Chapter 2
Though getting grey and rather stiff, The Major loves a long day's outing, And gives a military sniff When lads complain of lengthy scouting. Each summer morn at break of day From bed before the lark he tumbles, And if the mercury be vile There carries nearly half a mile The Indian vigour of his grumbles.
When winter brings its snow and ice, As well as divers pains and twinges, The Major's language gathers spice, And oftentimes his temper singes. On Christmas day he oils his bats, And, on the crimson hearthrug scoring, Through Fancy's slips he cuts the ball, Or lifts her over Fancy's wall, Till all the ghostly ring is roaring!
And when at length the day is near For Death to bowl the Major's wicket, (The Major swears he has no fear That Paradise is short of cricket!) If in the time of pad and crease His soul receives its last advices, With final paper on his bed I know the Major will be wed To cricket first--and then the crisis!
CRICKET AND CUPID.
She understands the game no more Than savages the sun's eclipse; For all she knows the bowler throws, And Square-Leg stands among the Slips: And when in somersaults a stump Denotes a victim of the game, Her lovely throat begets a lump, Her cheeks with indignation flame.
She scarce can keep her seat, and longs To cheer the fallen hero's fate; Her fingers clench upon the bench As if it were the Trundler's pate! Because this rascal's on the spot Her passion fails to be concealed; She asks me why the wretch is not Immediately turned off the field.
But if the batsmen force the pace, From me she quickly takes her cue; Perceives the fun of stolen run, The overthrow that makes it two. And as the ball bombards the fence, Or rattles on the Scorers' hut, She claps with me the Drive immense, And prettily applauds the Cut.
Divided at the heart, I seek With skill to serve a double call: Though great the Game, it were a shame To miss her bosom's rise-and-fall. Cupid and Cricket, unafraid, Must sink their dread of partnership, Nor fear to join as stock-in-trade The boxwood bail, the honeyed lip.
Time was when bigotry compelled A total worship of the game, Before the test had pierced my breast, Before the Idol-breaker came. But suddenly the sky let down, Escaped from heaven in pink and gold, A child to conquer by her gown The sport so starkly loved of old.
Sweet are her little cries, and sweet The puzzled look her forehead wears; For all she knows the Umpire goes Away to Leg to say his prayers. And yet, so velvety her eyes, I even find a charm in this, And think, How foolish to be wise When Ada's ignorance is bliss!
A BOUNDARY.
What nonsense, Charles! Though rather stiff, And foreign from the style of Twenty, There's still enough of cricket stuff Remaining for the pastime. Plenty! Why, such a creed as now you preach Is only fit for scoffs and jeers; Wait till you lose your wind and reach-- Wait till you come to fifty years.
What nonsense, Charles! You still can put The figures up by bounds and leaps, Sir; There's little myth about the pith You carry in your muscle. Heaps, Sir! Not yet the camp-stool period comes, With feelings precious close to tears; Still at your choice the leather hums-- Wait till you total fifty years.
What nonsense, Charles! In you I see-- You, lord of curl on shaven plots, Sir-- A magazine of Fourers clean Prepared to bruise the railings. Lots, Sir! I have a dog's-eared birthday list That makes me mock your silly fears And hope for centuries from your wrist-- Wait till you come to fifty years.
THE COMMENTATOR.
The throstle in the lilac, Not far beyond the Nets, Upon a spray of purple His beak severely whets: He hears the players calling, He wonders what they're at, As thunder frequent Yorkers Against the stubborn bat.
And as the rank half-volley Its due quietus gets, The bird begins to carol A greeting to the Nets: Amazed at noisy kissing Of ball and wooden blade, In rivalry he whistles A ballad unafraid.
Right jocund is the music That, poured in lovely jets, Accompanies superbly The heroes in the Nets; And sweet the startled pauses Amid the royal song That come when shout together The drive-delighted throng.
The greatness of the uproar Benumbs him, and he lets His pulsing bosom ponder The tumult in the Nets; But soon afresh, while warbling His comment on the game, He puts all human songsters-- Quite easily!--to shame.
