of a wicket,
Selecting safe parts of his body to bruise.
In his mind such an urchin King Solomon had
When he said, Spare the stump, and you bungle the lad!

For what in the world is the use of a creature
All flabbily bent on avoiding the Pitch?
Who wanders about, with a sob in each feature,
Devising a headache, inventing a stitch?
There surely would be a quick end to my joy
If possessed of that monster--the feminine boy!--

The feminine boy who declines upon croquet,
Or halma, or spillikins (horrible sport!),
Or any amusement that's female and pokey,
And flatly objects to behave as he ought!
I know him of old. He is lazy and fat,
Instead of this Thing, fit for punishment drastic,
Give, Fortune, a son who is nimble and keen;
A bright-hearted sample of human elastic,
As fast as an antelope, supple and clean;
Far other than he in whose dimples there lodge
Significant signs of inordinate stodge.

Ay, give me the lad who is eager and chubby,
A Stoddart in little, a hero in bud;
Who'd think it a positive crime to grow tubby,
And dreams half the night he's a Steel or a Studd!
There's the youth for my fancy, all youngsters above--
The boy for my handshake, the lad for my love!

THE DARK BOWLER.

I know that Bowler, dark and lean,
Who holds his tongue, and pegs away,
And never fails to come up keen,
However hard and straight I play.
Spinning and living, from his hand
The leather, full of venom, leaps;
How nicely are his changes planned,
And what a lovely length he keeps!

Because he pulls his brim so low,
However earnestly one tries
One never sees the darkling glow,
That must be nimble in his eyes.
The fellow's judgment never nods,
His watchful spirit never sleeps.
There was a clinking ball! Ye gods,
Why, what a splendid length he keeps!

At times he bowls an awkward ball
That in the queerest manner swerves,
And this delivery of them all
Takes most elastic from my nerves:
It comes, and all along my spine
A sense of desolation creeps;
Till now the mastery is mine,
But--what a killing length he keeps!

That nearly passed me! That again
Miraculously missed the bails!
Too good a sportsman to complain,
He never flags, he never stales.
Small wonder if his varied skill
So fine a harvest daily reaps,
For how he marries wit and will!
And what a deadly le