x!" screams Noel to the scorer.
A foxglove, steepled best of all,
Now sinks beneath a flying fourer.
Two to the lad's-love; and beyond
The lavender just half-a-dozen;
And TWELVE for dropping in the pond
A rank half-volley from his cousin!

To see my pinks give up the ghost
Is what no longer can be suffered:
Before I lose the scented host
This game, like candles, must be snuffered.
Noel, at ninety-two, not out,
Is carried to the nursery, screaming;
And later with a precious pout
Lies in his bed of down and dreaming.

There shall his Century be achieved,
Larkspurs and tiger-lilies humbled,
Geraniums of their fire bereaved,
And calceolarias torn and tumbled.
With fairy craft from dusk to dawn
Quaint Puck himself may bowl half-volleys,
But I have vowed, by love and lawn,
To weed one thistle from my follies!

THE PRINCE, BATTING.

As out of a cannon comes the ball!
Quickly it flies to the human wall.
Didn't it go with a will and a whiz?
How lovely it is! How lovely it is!

Four to the east, and four to the west!
Arrowy shots at the Umpire's chest!
Placid the sinewy batsman beams--
How easy it seems! How easy it seems

Watch! For a ball we could barely poke
The master hand and the radiant stroke!
Glances and cuts and drives and hooks--
How easy it looks! How easy it looks!

Now is the time we may all forget
Paper and books, for the Prince is set.
Here in the grass, with our work at heel,
How happy we feel! How happy we feel!

THE REASON.

Now why did Arthur Hoare pull out
A sovereign with a happy shout
And give it rashly to his scout,
Who almost had a fit?

Why of a sudden did he fling
A hard-boiled egg at Eustace Ling,
Forgetting how an egg can sting
The person who is hit?

Why after dinner did he turn
In fury on his room, and burn
His old oak chairs with unconcern?--
A stupid thing to do!

And why so harshly did he pelt
With forks a fresh and timorous Celt
Afraid to utter what he felt?
_Arthur had got his Blue!_

A LONG GRACE.

_(W.G. Grace's XI. versus XXII. of Bath.)_

Nothing went right. The Champion cut
And drove and glanced, and cut again,
Till every bowler we possessed
Deep down within his smarting breast
Half wished he'd lost that early train!
_Dobbin went on with Sneaks,
Robin appear