard, for those who once unrolled it 

Now must furl it with a sigh. 

Furl that banner — furl it sadly; 
Once six millions hailed it gladly. 
And ten thousand wildly, madly 

Swore it should forever wave. 
Swore that foemen's swords should never 
Hearts like theirs intwined dissever. 
And that flag should float forever 

O'er their freedom or their grave. 

Furl that banner softly, slowly; 
Furl it gently; it is holy, 

For it droops above the dead ; 
Touch it not — unfurl it never, 
Let it droop there, furled forever. 
For its people's hopes are fled. 
Furl it, for the hands that grasped it 
And the hearts that fondly clasped it 
Cold and dead are lying low ; 
And that banner — it is trailing. 
While around it sounds the wailing 

Of its people in their woe. 

For though conquered they adore it, 
Love the cold, dead hands that bore it. 
Weep for those who fell before it. 
Pardon those who trailed and tore it; 
Oh, how wildly they deplore it 
Now to furl and fold it so. 

Furl that banner ! True, 'tis gory. 
But 'tis wreathed around with glory. 
And 'twill live in song and story 

Though its folds are in the dust; 
For its fame, on brightest pages. 
Penned by poets and by sages, 
Shall go sounding down the ages. 

Furl its folds, for now we must. 

FAVOURITE POETRY: CALLING THE ROLL

CALLING THE ROLL

ANONYMOUS

"Corporal Green!" the orderly cried. 

" Here !" was the answer, loud and clear. 

From the lips of a soldier standing near; 
And "Here!" was the word the next replied. 
"Cyrus Drew!" and a silence fell; 

This time no answer followed the call; 

Only his rear man saw him fall — 
Killed or wounded, he could not tell. 

There they stood in the failing light, 
These men of battle, with grave, dark looks, 
As plain to be read as open books, 

While slowly, gathered the shades of night. 

The fern on the slope was splashed with blood, 
And down in the corn, where the poppies grew. 
Were redder stains than the poppies knew; 

And crimson-dyed was the river's flood. 

For the foe had crossed from the other side. 
That day, in the face of a murderous fire 
That swept them down in its terrible ire; 

And their life-blood went to color the tide. 

"Herbert Cline!" At the call there came 
Two stalwart soldiers into the line. 
Bearing between them Herbert Cline, 

Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name. 

"Ezra Kerr!" and a voice said "Here!" 
"Hiram Kerr!" but no man replied: 
They were brothers, these two: the sad wind sighed. 

And a shudder crept through the corn-field near. 

"Ephraim Deane!" then a soldier spoke: 
"Deane carried our regiment's colors," he said, 
"When our ensign was shot; I left him dead, 

Just after the enemy wavered and broke. 

"Close to the road-side his body lies; 

I paused a moment and gave him to drink ; 

He murmured his mother's name, I think ; 
And death came with it and closed his eyes."

'Twas.a victory — yes; but it cost us dear; 
For that company's roll, when called at night, 
Of a hundred men who went into the fight, 

Numbered but twenty that answered " Here !"