A BURNING QUESTION.
By Our Own Cricket Enthusiast.
"The four Counties in whose doings the interest of the Cricketing public is centred, were all hard at work yesterday. [Friday, August 19.] Yorkshire doing very badly against Surrey at the Oval, and Nottinghamshire showing to considerable disadvantage with Lancashire at Old Trafford."—Daily News.
Oh, don't talk to me of the close of the Session, or who's to be Premier, perchance, in the next one;
Those questions, no doubt, may excite party spouters, but there is a far more important and vext one.
The Cricketing Season draws fast to a close; the rain's come at last with inopportune bounty.
And there is a question eclipsing all others,—which, which for this year will be Premier County?
It's narrowing down,—oh, it's narrowing down, and it grows more soul-harrowing every minute,
For Surrey and Lancashire, Yorkshire and Notts are the only four Counties a man can call "in it."
Trent-Bridge is astir with a fever of fidgets, the Tykes are all hurry, and worry, and flurry,
Old Trafford is all upon thorns, and, by Jove, what excitement there is at the Oval in Surrey!
Hornby and Hawke cannot sleep of a night, and their nerves into coolness in vain strive to tutor;
Gladstone and Salisbury's rivalry's child's-play compared with the ditto of Sherwin and Shuter.
Plague upon Jupiter Pluvius! Why did he not hang aloof just a week or two longer?
Oh, don't talk to me of your turnips and things,—what are they to the question which team is the stronger?
Glorious season for Cricket all round, as is proved by the lots of Leviathan scoring,
And now, hang it all, at the very identical point when it comes to the pinch, it is pouring.
Cockshies all chance, every average crabs, this detestable deluge. Slow wickets and sticky.
Muck even the great Arthur Shrewsbury's play, and make Walter Read's chance of top-average dicky,
Arthur's two centuries plus sixty-seven, falls off to a pitiful seven-and-twenty,
And Barlow and Briggs have it all their own way; three "ducks" in one innings—of Notts men—seems plenty.
Look at poor Yorkshire again! Martin Hawke did his best to choose right, but caked wickets plus Lohmann,
Are far too long odds e'en for Ulyett and Hall; and who can foresee English weather? Why, no man.
Wants a cool sticker like Scotton to stand it. Eh? Gives the poor bowlers a look in? Oh, granted,
Good trundling's a part of the game to be sure, but you see at this crisis it's scoring that's wanted,
Dashes the 'gazers, this downing the wickets like nine-pins in swamp with muck-moisture afloat all,
And then ninety-two for a tall-scoring team like our Notts, you must own's a contemptible total,
Middlesex plays in and out; lots of scorers like Webbe, Stoddart, Lucas, O'Brien, and Vernon.
But Robertson, Burton, and West want assistance as bowlers, and bowling's a thing wins will turn on.
Gloucester's slap out of it. Pity poor Grace with a team he can seldom bring up to the scratch, Sir,
So that, in spite of his own startling scores, the, at one time, "Invincibles" scarce win a match, Sir,
Sussex,—well, Quaife is a promising bat, and you always may look for some notches from Newham,
Whilst J. and A. Hide are a host in themselves; but good fortune this season has failed to pursue 'em.
Kent, with Lord Harris, the family of Hearnes, and Rashleigh, with credit should carry field matters on,
But this year they'll not be at top of the tree, 'spite the bowling of Wooton, the smiting of Patterson.
Leicester has got a good trundler in Pougher, but one bowler won't make a good (Cricket) summer,
Whilst Derbyshire's Chatterton, Cropper, and Ratcliff don't make her, at present, the new (Cricket) comer.
As for game Essex,—well, evergreen Green, who has done in his day some redoubtable cricket,
Will own he will not have a look in this year, e'en with Buxton, and Bishop, and Bryan, and Pickett.
No, we must still look to one of the four; and oh, what a lot hope that one will be Surrey,
Fancy the spirits of Griffith and Southerton—(chums of that "barn-door" whom no one could flurry,
Stout little Jupp)—must just now haunt the Oval, or hold ghostly confabulations at Mitcham,
Discussing the way in which Shuter's lot cut 'em and drive 'em, and swipe 'em, and place 'em, and pitch 'em.
And oh! if smart Shuter, crack Read, steady Lohmann, and swift-footed Maurice, and cat-like young Abel
Should once more put Surrey at top of the tree, won't the Oval just be a tumultuous Babel?
| Woo "Ton." | "Baa low!" |
| "'Ull yet?" | "Hide!" |
| The Family "Urn." | Puffer. |
NOTICE.—Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS., Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will in no case be returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there will be no exception.