Thou Herrick in the lilac, The damp of evening wets Upon our shoes the pipeclay, And bids us leave the Nets; But come again to-morrow To mingle with our joy The magic learnt in Eden When Time was but a boy!
LUCKY LADS.
See in bronzing sunshine Twenty-two good fellows, Such as help the world along, Such as Cricket mellows! Health and heartiness and joy Come to them for capture, Lucky lads, plucky lads, Relishing the rapture!
Watch the flying fieldsman, Keen to save the fourer, Gallop past the wooden box Sacred to the scorer! Think you demi-gods of Greece Matched him in their story? Lucky lad, plucky lad, Sprinting hard for glory!
Watch the hitting hero Loosely clad in flannel-- There's a figure to adorn Any sculptor's panel! Every inch of him enjoys Sharing in the tussle, Lucky lad, plucky lad, Speed and grit and muscle!
See in bronzing sunshine Thousands of good fellows, Such as roll the world along, Such as Cricket mellows! These shall keep the Motherland Safe amid her quarrels, Lucky lads, plucky lads, Trained to snatch at laurels!
CRICKET IN THE GARDEN.
Before the aproned nurse arrives, To tell of soap and tub and sponges, My nephew, fierce and ruddy, drives, Disgraceful edges, callous lunges. Twenty auriculas declare The zeal of his peculiar magic, Till every aunt is in despair, And even Job (the cat) looks tragic.
Down goes a tulip's noble head! (Poor Auntie Nell is nearly crying!) And now a stately stock is dead, And now a columbine is dying. Vainly the cook with female lobs Desires to hit the egg-box wicket; And not among the housemaid's jobs-- 'Tis very plain--is garden cricket.
Whack on the bee-hive goes the ball! "That's six!" screams Noel to the scorer. A foxglove, steepled best of all, Now sinks beneath a flying fourer. Two to the lad's-love; and beyond The lavender just half-a-dozen; And TWELVE for dropping in the pond A rank half-volley from his cousin!
To see my pinks give up the ghost Is what no longer can be suffered: Before I lose the scented host This game, like candles, must be snuffered. Noel, at ninety-two, not out, Is carried to the nursery, screaming; And later with a precious pout Lies in his bed of down and dreaming.
There shall his Century be achieved, Larkspurs and tiger-lilies humbled, Geraniums of their fire bereaved, And calceolarias torn and tumbled. With fairy craft from dusk to dawn Quaint Puck himself may bowl half-volleys, But I have vowed, by love and lawn, To weed one thistle from my follies!
THE PRINCE, BATTING.
As out of a cannon comes the ball! Quickly it flies to the human wall. Didn't it go with a will and a whiz? How lovely it is! How lovely it is!
Four to the east, and four to the west! Arrowy shots at the Umpire's chest! Placid the sinewy batsman beams-- How easy it seems! How easy it seems
Watch! For a ball we could barely poke The master hand and the radiant stroke! Glances and cuts and drives and hooks-- How easy it looks! How easy it looks!
Now is the time we may all forget Paper and books, for the Prince is set. Here in the grass, with our work at heel, How happy we feel! How happy we feel!
THE REASON.
Now why did Arthur Hoare pull out A sovereign with a happy shout And give it rashly to his scout, Who almost had a fit?
Why of a sudden did he fling A hard-boiled egg at Eustace Ling, Forgetting how an egg can sting The person who is hit?
Why after dinner did he turn In fury on his room, and burn His old oak chairs with unconcern?-- A stupid thing to do!
And why so harshly did he pelt With forks a fresh and timorous Celt Afraid to utter what he felt? _Arthur had got his Blue!_
A LONG GRACE.
