(_A Candid Veteran's Confession._)
I am rather a "pootlesome" bat--
I seldom, indeed, make a run;
But I'm rather the gainer by that,
For it's bad to work hard in the sun.
As a "field" I am not worth a jot,
And no one expects me to be;
My run is an adipose trot,
My "chances" I never can see.
I am never invited to bowl,
And though, p'r'aps, this seems like a slight,
In the depths of my innermost soul
I've a notion the Captain is right.
In short, I may freely admit
I am not what you'd call a great catch
But yet my initials are writ
In the book against every match!
For although--ay, and there is the rub--
I am forty and running to fat,
I have made it all right with the Club,
By presenting an Average Bat!
* * * * *
ANOTHER TITLE!! SUPPLEMENTAL GAZETTE OF BIRTHDAY HONOURS.--Dr. W. G.
Grace to be Cricket-Field-Marshal.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Muscular High Church Curate._ "Wonderful things 'Grace'
does!"
_Low Church Vicar_ (_surprised at the serious observation from his
volatile friend_). "Ah, my dear sir, true----"
_High Church Curate._ "Yes. Only fancy, y'know!--ninety-two, and not
out!!"]
* * * * *
"LE CRICQUETTE"
_How he will be played--shortly._
_Offices of the Athletic Congress, Paris._
[Illustration: CRICK-IT]