It was already ten generations past the time when Albert’s ancestors had CUT down the DOGWOOD tree. Each night he stood quietly underneath the STARS on precisely the very spot where the legendary tree had once blossomed so very beautifully.
Because of his great interest in folklore, history, and the past in general, he’d always so eagerly awaited this annual anniversary celebration, when the townspeople all gathered by the ROUGH~hewn GRANITE wall directly adjacent to the site where the tree once stood.
At the beginning and end of each ceremony, one of the local townsfolk, in the capacity of a kind of grand marshall, after having donned his lovely, fragrant GARLAND, would be expected to shoot a ceremonial arrow, the QUIVER of which must always be the town’s official ceremonial colors.
During his closing speech he would inevitably be required to recite an old, obscure poem, to the sound of the ringing of a ceremonial BELL. Whenever Albert heard this poem, he could never once help being smitten by the rhyming of the words ‘EARTH’ and ‘DEARTH’.
Considering, however, that all this hoo~hah was so strenuous, he too often went home with an awful headache. ‘Twas nothing, he pondered, that couldn’t be settled by way of a swig of WATER and a PILL.
Here we have our weekly SUNDAY WHIRL WORDLE 408