<h2><SPAN name="page8"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>THE RIVAL CURATES</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">List</span> while the poet
trolls<br/>
Of <span class="smcap">Mr. Clayton Hooper</span>,<br/>
Who had a cure of souls<br/>
At Spiffton-extra-Sooper.</p>
<p class="poetry">He lived on curds and whey,<br/>
And daily sang their praises,<br/>
And then he’d go and play<br/>
With buttercups and daisies.</p>
<p class="poetry">Wild croquêt <span class="smcap">Hooper</span> banned,<br/>
And all the sports of Mammon,<br/>
He warred with cribbage, and<br/>
He exorcised backgammon.</p>
<p class="poetry">His helmet was a glance<br/>
That spoke of holy gladness;<br/>
A saintly smile his lance;<br/>
His shield a tear of sadness.</p>
<p class="poetry">His Vicar smiled to see<br/>
This armour on him buckled:<br/>
With pardonable glee<br/>
He blessed himself and chuckled.</p>
<p class="poetry">“In mildness to abound<br/>
My curate’s sole design is;<br/>
In all the country round<br/>
There’s none so mild as mine is!”</p>
<p class="poetry">And <span class="smcap">Hooper</span>,
disinclined<br/>
His trumpet to be blowing,<br/>
Yet didn’t think you’d find<br/>
A milder curate going.</p>
<p class="poetry">A friend arrived one day<br/>
At Spiffton-extra-Sooper,<br/>
And in this shameful way<br/>
He spoke to <span class="smcap">Mr.
Hooper</span>:</p>
<p class="poetry">“You think your famous name<br/>
For mildness can’t be shaken,<br/>
That none can blot your fame—<br/>
But, <span class="smcap">Hooper</span>, you’re
mistaken!</p>
<p class="poetry">“Your mind is not as blank<br/>
As that of <span class="smcap">Hopley
Porter</span>,<br/>
Who holds a curate’s rank<br/>
At Assesmilk-cum-Worter.</p>
<p class="poetry">“<i>He</i> plays the airy flute,<br/>
And looks depressed and blighted,<br/>
Doves round about him ‘toot,’<br/>
And lambkins dance delighted.</p>
<p class="poetry">“<i>He</i> labours more than you<br/>
At worsted work, and frames it;<br/>
In old maids’ albums, too,<br/>
Sticks seaweed—yes, and names it!”</p>
<p class="poetry">The tempter said his say,<br/>
Which pierced him like a needle—<br/>
He summoned straight away<br/>
His sexton and his beadle.</p>
<p class="poetry">(These men were men who could<br/>
Hold liberal opinions:<br/>
On Sundays they were good—<br/>
On week-days they were minions.)</p>
<p class="poetry">“To <span class="smcap">Hopley
Porter</span> go,<br/>
Your fare I will afford you—<br/>
Deal him a deadly blow,<br/>
And blessings shall reward you.</p>
<p class="poetry">“But stay—I do not like<br/>
Undue assassination,<br/>
And so before you strike,<br/>
Make this communication:</p>
<p class="poetry">“I’ll give him this one
chance—<br/>
If he’ll more gaily bear him,<br/>
Play croquêt, smoke, and dance,<br/>
I willingly will spare him.”</p>
<p class="poetry">They went, those minions true,<br/>
To Assesmilk-cum-Worter,<br/>
And told their errand to<br/>
The <span class="smcap">Reverend Hopley
Porter</span>.</p>
<p class="poetry">“What?” said that reverend gent,<br/>
“Dance through my hours of leisure?<br/>
Smoke?—bathe myself with scent?—<br/>
Play croquêt? Oh, with pleasure!</p>
<p class="poetry">“Wear all my hair in curl?<br/>
Stand at my door and wink—so—<br/>
At every passing girl?<br/>
My brothers, I should think so!</p>
<p class="poetry">“For years I’ve longed for some<br/>
Excuse for this revulsion:<br/>
Now that excuse has come—<br/>
I do it on compulsion!!!”</p>
<p class="poetry">He smoked and winked away—<br/>
This <span class="smcap">Reverend Hopley
Porter</span>—<br/>
The deuce there was to pay<br/>
At Assesmilk-cum-Worter.</p>
<p class="poetry">And <span class="smcap">Hooper</span> holds his
ground,<br/>
In mildness daily growing—<br/>
They think him, all around,<br/>
The mildest curate going.</p>
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