_(W.G. Grace's XI. versus XXII. of Bath.)_
Nothing went right. The Champion cut And drove and glanced, and cut again, Till every bowler we possessed Deep down within his smarting breast Half wished he'd lost that early train! _Dobbin went on with Sneaks, Robin appeared with Tweaks, And Diccory Dizzard, as fast as a blizzard, Contributed Lightning Streaks!_
Nothing went right. The Champion's bat Seemed twice the breadth of postern door. The leather flew at pace immense To crackle on the boundary fence, Acknowledged by the public roar. _Dobbin went on with Tweaks, Robin obliged with Sneaks, And Diccory Dizzard, as fast as a blizzard, Exhibited Lightning Streaks!_
Nothing went right. At last, at last A bell (than Angelus more fair!) Rang respite for the fieldsmen who, By sprinting hard from twelve to two, Had scarce a ragged breath to spare. _Robin abstained from Sneaks, Dobbin abandoned Tweaks, And Diccory Dizzard, as fast as a blizzard, Prohibited Lightning Streaks!_
Luncheon went right. The weary team Found benches, beer, and salad sweet. But asking blessing was too bad, Because they all were somewhat sad From too much Grace before their meat! _Health to your noble name, Monarch in fact and fame, From twenty-two hearty lads in a party Broadened and bronzed by the Game!_
REMEMBER, PLEASE!
When the run of the bowler is measured, And he, with brows knotted, Bowls fierce at your timber-yard treasured, To pot, or be potted, If the ball to the bone that is funny Fly swift as a swallow, And you squeal like a terrified bunny As agonies follow:
Then, then is a capital season, More fit than another, Loose language of silly unreason In courage to smother. Clean speech is too frequently shamed For Cricket to shame it! One word is too often exclaimed For you to exclaim it!
THE FORERUNNERS.
Beside the pillar-box a girl Sells daffodils in golden bunches, And with an apron full of Spring Stays men a moment from their lunches: Some fill their hands for love of bloom, To others Cupid hints a reason; But as for me, I buy because The flowers suggest the Cricket season!
Although I trouble not to seek A maiden proud to wear my favour, Right glad am I to change my pence For blooms, and smell their wholesome savour; For as I carry blossoms home-- Sisters of gold with golden sisters-- My heart is thumping at the thought Of pads and bails and slow leg-twisters.
My only sweetheart is a bag-- A faithful girl of dark brown leather, Who's travelled many a mile with me In half a hundred sorts of weather! Once more to clasp your friendly hand, To tramp along by Hope attended, Dreaming of glances, drives, and cuts, My Dear Old Girl, how truly splendid!
NET PRACTICE.
We had a fellow in the School Whose batting simply was a dream: A dozen times by keeping cool And hitting hard he saved the Team. But oh! his fielding was so vile, As if by witch or goblin cursed, That he was called by Arthur Style, King Butterlegs the Worst!
At tea-time, supper, breakfast, lunch, For many disappointed days, We reasoned with him in a bunch, Imploring him to mend his ways. He listened like a saint, with lips As if in desperation pursed; Then gave three fourers in the Slips-- King Butterlegs the Worst!
'Twas after this the Captain tried, In something warmer than a pet, To comfort his lamenting Side By pelting Curtice in a net. Aware of his tremendous power, The Captain used it well at first, And peppered only half-an-hour King Butterlegs the Worst!
But half-an-hour at such a range-- From such a Captain!--was enough To work so prompt and blest a change That Curtice ceased to be a muff. When from his bed at last he came, Where fifty bruises had been nursed, He was no more a public shame, Nor Butterlegs the Worst!
THE CATCH OF THE SEASON.
He was a person most unkempt, And answered to the name of Cust. He had a frenzied mass of hair, A little redder than red rust, And trousers so exceeding short It looked as if by mounting high They meant unceasingly to try To change to knickers on the sly.
He was a person whom a Bat Could view without the least distrust. He caught me at the fifth attempt-- Imagine my profound disgust! For if the ball had gone to hand I had not felt the least unrest; But, as it happened (Fate knows best!) It struck him smartly on the chest.
I cannot tell you how he squirmed And capered on the greensward there, Until at last he took the ball (Or so it seemed) from out his hair, And meekly rubbed the coming bruise. Thus was I humbled in the dust Because of Albert Edward Cust. Imagine my profound disgust!
Here's to the freckles and fielding and fun, Here's to the joy that we ponder; Here's to the Game that will glow in the sun When the babes of our babies are--Yonder!
* * * * *
~Rivers' Popular Novels~
Crown 8vo., 6_s_.
