3F#5 – rain
When Father Donne stopped outside the open-windowed choir-room, he could see Dr. H was in a lather, broken blood vessels in his cheeks, about to start ejecting boys. With graduation only three days away, this was undesirable. Donne listened, unseen, as Dr. H. raised his voice to instruct them in macaronic verse.
“Macaroni!” Rex Traherne interrupted. “Stuck a feather in his [muffled] and called it macaroni!”
“Sir!” Theodore Marvell broke in. The laughter occasioned by Rex Trahere subsided.
“Yes, Theo?”
“Sir, isn’t it true that Britten was a flautist?” Suppressed snickers.
Dr. H, flustered: “Not that I’m aware of. Why?”
“I heard he was a very accomplished flautist!”
The snickering exploded into a peal of giggles, from the eighth grade no less. Donne may have spent recent decades in the cloister, but he knew puerile innuendo when he heard it.
“Boys!” he said, bursting into the choir-room, “I can hardly believe what I am hearing.” The eighth grade tried unsuccessfully to contain their mirth. “I believe,” Donne continued, “that some very dark clouds are approaching.”
“But, sir,” Felix Marvell replied, straight faced, “Isn’t it true that Britten was a flautist?” At this, Theodore lost his battle with laughter.
“I’ve no idea,” Donne replied, “but I can say with some confidence that rain is headed this way. Pouring rain.” The eighth grade blushed and fell silent. “Carry on,” Donne said lightly, departing.
He resumed his perambulation, pleased to have instructed the eight grade, that year, in the virtues of rhyming slang, if nothing else.
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