Musings on the Great Wind of 1882.
- A poem, in the modern style, by the Right Rev. Guthrie Tittwhistle.

Oh thunderous Blast, coursing down dark valleys and deep pools,
that whistled and shrieked on that tiresome journey from Hathersage.
Gathered in the carriage, my buttocks tight on the seat like knife edges,
I chattered to my lady companions, unheeding of the tradgedy to pass.

Oh grievous wind that you rattled against my straining gate,
and then, unheralded save for a noise like a babes breath,
discharged like silent cannon roar 'twixt by breeches and pants,
I had chance to cough to hide this assassin before the horror came.

It seemed the air grew in substance and my companions faces became ashen,
Lady Smithers gave a single folorn cry, like a bird on the wing,
before lapsing into a swoon which was unbroken until Clumply Edge,
Her maid, a crone of many years, but stifled a sudden rebellion from her gut.

But dear Louise, that one so young should suffer so,
from an old mans predilection for pickled sprouts and stale beer,
young, unplucked flower, that such a stench should addle your tender mind,
drooling, like an enfant, you collapsed, and were never of right mind again.

You great Satan! You foul spirit, ghost of digested sustenance,
pervader of gods house, that made me like a common savage to squat,
erupting foul emission from that which is most holy, I pray that heaven,
in all it's glory has supply of enameled or copper plated plugs for suppressive purpose.

The Rev. Tittwhistle was a village vicar of the 'old school', known for his poetry but also fine collection of soil and twigs. A keen naturist, he was frequently found naked in trees, reading the works of Pliny (the younger) and hunting snipe. He died at the age of 98, in an ill advised experiment involving a bag of stoats and a firework.