It happened on one of these monthly occasions that on the arrival of the parson at the church he was met by the clerk at the door, who, pulling his forelock, addressed him as follows:  “Sir, do yew mind a prachin in the readin’ desk to-day?” “Yes,” was the reply; “the pulpit is the proper place.”  “Well, sir, you see we fare to have an old guse a-sittin’ in the pulpit.  She’ll be arf her eggs to-morrow; ’twould be a shame to take her arf to-day.”

The pulpit was considered as convenient a place as any for the “old guse” to hatch her young in.

Canon Venables contributes the following: 

The first parish clerk I can in the least degree remember was certainly entitled to be regarded as a “character,” albeit not in all moral respects what would be called a moral character.  Shrewd, clever, and better informed than the inhabitants of his little village of some eighty folk, he was not “looked up to,” but was regarded with suspicion, and, in short, was not popular, while treated with a certain amount of deference, being a man of some knowledge and ability.  The clergyman was a man of excellent character, learned, a fluent ex-tempore preacher, and one who liked the services to be nicely conducted.  He came over every Sunday and ministered two services.  In those days the only organ was a good long pitch-pipe constructed principally of wood and, I imagine, about twelve inches in length.  But upon the parish clerk devolved the onerous (and it may be added in this case sonorous) duty of starting the hymn and the singing.  In those days few could read, and the method was adopted (and I know successfully adopted a few years later) of announcing two lines of the verse to be sung, and sometimes the whole verse.  But Mr. W.M. was unpopular, and people did not always manifest a willingness to sing with him.

At last a crisis came.  The hymn and psalm were announced.  The pitch-pipe rightly adjusted gave the proper keynote, and the clerk essayed to sing.  But from some cause matters were not harmonious and none attempted to help the clerk.

With a scowl not worthy of a saint, the offended official turned round upon the congregation and closed all further attempts at psalm-singing by stating clearly and distinctly, “I shan’t sing if nobody don’t foller.”  This man was deposed ere long, and deservedly, if village suspicions were truthful.

After which, I think, he usually came just inside the church once every Sunday, but never to get further than to take a seat close to the door.  He died at a great age.  Two or three of his successors were worthy men.  One of them would carefully recite the Psalms for the coming Sunday within church or elsewhere during the week, and he read with proper feeling and good sense.

Another of the same little parish, well up in his Bible, once helped the very excellent clergyman at a baptism in a critical moment.  “Name this child.”  “Zulphur.”  This was not a correct name.  Another effort, “Sulphur.”  The clergyman was in difficulty.  The clerk was equal to the occasion, for the parson was well up in his Bible too.