I watched the pitch become a sodden pulp, a
Morass, a sponge, a lake, a running stream,
What time a sad repentant Mea culpa
Was all my musing's theme.
Mine was the cricket sin too hard to pardon
In one whose age should carry greater sense;
On Friday night I'd watered all the garden,
Thus tempting Providence.
"Mr. —— asserted that the Russian people would be permitted 'untrammelled to pork out their own salvation.'"
—Canadian Paper.