Cricket 1910

134 CRICKET : A WEEKLY RECORD OF THE GAME. M a y ig , i g i o . TH E CONVERTED POET . (Concludedfrom page 87.) “ A truce ” the Poet urged, “ to jest; I prithee give that theme a rest. If you, in truth, have warfare banished, And troops and arsenals have vanished, At least there must remain field-sports Of sterner, nobler, manlier, sorts Than cricket. Thus, the chase is stiffer.” “ Whew ! ” said the Pilot, “ There we differ, ’Tis hardly sport with primed repeaters To take such odds. In gambling, cheaters Are they who play with loaded dice; You’d blend their cheat with cowardice, Aud then compare your craft and stealth With games of cleanliness and health j What sport, to arm with fell intent To slay the weak and innocent, Or hound to death in reckless chase A beast preserved to show the pace! ’Twere greater exercise and fun After a fellow man to run ; If, then, such pastimes cruelty lack, Run, sir, yourself before the pack.” “ Big, vicious game ? Of that we’ve none T ’ employ your hungry knife and gun. What few your fearful butchers left Of savag’ry are all bereft. For we, like they, have changed our suits And understand, not torture, brutes; Mould them (which courage, both, requires And knowledge) to our own desires. So your ancestors, brave in battle, First conquered elephants and cattle, And cats and boars, instead of slaying ; Thereby more strength and sense displaying. In all the rest we’ve found some features Of usefulness and tamed the creatures. Our lions, obedient as spaniels, Live all at peace with man (like Daniel’s). You doubt me ? Let me call one hither. Hi, Towler ! Now, sir, stroke his wither.” “ I see that bloodshed you’ve grown shy on,” The Poet said,—“ Call off your lion ! — But seem set up with brawn and muscle So, sure, some other way must tussle. I ’ll bet a sovereign all the same, You practice many another game Than leather-pounding I” “ Yes, indeed,” The Pilot answered, “ so we need. Though Cricket be the best of any, We’ve sports and exercises many. However sunless days be lonely One can’t have hours of sunshine only, And even I could hardly stick it If life were nothing else but cricket.” The Poet opened both his eyes, As though these words had caused surprise, And owned as much. He acquiesced In that, he said, but thought—at least, When he was last on earth ’twas so,—- Some cared for nothing else below When bit by this confounded game. The Pilot smiled: “ They were to blame, Though I forgive them! Overdone No sport, nor anything, helps one. The best of flowers, run to seed, Resembles very much a weed; And virtue, in the overnice, Is but a shade removed from vice. Witness the puritanic prude Who nastiness reads into nude.’’ “ Now,” said the Poet, “ since we’ve found A little patch of common ground, Some exercise, I will admit, We need to keep our bodies fit. It does not follow bat and ball Should ever be employed at all. A walk or climb or row, each day, Provides sufficient, I daresay.” “ Not,” said the Pilot, “ like a game That uses all the human frame, Exhausting it in no respects While still no portion it neglects ; Unlike the muscle-raising fads, That take possession of raw lads, Tiring one set of thews alone And thereby benefitting none. To labour hard and much perspire Are really not what we require, But all our parts to stimulate By exercise more moderate. “ You walk, or ride, or lift, or punch, To bring up muscles in a bunch, Then say, admiringly, 1 How strong I must be getting ! ’ But you’re wrong. I’ve known a man with arms like steel Faint when he got astride a wheel; One who for twenty miles could run Beneath a weight worn out in one ; And men with huge and massive chests By lung complaints sent to their rests. Partial development, in short, [thought.” Means weakness, not the strength ’tis “ That’s true,” the Poet slyly said, “ All the strong men I knew are dead. A gen’ral course, no doubt is best; Let’s hear how cricket meets this test.” The Pilot, in a speech like this, Took up the gage with emphasis : “ Picture a field of velvet turf, new mown, Greeting the nostrils like a rose full-blown : A troop of youths, quit for the nonce of care, Drinking deep draughts of sun-enkindled air With thirsty breath, as, hasting to and fro, They to appointed stations come and go ; There standing, not like sentinels inert, But cats a-pounce, flex-ankled and alert, With eager hands outspread and bodies craned, Eyes on the ball’s quick passage ever