EVER SINCE I was knee high to a grasshopper I have used the word hosie in the sense of 'lay claim to, bespeak.' When I was a kid I hosied an especially rosy apple; as an adult I hosie to dry, rather than wash, the dishes. It is a warm, cozy word; I like to use it; it makes me feel good, like saying 'Let's go snucks on that,' when I mean 'Let's go shares on that.' With its use I renew my childhood, and glance back into that marvelous, symbolic world. One day, many years ago, I looked up hosie in the dictionary-to see whether the Merriam-Webster dictionary spelled it with an s or a z, and to learn its derivation-and it was not there. When Harold Wentworth brought out his good American Dialect Dictionary a dozen years ago, I said, 'It will surely be here.' But it was not, and to this day it is in no dictionary, dialect or otherwise, that I know anything about. Yet it is used daily by millions of American and English speakers. When I began to go into the subject of hosie a bit, to ask people whether or not they knew the word, I discovered from the way they reacted to my question how deep in our consciousness it and other childish words lie. The words children learn from one another, in distinction to those they learn from adults, constitute a kind of trade language, a secret, submerged, underground jargon which keeps parents and other adults at a distance, out of the know. It is a language kept secret from the adult world partly, too, by the adult's capacity to forget. It is an incantatory cant, in which sound and rhythm are very important. Here the All in free of hide-and-seek becomes the wonderful sounding Ollee-ollee-unchin-free! Games have names to conjure with, like ring-a-lievio, allicomgreenzie, slobberhannes. Here rhyme creates such fantasies
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