or batmen whose bodies are tender;
He gets on their nerves
With his murderous swerves
That insist upon death or surrender.

When people try googlies on Sandham,
You can see he will soon understand 'em;
With a laugh at their slows
He will murmur, "Here goes,"
And over the railings will land 'em.

I am always attracted by Harrison
When arrayed in his batting caparison;
If others look worried
He never gets flurried,
But quite unconcernedly carries on.

All classes of bowlers have stuck at
Their efforts to dislocate Ducat;
Their wiliest tricks
He despatches for six,
Which is what they decidedly buck at.

You should never be down in the dumps
When Strudwick is guarding the stumps;
His opponents depart
One by one at the start,
But later in twos or in _clumps_.

"Like father like son," says the fable,
And is justified clearly in Abel;
No bowling he fears
And his surname appears
An extremely appropriate label.

If I were tremendously rich
I would buy a cathedral in which
I would build me a shrine
Of a noble design
And worship a statue of Hitch.

* * * * *

Our Sleuths Again.

"His wrists were tied together with a piece of webbing, two
bricks were in his coat pockets, and, most remarkable of all,
the soles of his boots were found to be nailed to his toes....
The police theory is that somebody 'owed the dead man a
grudge.'"--_Provincial Paper._

* * * * *

AUTHORSHIP FOR ALL.

[Being specimens of the work of Mr. Punch's newly-established Literary
Ghost Bureau, which supplies appropriate Press contributions on any
subject and over any signature.]

III.--Are we going to the Dogs?

_By Vice-Admiral (Retd.) Sir Boniface Bludger, K.C.B_.

I was standing the other day at the window of the only Club in London
where they understand (or used to understand) what devilled kidneys
really are, musing in post-prandial gloom on the vanished glories of
this England of ours. "_Ichabod!_" I cried aloud to the unheeding stream
of Piccadilly wayfarers; and echo answered, "_Bod_."

What is wrong with us? Or what is wrong with me? Are we actually going
to the dogs, or is it merely that the Club kidneys are going to the
devil? Jeremiah or _Mrs. Gummidge_--which am I? Let the facts
attest and let posterity decide;