trained, And thoughts all centred to prevent its flight Hot from the bat and taste supreme delight; Or, short of this, content its course to stay Across the mead, and meet it middle way ; Or yet to cover fellows lest their ward Fail the impetuous missile to retard. “ And quickly as th’expectant sense of touch Warns one the ball has reached his yielding clutch His fingers close, to ratify the grip And, all as swift, release to let it slip; Now with a flick of wrist along the ground Or safe to sanctuary at first bound. By constant vigilance the scoring’s stemmed; The fielder who lacks work stands self-con­ demned. And, each succeeding change, his eye’s more bright, His limbs more supple and his step more light, His palms, if he have sought aright for toil, Tingling with glad reminders of their spoil. “ Meanwhile the cunning bowler measures steps Or few or many, slow or fast, then sweeps A tense arm round to launch, with varied speed, The spinning missile that’s to do the deed. His rigid members its prime motion guide Whilst fingers deft an after-course decide. “ There is your out-side, nerved from tip to toe, In readiness to run, stoop, turn or throw; Prepared to catch or intercept the ball And gain with certainty a wickets’ fall. With such a side to help him, who’d forbear The fortunes of the cricket-field to share ? “ Amid these, two the in-side represent, As keenly on the ball’s approach intent, In turn each offering with tempered nerve To meet its onset howsoe’er it swerve. Despising other means his guard to eloak Each ball his bat performs a flashing stroke, By dext’rous turn of wrist to turn its course, Or, back and shoulders in it, strike with force, And loft the ball high o’er opponents’ reach, Or skim it swiftly through some favouring breach. “ Sure, heav’n alone a greater joy can yield Than his who sees his hit surpass the field : That thrills him through, as from the crease he springs To seize the instant grace, as on swift wings, And save the home his partner leaves, apace Contending in the emulative race. Mark how his cheek with flush new-mantling glows, As fresh from some escape he stands and blows, Rests o’er his bat some moments to recover, Or tip-toes while his partner takes the over. Who, that can pair a batsman such as this, The pleasures of the cricket field would miss ? “ In ways like these your cricketer derives True recreation that enhances lives. Trunk, limb, and sense, alike, employment find And, better still, the well diverted mind; For what so pleasant medicine, or sure, A mind distressed or overwrought can cure, As finding it fresh courses full of zest, While the worn channels renovate with rest. “ But Cricket is no simple pastime lax To use spare energy or make it wax ; No set of exercises, but designed To stimulate dull organs or fagged mind ; No exhibrtion for the idle gaper, Nor mere machine for getting runs on paper. Tis more: a game : a moral discipline For men in common int’rest to combine, Taking them from within themselves, as ’twere, Parts in a more extensive sphere to share, Their ev’ry act subservient to side, And unaffected by vainglorious pride. “ Nor is the game a mere mechanic tool Of calculated moves by frigid rule. [part, Chance with, its varied charms still plays a And leaves th’ event not utterly to art. So, while your cricketer will play with pluck To counteract with manliness ill-luck, If, spite of all, success to him’s denied He bears no grudge and knows no loss of pride. “ And, when he’s soundly trounced, the more his skill, With greater praise he’ll hail the victor still; For nothing serves the capable so well As meeting foes who equally excel. To win at all he’ll ne’er so much regard : To play the game itself’s the game’s reward. “ Heeding the umpire and avoiding blame, Scorning advantages not in the game, Helping his playmates, helped by them as well, [swell. With gloating boastfulness no breast can Forbearance, fairness, courtesy, so learned, All shed whatever lustre they have earned; For, while few combatants participate, Their prowess will a countryside elate. So, from the game, race-progress starts anew And grabbing men grow into sportsmen true.” The Poet heard him to the end Then this objection raised, “ But, friend, The game that you hold up to view Is only for a favoured few ; The young, athletic, well-endowed ; You overlook the common crowd, Their less efficient playing brothers And those, content with watching others,