THE LOST VOICE

SEATED at Church in the winter

I was frozen in every limb;

And the village choir shrieked wildly

Over a noisy hymn.

I do not know what they were singing,

For while I was watching them

Our Curate began his sermon

With the sound of a slight "Ahem!"

It frightened the female portion,

Like the storm which succeeds a calm,

Both maidens and matrons heard it

With a touch of inane alarm.

It told them of pain and sorrow,

Cold, cough, and neuralgic strife,

Bronchitis, and influenza

All aimed at our Curate's life.

It linked all perplex'd diseases

Into one precious frame;

They trembled with rage if a sceptic

Attempted to ask its name.

They have wrapped him in mustard plasters,

Stuffed him with food and wine,

They have fondled, caressed, and nursed him,

With sympathy divine.

It may be that other Curates

Will preach in that Church to them,

Will there be every time, Good Heavens!

Such a fuss for a slight—Ahem!

A. H. S.