* * * * *
~The House of Merrilees~. ARCHIBALD MARSHALL. _[Now Ready_.
~The Unequal Yoke~. Mrs. H.H. PENROSE. _[Now Ready_.
~The Discipline of Christine~. Mrs. BARRÉ GOLDIE. _[Now Ready_.
~Peter Binney, Undergraduate~. ARCHIBALD MARSHALL. _[Now Ready_.
~Peace on Earth~. REGINALD TURNER. _[Now Ready_.
~The Countermine~. ARTHUR WENLOCK. _[Now Ready_.
~The Friendships of Veronica~. THOMAS COBB. [May 17.
~Hugh Revel, A Public School Story~. LIONEL PORTMAN. [July 25.]
~Notes on Books.~
In issuing a list of new and forthcoming publications, Mr. Alston Rivers cannot but express his gratification at the spirit of fair play which has enabled him to realise such a striking series of successes. The primary business of a publisher is to discriminate, both as to intrinsic literary merit, and with regard to what will hit the public taste, a classical illustration of the difficulty in gauging the latter being the rejection of "John Inglesant" by the late James Payn, then "reader" for an eminent firm. While fully recognising the remarkable gifts of the author Mr. Payn's hesitancy as to the book's attractions got the better of his judgment; and with "_The House of Merrilees_" it is now an open secret that very much the same point of view was taken in more than one instance. Mr. Marshall's "_Peter Binney, Undergraduate_," had been and is still decidedly popular, but his new book was more ambitious, possessing such a plot as to require peculiarly delicate handling. Had it been handled in a way that combined a really high literary standard with more stirring qualities? The question requires no answer now, for the triumph which the publisher at once foretold on reading the manuscript has been more than attained, and "_The House of Merrilees_" is indisputably the novel of the season. It has at the same time demonstrated to the publishing trade that a sensational story does not labour under any disadvantage by the abduction of literary style.
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In a wholly different vein are "_The Discipline of Christine_" and "_The Unequal Yoke_," by Mrs. Barré Goldie and Mrs. H.H. Penrose respectively. In the former the ways and moods of childhood are depicted in original and inimitable fashion, which makes it safe to predict that the author will go far beyond her first effort as a novelist. In "_The Unequal Yoke_" Mrs. Penrose has taken for her theme the love story of a clergyman whose benefice is an Irish coast town, and in whose flock prominence is attained by narrow zeal rather than by amiability. He is really a good man, and is lucky enough, or the reverse, to win the hand of a delightful young lady whose charms, however, do not command the unanimous approval of the parishioners. The possession of high musical attainments makes her temperament all the more interesting, and accounts for the presence in so remote a district of her German friend whose acute sense of the ridiculous leads to such untoward results. It is hard to say whether the author's talents are best evinced by her true pathos or by the delicate touches of humour which pervade the book. Another commendable feature of the novel is an alert skill in construction which stamps it as a thoroughly artistic production.
~_Ready May 2_.~
~The Soul of London.~ FORD MADOX HUEFFER. Author of "The Life of Madox Brown," "The Face of the Night," &c. Imperial 16mo, 5_s._ nett.
* * * * *
~_Ready May 9_.~
~More Cricket Songs.~ NORMAN GALE. Imperial 16mo, 2_s._ nett.
* * * * *
~_New Edition. Now Ready_.~
~Spring Blossoms and Summer Fruit.~ JOHN BYLES. Cloth, Crown 8vo, 1_s._ 6_d._ nett.
These "Sunday Morning Talks to Children" are full of charm and suggestive thought.
"We can hardly praise too highly the beauty and exquisite simplicity of these talks."--_Literary World_.
London: ALSTON RIVERS, 13, Arundel Street.
Mr. Reginald Turner has already achieved such distinction as an author of superior fiction (witness the success of his "_Comedy of Progress_" and "_Cynthia's Damages_,") that a cordial reception was assured for his latest book "_Peace on Earth_." It is a pathetic story that he has to tell; of the sorrows of the outcast amid poverty, and the rage against law and government provoked thereby; of the less obvious, but equally poignant, griefs which smoulder beneath the surface of "comfortable circumstances." The plot is, in short, one that in the hands of any other than a thorough man of the world, would fail hopelessly, which makes Mr. Turner's complete and undoubted success all the more meritorious.
