He placed the poor bird in the voluminous pocket of his
coat. During the service the warmth of the rector's pocket revived the
bird and thawed it back to life; and when during the sermon the rector
pulled out his handkerchief, the revived bird flew vigorously away
towards the west end of the church. The clerk, who sat in his seat
below, was not unaccustomed to the task of beating for the squire's
shooting parties, called out lustily:
"It be all right, sir; I've marked him down in the belfry."
The fame of the Rev. John Russell, the sporting parson of Swymbridge, is
widespread, and his parish clerk, William Chapple, is also entitled to a
small niche beneath the statue of the great man. The curate had left,
and Mr. Russell inserted the following advertisement:
"Wanted, a curate for Swymbridge; must be a gentleman of moderate and
orthodox views."
The word _orthodox_ rather puzzled the inhabitants of Swymbridge, who
asked Chapple what it meant. The clerk did not know, but was unwilling
to confess such ignorance, and knowing his master's predilections,
replied, "I 'spects it be a chap as can ride well to hounds."
The strangest notice ever given out in church that I ever have heard of,
related to a set of false teeth. The story has been told by many.
Perhaps Cuthbert Bede's version is the best.
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