But then came the cheering,—­
                Nat Ricket appearing,
      A smile on his face and a bat in his hand,
                As he walked to the wicket,—­
                From hillside to thicket,
      They couldn’t cheer more for a lord of the land. 
      And when he began, ’twas a picture to see
      How the first ball went flying right over a tree,
      How the second went whizzing close up to the sky,
      And the third ball went bang in the poor umpire’s eye;

      How he made poor point dance on his nimble young pins,
      As a ball flew askance and came full on his shins;
      How he kept the two scorers both working like niggers
      At putting down runs and at adding up figures;
      How he kept all the field in profuse perspiration
      With rushing and racing and wild agitation,—­
      Why, Diana and Nimrod, or both rolled together,
      Never hunted the stag as they hunted the leather.

      It was something like cricket, there’s no doubt of that,
      When nimble Nat Ricket had hold of the bat. 
      You may go to the Oval, the Palace, or Lord’s,
      See the cricketing feats which each county affords,
      But you’ll see nothing there which, for vigour and life,
      Will one moment compare with the passionate strife
      With which Muddleby youngsters and Blunderby boys
      Contend for the palm in this chief of their joys.

      I need hardly say, at the end of the day,
      The Muddleby boys had the best of the play,—­
      Tho’ the bright-coloured caps of the Blunderby chaps
      Were as heartily waved as the others, perhaps;
      And as they drove off down the Blunderby lane,
      The cheering resounded again and again.

      And Nat and his party, they, too, went away;
      And I haven’t seen either for many a day. 
                Still, don’t be surprised
                If you see advertised,
                The name of Nat Ricket
                Connected with cricket,
      In some mighty score or some wonderful catch,
      In some North and South contest or good county match. 
      And if ever, when passing by cricketing places,
      You see people talking and pulling long faces,
      ’Cause some country bumpkin has beaten the Graces,
      Just step to the gate and politely enquire,
      And see if they don’t say, “N.  Ricket, Esq.”;
      Or buy a “cor’ect card t’ the fall o’ th’ last wicket,”
      And see if it doesn’t say “Mr. N. Ricket.” 
      For wherever you go, and whatever you see,
      In the north or the south of this land of the free,
      You never will find—­and that all must agree—­
      Such a rickety, crickety fellow as he.

’SPAeCIALLY JIM.

FROM “HARPER’S MAGAZINE.”

I wus mighty good-lookin’ when I wus young—­
Peert an’ black-eyed an’ slim,
With fellers a-courtin’ me Sunday nights,
’Spaecially Jim.