Snowdrops from a Curate’s Garden

in which I extinguished fourteen candles in sixteen attempts, thus taking the eighth prize, and special mention as the sole representative of my cloth who was able to support a child weighing fifty-six pounds on my erect lance-of-love alone, and thus accom- plishing the act of sex with my hands tied behind my back. Poor little devil ! As I came, she shot off my well-oiled plenipo and was immediately split up from the fork to the shoulders by the giant callibis- tris of Lord R . . . y, whose affection for a buttered bun is only equalled by the size of his Julius Cae- sar. This truly formidable weapon is worth a mo- ment’s digression. It hangs below the owner’s knees, making the kilt an unconventional, if effec- tive, wear. In erection the noble owner can lick the cheese from under the prepuce, and Lady S . . . t, who has so often accommodated an ass — in the interest of bacteriologists, who had previously be- lieved that the latter animal was not susceptible to syphilis — had declared in forcible though refined language that “ it’s a fair bugger, and ought to do my little Fanny’s job a treat.” Eulogy, you will ad- mit, can no further go. To return : I was a healthy and well-formed boy, and my innate stern moral sense guarded me against the temptations into which so many youngsters fall nowadays. The diminutive size of my meat-skewer baffled all the attempts of my fiery-arsed nurse, for her well-worn snatch-blatch could receive no gratification from anything smaller than a village pump-handle. It is a singular circumstance that my relations with my god-mother (who had ad hoc taken an in- terest in me) were apparently of a character as pure as remote. From year’s end to year’s end I saw her but some half-dozen times, and on these occasions her demeanour was frigid in the ex- treme. It was not till later that I discovered the se- cret of this debauched old voluptuary. The victim [22]