Ville

Once we fanned over a little ville that had just been airstruck and the words of a song by Wingy Manone that I’d heard when I was a few years old snapped into my head, “Stop the War, These Cats Is^([sic]) Killing Themselves.”

The fighting holes and trenches scattered in and around each ville indicate battle after battle - some only planned, others fought. We move toward a tree-lined ville.

On Halloween, this real hot spooky night, the dude paints up his body all different colors and puts on this weird mask and hikes over to a ville and goes trick-or-treating almost stark naked, just boots and balls and an M-16.

Abᵗ 12, We left Sᵗ Malo & came to Hedé that night 9 Leagues (bayting onely at Sᵗ Pierre a pretty Ville) where we were well lodged & found Mʳ Macartie (Irlandois) the Curé.

Found my classmate Means at Amherst [Mass.]. . . . Amherst is a very pleasant little ville, but still and inactive. There is some very good land around it. There is no academic school in the place.

We made a long round back to vile,**^([sic]) and the night bein’ cold and windy I pulled the blyhunker†† hup under a wall and lit the darkey to sample the swag before goin’ any further—which I allus make a p’int o’ doin’.

[T]he gleam of the glow of the shine of the sun through the dearth of the dirth on the blush of the brick of the viled ville of Bamehulme has dust turned to brown; […]

When I’m asked by a stranger to spell the odd-sounding name of the town in which I say I live, I sometimes hear a snicker, and I get a questioning look. “Yes, Estherville!” I repeat. Why not? “Estherville”—the only one in the world. After all, if Robert Ridley had married someone other than Esther, this could have been Phoebeville, Lenaville, Kittyville, or Daisyville. Esther is a pretty name for a pretty ville, nestled along a meandering river under bluffs wooded by native oak, walnut, maples, and other dense timber.