Successful Recitations Part 66

"Down the line I'll go," he said, "To reach the railway station."

_Friends will please accept of this The only intimation_.

THE EDITOR'S STORY.

(_A YANKEE EDITOR IN ENGLAND_.)

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

The Editor dipp'd his pen in the ink; He smole a smile and he wunk a wink; He chuckled a chuck and he thunk a think.

'Twas a time of dearth Of news, and the earth Was rolling and bowling along on its axis With never a murmur concerning the taxes And never a ruse, or of rumour a particle Needing a special or claiming an article; In fact 'twas a terrible time for the papers, And puzzled the brains of the paragraph shapers, Till the whole world seem'd nothing but gases and vapours.

And the Editor wrote: But I'm not going to quote, Far be it from me to set rumours afloat.

Suffice it to say, The paper next day Contain'd such a slasher For Captain McClasher, The whole town declared it a regular smasher; And what made it worse he inserted a rubber, For the world-renowned millionaire, Alderman Grubber.

Now the Captain, you know, was the son of a gun, He had fought many duels and never lost one; He'd met single handed a hundred wild n.i.g.g.e.rs, All flas.h.i.+ng their sabres and pulling their triggers, And made them all run whether mogul or fellah: With the flash of his eye and the bash of his 'brella He tore up rebellion's wild weeds by the root; and he Did more than Havelock to put down the mutiny.

And then to be told by "a thief of an Editor"

He'd been far too long his proud country's creditor For pensions unwork'd for and honours unwon, And that rather than fight he would more likely run; To be told, who had acted so gallant a part, He'd more pluck in his heels than he had in his heart!

Why zounds! man--the words used they mostly make Dutch of--

(As warm as the chutney he'd eaten so much of) And he gave the poor table a terrible blow, As he said with an aspirate, "Hi----ll let 'em know."

And Alderman Grubber was no less determined, Though his gown was all silk and its edge was all ermined, After thirty years' service to one corporation To be libelled at last with the foul allegation, He'd been "nicely paid for his work for the nation; That Town Hall and Workhouse, Exchange and Infirmary, Were all built on ground that by twistings and turnery, Had been bought through the nose at a fabulous rate From the patriot lord of the Grubber estate!"

Why, turtle and turbot, hock, champagne and sherry, 'Twould rile the Archbishop of Canterbury!

The Editor sat in his high-backed chair; He listen'd a hark, and he looked a stare, A sort of a mixture of humour and scare, As he heard a footfall on the foot of the stair: In a moment he buried his head in some "copy,"

As in walked the Captain as red as a poppy.

"This the Editor's room, sir?" the thunderer shouted, In the tone which so often a phalanx had routed; While he nervously twiddled the "gamp" in his hand, Which so often had scatter'd a mutinous band.

Now the Editor's views were as broad as the ocean (His heart represented its wildest commotion), In a moment he took in the whole situation (And double distilled it in heart palpitation): Then quickly arose with a dignified air, And the wave of a hand and a nod at a chair; Saying: "Yes, sir; it is, sir: be seated a minute, The Editor's _in_, and I'll soon send him _in it_."

Then as quick as a flash of his own ready wit, He opened the door and got outside of it.

He skipp'd with a bound o'er The stairs to the ground floor, And turning his feet bore Straight on for the street door; When--what could astound more--'

The spot he was bound for Was guarded in force by that great b.u.t.ter tubber, The patriot millionaire, Alderman Grubber: A smart riding-whip impatiently cracking, The food for his vengeance the only thing lacking.

"Is the Editor in?" said the voice that had thrilled, A thousand times over the big Town Hall filled!

While the crack of the whip and the stamp of the feet, Made the Editor wish himself safe in the street.

But an Editor's ever a man of resource, He is never tied down to one definite course: He shrank not a shrink nor waver'd a wave, He blank not a blink nor quaver'd a quave; But, pointing upstairs as he turn'd to the door, Said "Editor's room number two second floor."

Like a lion let loose on his innocent prey, Strode the Alderman upstairs that sorrowful day: Like a tiger impatiently waiting his foe, The captain was pacing the room to and fro When the Alderman enter'd--but here draw a veil, There is much to be sad for and much to bewail.

Whoever began it, or ended the fray, All they found in the room when they swept it next day, Was a large pile of fragments beyond all ident.i.ty (Monument sad to the conflict's intensity).

And the a.n.a.lyst said whom the coroner quested, The whole of the heap he had carefully tested, And all he could find in his search a.n.a.lytic (But tables and chairs and such things parenthetic), He wore as he turned, white, black, blue, green, and purple, Was one stone of chutney and two stone of turtle.

And the Editor throve, as all editors should Who devote all their thought to the popular good: For the paper containing this little affair, Ran to many editions and sold everywhere.