"_The Countermine_" is the work of Mr. Arthur Wenlock, whose "_As Down of Thistle_" showed considerable promise, though perhaps his subtle vein of sardonic philosophy escaped due recognition. As its name denotes, the interest in the new novel is largely military; in every line the soldier, with his nice sense of honour, his virility, and his direct methods, stands revealed. "_The Countermine_" is certainly a most thrilling tale, and should raise the author to the front rank of writers on "Service" topics. Of Mr. Thomas Cobb, whose reputation is already firmly established, it is only necessary to say that in "_The Friendships of Veronica_" his fertile and resourceful pen is at its best if, indeed, his literary reputation has not been substantially advanced.
~The Alston Rivers' Shilling Library~.
* * * * *
~Creatures that once were Men~. MAXIM GORKY. With Introductory by G.K. CHESTERTON.
~Lovers in London~. A.A. MILNE.
"'A Coming Humorist.' ... In Mr. Milne it may not be extravagant to descry a writer with a future before him."--_Evening Standard and St. James's Gazette_.
~Change for a Halfpenny~. C.L.G. and E.V.L.
The hustling methods of modernity possess undoubted possibilities for humorous treatment, and no one has appreciated the fact more keenly than the authors of "Wisdom While you Wait." In this their latest work the prospectus of the Napolio Syndicate forms a bowstring whence fly shafts of satire that hit the mark every time.
~The Loot of Cities~. ARNOLD BENNETT.
~Publican and Serf~.
A striking study of nomadic life among the peasant classes, translated from the Russian by J.K.M. SHIRAZI.
It is one thing to be a famous writer; it is another to be widely read. Maxim Gorky is at present included in both categories, though as regards the second condition he had scarcely qualified prior to the publication of "_Creatures that once were Men_." It was a bold venture, for all the former successes in shilling form were either sensationally melodramatic or frankly farcical. Encouraged by the huge demand for Maxim Gorky's book, Mr. Alston Rivers is publishing in the same form (1/- nett, paper, and 1/6 cloth) "_Publican and Serf_," by Skitaletz, a Russian Author, who, while by no means behind Gorky in point of realism, possesses in the opinion of some critics a still greater measure of literary ability. Other items of Mr. Alston Rivers' Shilling Library, which has prospered as only the result of the most careful selection could prosper, are "_Lovers in London_," by A.A. Milne, brightest and most promising of the younger humorists, and "_The Loot of Cities_," by Mr. Arnold Bennett, the mere name of whom is a sufficient guarantee of entertainment. As for general literature, "_The Soul of London_," by Ford Madox Hueffer, may be justly described as worthy of a place in every library. The author in his introduction, remarks that he has tried to make the book anything rather than encyclopædic, topographical, or archæological, and beyond that somewhat negative phrase it is difficult to give any more complete designation to the work. For the treatment of the subject is altogether original, this attraction being intensified by the particularly graceful style in which a remarkable gift of observation finds expression.
~The Novel of the Season~
* * * * *
~THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES~. 6/- By ARCHIBALD MARSHALL, _Author of "Peter Binney, Undergraduate_"
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"The ~best mystery novel~ since Sir A. Conan Doyle's 'Sign of Four.'"--_Daily Graphic_.
"Can recommend cordially and with confidence to those who like a ~really good story~, well constructed and excellently told."--_Punch_.
"A really satisfactory tale of mystery is always ~sure of its welcome~, and 'The House of Merrilees' ought to secure wide popularity."--_Daily Mail_.
"~Great ingenuity~ is shown in the way in which clue is crossed by counter-clue."--_The Daily Telegraph_.
"It is a pleasure to praise a book of this kind, and rare to find one in which ~a narrative of absorbing interest~ is combined with so many literary graces."--_The Bookman_.
"A very ~engrossing story~."--_Graphic_.
"The ~best story~ of its kind we have read for years."--_Guardian_.