NAT RICKET.

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

      Nat Ricket at cricket was ever a don
      As if you will listen I’ll tell you anon;
      His feet were so nimble, his legs were so long,
      His hands were so quick and his arms were so strong,
      That no matter where, at long-leg or square,
      At mid-on, at mid-off, and almost mid-air,
      At point, slip, or long-stop, wherever it came,
      At long-on or long-off, ’twas always the same—­
      If Nat was the scout, back came whizzing the ball,
      And the verdict, in answer to Nat’s lusty call,
      Was always “Run out,” or else “No run” at all: 
      At bowling, or scouting, or keeping the wicket,
      You’d not meet in an outing another Nat Ricket.

      Nat Ricket for cricket was always inclined,
      Even babyhood showed the strong bent of his mind: 
      At TWO he could get in the way of the ball;
      At FOUR he could catch, though his hands were so small;
      At SIX he could bat; and before he was SEVEN
      He wanted to be in the county eleven.

      But that was the time, for this chief of his joys,
      When the Muddleby challenged the Blunderby boys: 
      They came in a waggon that Farmer Sheaf lent them,
      With Dick Rick the carter, in whose charge he sent them. 
      And as they came over the Muddleby hill,
      The cheer that resounded I think I hear still;
      And of all the gay caps that flew into the air,
      The top cap of all told Nat Ricket was there.

                They tossed up, and, winning
                The choice of the inning,
      The Blunderby boys took the batting in hand,
                And went to the wicket,
                While nimble Nat Ricket
      Put his men in the field for a resolute stand;
      And as each sturdy scout took his usual spot,
      Our Nat roamed about and looked after the lot;
      And as they stood there, when the umpire called “Play,”
      ’Twas a sight to remember for many a day,

      Nat started the bowling (and take my word, misters,
      There’s no bowling like it for underhand twisters);
      And what with the pace and the screw and the aim,
      It was pretty hard work, was that Blunderby game;
      With Nat in the field to look after the ball,
      ’Twas a terrible struggle to get runs at all;
      Though they hit out their hardest a regular stunner,
      ’Twas rare that it reckoned for more than a oner;
      ’Twas seldom indeed that they troubled the scorer
      To put down a twoer, a threer, or fourer;
      And as for a lost ball, a fiver, or sixer,
      The Blunderby boys were not up to the trick, sir;
      Still they struggled full well, and at sixty the score
      The last wicket fell, and the innings was o’er.