CHAPTER XXIV 

 THE CLERK AND THE LAST RAVENS 



THE old parish clerk is almost as obsolete as the village 

 church band or orchestra, but you do come upon him 

 occasionally " still lingering here " in remote districts, 

 and until a few years ago there existed one at Itchen 

 Abbas, a pretty little village on the Itchen, a few miles 

 above Winchester. Let me hasten to say, lest any- 

 one's susceptibilities should be hurt, that this same 

 village in everything except its parish clerk, appeared 

 to be quite up to date. At the Sunday morning 

 service he sat near me where I could see and hear him 

 very well. His quaint appearance and manner first 

 attracted my attention : it was out of date, out of 

 keeping, or, shall we say, harmony; yet the harmony 

 being what it was in that spiritless mechanical service 

 the little discord came as a rather pleasing relief. 



He was a small thin old man with black alert hawk- 

 like eyes, white beard and a black skull-cap on his grey 

 head. His high-pitched voice and speech were those of a 

 Hampshire peasant, and it happened to be the one clear 

 articulate voice amidst the confused gabble of the 

 others, all apparently anxious to get on and finish the 

 tedious business of public worship as quickly as possible. 



