Harvest Home

by 3arn0wl

The Harvest Festival is one of the high points of the ecclesiastical year in Little Sniffy.

The W.I. have been scurrying around the Hallowed Prostitute for days, decorating the church with farming-associated flower arrangements:

  • sheaves of corn on the end of each pew
  • root-crops arranged in Fibonacci Series on the altar


  • pots of home-made jam nestling in clusters of potted-up strawberry plants.

The Poppleton Chamber Orchestra and Choir were booked for the gig – the former ensconced in the minstrels’ gallery, the latter in the choir stalls: the church packed, literally to the rafters.

And so the service began, as it had done for generations, with the processional elicitation: Come, ye thankful people, come. However, the congregation started sniggering as the vicar passed each pew – he’d got his cassock tucked into the back of his Y-fronts – again.  Of course, no-one said anything.  Just sang the line  All is safely gathered in rather more pointedly than usual.

The congregation heard those familiar and much-loved words from Genesis 8 vs 22.

The children presented their gifts, which the priest placed on the altar, much to the annoyance of the ladies of the W.I. who had been scurrying around the Hallowed Prostitute decorating the church with farming-associated flower arrangements.

And the farmers sang We plough the fields and scatter the good seed lustily, before making a rather unseemly getaway towards the Flying Pig for a pie and a pint.

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