ren't any stumps!"

"O, I'll soon make you some stumps," said the lady briskly. "Come out
into the garden and I'll soon get them."

She was as good as her word. In a few minutes she had found three
sticks, pointed the ends with her pocket-knife, and driven them in
with the gardener's mallet on the lower lawn. A flower-pot was placed
on the centre stick. Then she produced a ball from her pocket.

"Now," she said, "you have everything you will want, and I leave you
to teach your scratch team."

Tom laughed. The phrase "your scratch team" pleased him. His aunt's
energy had infected him, and he began to marshal his forces.

"Now, look here, girls," he said; "Maggie, you're wicket-keeper, and
Fan and Kitty must field, and Hugh shall bowl."

But Hugh proved such an indifferent bowler that even the girls began
to clamour.

"Let me twy, Cousin Tom," cried Maggie; "I can frow better than Hugh!"

"You frow!" laughed Tom; "why, you can't speak properly yet!"

"Let me twy," said Maggie; "I don't bowl with my tongue!"

[Illustration: A SCRATCH TEAM.]

[Illustration:]

So Maggie tried, and the game began to get exciting.

Maggie couldn't say her "r's," but she could certainly throw a ball
very straight, and Tom had to play his best.

He began to hit the ball about the lawn, so that the little fielders
grew hot and out of breath. At last one vigorous toss absolutely hit
the wicket and sent the stumps and the flower-pot sprawling.

"I have knocked him out," cried Maggie, jumping about in her glee. "I
am going to bat the ball now!"

But at that moment a voice was heard calling: "Come in to tea,
children!"

"It can't be tea-time yet, surely!" said Tom, quite astonished at the
quick flight of time.

So the scratch team had not played so badly after all, and during
Tom's stay with his aunt they had many a game together and always
thoroughly enjoyed it.

_M.A. Hoyer._

Roddy's Victory

[Illustration:]

[Illustration:]

It was Saturday--a summer Saturday; the sun shone down upon the meads
and pastures round Clover Farm so radiantly that every face felt bound
to smile brightly in return. Every face but one, and that belonged to
Roddy Lester, the eldest of the farmer's four.

"What ails my boy this fine sunshiny morning?" called out mother from
the cool, sweet dimness of the dairy, where she was at work.

Roddy did not answer. He was standing in the ivy-encircled doorway of
the dairy, his hands deep in