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regarding any matter, to come to him. A parishioner calls to borrow an
umbrella. The curate lends him a new one, and then goes to the rector
and informs him of this visitor. "You have done wrong," says the rector.
"You ought to have said that you should have been happy to comply with
such a small request, but, unfortunately, the rector was walking out
with it the other day, when, at a place where four roads meet, a sudden
gust of wind blew the skin to one side and the ribs to another; we have
tied the ribs and skin together in the middle, and hung it from the
ceiling. Something like that," adds the rector, "something with an air
of truth about it, is what you should have said." Next comes another
parishioner, who wishes to borrow a horse. The curate replies with great
politeness, "The request with which you honour me is a mere trifle, but
the rector took it out with him a few days since, and coming to the
junction of four cross roads, a gust of wind blew the ribs to one side
and the skin to another, and we have tied them together, and hung them
from the ceiling; so I fear it would not suit your purpose." "It is a
horse I want," said the man. "Precisely--a horse: I am aware of it,"
quoth the curate, and the man went off, not a little perplexed, after
which the curate reports this new affair to the rector, who says it was
to an umbrella, not to a horse, that such a story was applicable. Should
any one come again to borrow a horse, he ought to say, "I much regret
that I cannot comply with your request. The fact is, we lately turned
him out to grass, and becoming frolicsome, he dislocated his thigh, and
is now lying, covered with straw, in a corner of the stable." "Something
like that," adds the rector, "something with an air of truth about it,
is what you should say." A third parishioner comes to invite the rector
and the curate to a feast at his house. "For myself," says the curate,
"I promise to come; but I fear it will not be convenient for the rector
to accompany me." "I presume then," says the man, "that he has some
particular business on hand?" "No, not any particular business," answers
the curate; "but the truth is, we lately turned him out to grass, and
becoming frisky, he dislocated his thigh, and now lies in a corner of
the stable, covered with straw." "I spoke of the rector," says the
parishioner. "Yes, of the rector. I quite understand," responds the
curate, very complaisantly, upon which the man goes away, not