And the moral is plain, tho' you do your own writing, There are better plans than to do your own fighting!

NAT RICKET.

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

Nat Ricket at cricket was ever a don As if you will listen I'll tell you anon; His feet were so nimble, his legs were so long, His hands were so quick and his arms were so strong, That no matter where, at long-leg or square, At mid-on, at mid-off, and almost mid-air, At point, slip, or long-stop, wherever it came, At long-on or long-off, 'twas always the same-- If Nat was the scout, back came whizzing the ball, And the verdict, in answer to Nat's l.u.s.ty call, Was always "Run out," or else "No run" at all: At bowling, or scouting, or keeping the wicket, You'd not meet in an outing another Nat Ricket.

Nat Ricket for cricket was always inclined, Even babyhood showed the strong bent of his mind: At TWO he could get in the way of the ball; At FOUR he could catch, though his hands were so small; At SIX he could bat; and before he was SEVEN He wanted to be in the county eleven.

But that was the time, for this chief of his joys, When the Muddleby challenged the Blunderby boys: They came in a waggon that Farmer Sheaf lent them, With d.i.c.k Rick the carter, in whose charge he sent them.

And as they came over the Muddleby hill, The cheer that resounded I think I hear still; And of all the gay caps that flew into the air, The top cap of all told Nat Ricket was there.

They tossed up, and, winning The choice of the inning, The Blunderby boys took the batting in hand, And went to the wicket, While nimble Nat Ricket Put his _men_ in the field for a resolute stand; And as each st.u.r.dy scout took his usual spot, Our Nat roamed about and looked after the lot; And as they stood there, when the umpire called "Play,"

'Twas a sight to remember for many a day,

Nat started the bowling (and take my word, misters, There's no bowling like it for underhand twisters); And what with the pace and the screw and the aim, It was pretty hard _work_, was that Blunderby _game_; With Nat in the field to look after the ball, 'Twas a terrible struggle to get runs at all; Though they hit out their hardest a regular stunner, 'Twas rare that it reckoned for more than a oner; 'Twas seldom indeed that they troubled the scorer To put down a twoer, a threer, or fourer; And as for a lost ball, a fiver, or sixer, The Blunderby boys were not up to the trick, sir; Still they struggled full well, and at sixty the score The last wicket fell, and the innings was o'er.

But then came the cheering,-- Nat Ricket appearing, A smile on his face and a bat in his hand, As he walked to the wicket,-- From hillside to thicket, They couldn't cheer more for a lord of the land.

And when he began, 'twas a picture to see How the first ball went flying right over a tree, How the second went whizzing close up to the sky, And the third ball went bang in the poor umpire's eye;

How he made poor point dance on his nimble young pins, As a ball flew askance and came full on his s.h.i.+ns; How he kept the two scorers both working like n.i.g.g.e.rs At putting down runs and at adding up figures; How he kept all the field in profuse perspiration With rus.h.i.+ng and racing and wild agitation,-- Why, Diana and Nimrod, or both rolled together, Never hunted the stag as they hunted the leather.

It was something like cricket, there's no doubt of that, When nimble Nat Ricket had hold of the bat.

You may go to the Oval, the Palace, or Lord's, See the cricketing feats which each county affords, But you'll see nothing there which, for vigour and life, Will one moment compare with the pa.s.sionate strife With which Muddleby youngsters and Blunderby boys Contend for the palm in this chief of their joys.

I need hardly say, at the end of the day, The Muddleby boys had the best of the play,-- Tho' the bright-coloured caps of the Blunderby chaps Were as heartily waved as the others, perhaps; And as they drove off down the Blunderby lane, The cheering resounded again and again.

And Nat and his party, they, too, went away; And I haven't seen either for many a day.

Still, don't be surprised If you see advertised, The name of Nat Ricket Connected with cricket, In some mighty score or some wonderful catch, In some North and South contest or good county match.

And if ever, when pa.s.sing by cricketing places, You see people talking and pulling long faces, 'Cause some country b.u.mpkin has beaten the Graces, Just step to the gate and politely enquire, And see if they don't say, "N. Ricket, Esq."; Or buy a "cor'ect card t' the fall o' th' last wicket,"

And see if it doesn't say "Mr. N. Ricket."

For wherever you go, and whatever you see, In the north or the south of this land of the free, You never will find--and that all must agree-- Such a rickety, crickety fellow as he.

's.p.a.cIALLY JIM.

FROM "HARPER'S MAGAZINE."

I wus mighty good-lookin' when I wus young-- Peert an' black-eyed an' slim, With fellers a-courtin' me Sunday nights, 's.p.a.cially Jim.

The likeliest one of 'em all wus he, Chipper an' han'som an' trim; But I toss'd up my head, an' made fun o' the crowd, 's.p.a.cially Jim.