Lord of the Game, for whom these lines I write, Fulfil my present hope, watch o'er my fate; Defend me from the swerver's puzzling flight; Let me not be run out, at any rate. As one who's been for years a constant trier, Reward me with an average slightly higher; Let it be double figures. This I pray, Humblest of boons, before my hair grows grey And Time's flight bids me in the last resort Try golf, or otherwise your cause betray. Cricket in sooth is Sovran King of Sport.
King, what though Age's summons I obey, Resigned to dull rheumatics and decay, Still on one text my hearers I'll exhort, As long as hearers within range will stay: "Cricket in sooth is Sovran King of Sport."
"Royal Horse Guards.--Captain (acting Marquis) W.B. Marquis of Northampton resigns his commission."--_Provincial Paper_.
We, the enthusiasts of the Relief Force who sailed from England with the fine phrases of the Evening Press ringing in our ears have arrived at Murmansk, only to be disappointed and disillusioned. It is not that the expedition looks less attractive than it did, or that our leaders fail to inspire us with confidence. It is because the gilt has disappeared from the sartorial gingerbread of our adventure.
Why did we leap forward to volunteer before we were wanted and continue to leap till, for very boredom, they sent us embarcation orders and a free warrant? Was it simply to escape an English Spring? Was it not rather that we might win our furs--might wear the romantic outfit which we were led to believe was _de rigueur_ in the most exclusive circle, namely, the Arctic? What was the first remark of our female relatives when we showed them the War Office telegram? Was it not, "Of course you must be photographed in your furs and things?"
No wonder, after the monotony of khaki, if we looked forward to the glory and distinction of fur-lined caps and coats, Shackleton boots, huge snow-goggles and enormous gloves turning hands to savage paws.
And now what spectacle greets us at Murmansk, with everybody's camera cleared for action? What is the example set by those to whom we naturally look for light and leading? Behold the General and his Staff coming on board in the snow-reflected sunshine flashing with the gold and scarlet trimmings of Whitehall. And what of the old residents, our comrades? They are playing football in shorts and sweaters.