THE BOY AND THE BAT.
["Who may describe a small boy's passion for his bat?"—Daily News.]
Jemmy Bilkins, aged Thirteen-and-a-half, loquitur:—
I've won it, Bill, I've won it! And it's pooty nigh full size!
Leastways, anyhow, it looks it. O, I tell yer, it's a prize.
Yaller-backed, Bill, and cane-'andled, and its got a sort o' feel,
As yer swing it wot reminds yer of a Stoddart or a Steel.
Last Saturday as ever wos I turned out afore six,
And practised in our back yard, wiv three lumps o' deal for "sticks."
Young Polly she bowled to me, and I drove 'er, and I cut,
And "swiped over the Pervilion"—which I mean our water-butt.
Poll can do a fair round-armer for a girl and no mistake,
And she'll 'ave you, middle-stumpo, if yer don't look wide awake.
'Twos the day of our School Match, Bill, and our gaffer, Mister Blore,
'Ad promised a cane-'andler to the boy as made top score.
Oh I tell yer I meant 'aving it, if practisin' would do,
But my bat 'ad split a lump off, and it seemed to 'it askew.
'Ow can yer "keep a straight bat" when your bat itself aint straight?
But we did our level best, Bill, me an' Polly.
At our fate
Out at Petersham I tell you as we done the thing to rights,
None o' yer 'at-an'-coat piles for the wickets, as is sights
A cricketer cocks snooks at, when 'e knows the real game.
No penny injy-rubber and a club! Though, all the same,
Wiv a second-'and stripped tennis-ball, a little on the lop,
Or even a ha'penny woodeny, an' the chump end of a mop,
And my jacket on a stick for stump, I've 'ad a lot of fun,
And wiv such on Gosling Green, Bill, I fust larned to 'it an' run.
But to-day we did it different. Real stumps was pitched O. K.,
We'd a scoring-sheet, and umpire! We'd a red new ball to play,
As it seemed a sin to slog at, 'cos it took the pooty out;
But I tell yer we forgot that wiv the fust good 'it and shout.
Lanky Steve 'e made that 'it, 'e did. It scooted past long slip,
At forty mile a hour or so. That Steve can make 'em skip.
He tops me by a 'ed, too, and I feared he'd cop the bun.
Yus, I thought the Bat was his'n when he'd piled up twenty-one!
I wanted fanning, Billy, when I ups and takes my block,
And the ball came thunderin' at me like a little earthquake shock.
Seemed heverywhere, yet nowhere, if you understand me, Billy.
And pitched just in that orkud spot as always knocks yer silly.
Coming off the pitch like pickles, as though aiming at yer heye;
But I pulls myself together for a volley, an' let fly.
And fust thing I knowed I heard it busting 'ard agin the fence;
And I felt I'd scored a boundary, and the cheering wos emense.
Then Billy I lammed into 'em! They came as easy then
As little Polly's easiest lobs. Billy, they called hus "Men!"
"The next man in wos Bilkins" the reporter sez—that's me!—
"An' e's a young phernomenon, a infant W. G.
Who piled his quarter-century in fair Doctorial form!"—
Just fancy! But them scribbling chaps can pile it thick and warm.
I won that Bat 'owever with a score of twenty-five,
And Polly—in the Press-tent!—wos the 'appiest girl alive
While as for me! O Billy, when I drawed it from the baize,
Caught the whiff of the fresh willow!—well the world looked all a haze.
If "the Doctor" feels much 'appier when his Testimonial comes—
Well, though 'e's the pet of England, me a urchin from the slums,
I jist guess he'll hunderstand me! Ony wish I'd got a bob
To send the Telygraft, Bill. I should soon be on the job.
Ain't Grace a 'Oly Stunner; and the Pride o' the Pervilion?
Well I 'ope 'is Testymonial will run up to a Million!!!
And when he makes his next "Century" may I be there to see!—
Wich the Master says he'll take me, now I'm called "Young W. G."
How to fix the Happy Day.—Q. When's the best day for a wedding? A. Why, of course, "A Weddin's day."
