And the moral is plain, tho' you do your own writing,
There are better plans than to do your own fighting!
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.
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