already spoken above. There remain only the prospects of

MYSELF

which are frankly rotten. They consist chiefly of two hours' bowling to
the batting of Dick (who hits them back very hard), and ten minutes'
batting to the bowling of Phyllis (slow, mild) and Bobby (fast wides);
for Dick, having been ordered by the captain not to strain himself by
trying to bowl, is not going to try. It is extremely doubtful whether
Bobby will approve of my action, while if he or Phyllis should, by an
unlucky accident, get me out, I should never hear the last of it. In this
case, however, there must be added to Bobby's prospects the possibility
of getting his head definitely smacked.

Fortunately--it is my only consolation--the season will be a short one.
It ends on Tuesday.

THE FIRST GAME

There comes a Day (I can hear it coming),
One of those glorious deep blue days,
When larks are singing and bees are humming,
And Earth gives voice in a thousand ways--
Then I, my friends, I too shall sing,
And hum a foolish little thing,
And whistle like (but not too like) a blackbird in the Spring.

There looms a Day (I can feel it looming;
Yes, it will be in a month or less),
When all the flowers in the world are blooming
And Nature flutters her fairest dress--
Then I, my friends, I too shall wear
A blazer that will make them stare,
And brush--this is official: I shall also brush my hair.

It is the day that I watch for yearly,
Never before has it come so late;
But now I've only a month--no, merely
A couple of fortnights left to wait;
And then (to make the matter plain)
I hold--at last!--a bat again:
Dear Hobbs! the weeks this summer--think! the _weeks_
I've lived in vain!

I see already the first ball twisting
Over the green as I take my stand,
I hear already long-on insisting
It wasn't a chance that came to hand--
Or no; I see it miss the bat
And strike me on the knee, whereat
Some fool, some silly fool at point, says blandly,
"How was that?"

Then, scouting later, I hold a hot-un
At deep square-leg from the local Fry,
And at short mid-on to the village Scotton
I snap a skimmer some six foot high--
Or else, perhaps, I get the ball,
Upon the thumb, or not at all,
Or right into the hands, and then, lorblessme, let it fall.

But what care I? It's the game that calls me--
Simply to