midnight, the devil's knell is rung. When I was curate at the latter place, at first I knew nothing of this singular knell. On my first Christmas Eve I had retired to bed, when at midnight I heard the bell toll.
Now, my window looked out into the churchyard, and was, in fact, opposite the tower door. I was greatly shocked and distressed, for I had not heard that anyone was ill in the parish, and I feared that the deceased must have passed away without the ministrations of religion.
I threw up my window and leaned out, awaiting the sexton. I counted the strokes—three, three, three: then I counted the ensuing strokes up to one hundred.
Still more astonished, I waited impatiently the appearance of the sexton.
When he issued from the tower, I called to him:
"Joe, who is dead?"
The man sniggered and answered, "T'owd un, they say."
"But who is dead?"
"T'owd chap."
