"Not at all," murmured Mr. Jones incoherently, searching for his novel, the one solace left amid the ruin of his dreams.
"Pardon me," said the lady, "but if you are looking for your book you threw it out of the window just before you woke up."
Mr. Jones sank back resignedly. His glory had gone, his book had gone.
Once again he settled himself in his corner to sleep--perchance to dream.
[Illustration: "JACKY, DEAR, YOUR HANDS ARE FRIGHTFULLY DIRTY."
"NOT 'FRIGHTFULLY,' MUMMY. A LOT OF THAT'S SHADING."]
"Five minutes later the German plenipotentiaries reappeared, dived into Allied representatives, emerged, jumped into their car and drove off."--_Dublin Evening Mail_.
When earth awakes as from some dreadful night And doffs her melancholy mourning state, When May buds burst in blossom and requite Our weary eyes for Winter's tedious wait, Then the pale bard takes down his dusty lyre And strikes the thing with more than usual fire. Myself, compacted of an earthier clay, I oil my bats and greasy homage pay To Cricket, who, with emblems of his court, Stumps, pads, bails, gloves, begins his Summer sway. Cricket in sooth is Sovran King of Sport.
As yet no shadows blur the magic light, The glamour that surrounds the opening date. Illusions yet undashed my soul excite And of success in luring whispers prate. I see myself in form; my thoughts aspire To reach the giddy summit of desire. Lovers and such may sing a roundelay, Whate'er that be, to greet returning May; For me, not much--the season's all too short; I hear the mower hum and scent the fray. Cricket in sooth is Sovran King of Sport.
A picture stands before my dazzled sight, Wherein the hero, ruthlessly elate, Defies all bowlers' concentrated spite. That hero is myself, I need not state. 'Tis sweet to see their captain's growing ire And his relief when I at last retire; 'Tis sweet to run pavilionwards and say, "Yes, somehow I _was_ seeing them to-day"-- Thus modesty demands that I retort To murmured compliments upon my play. Cricket in sooth is Sovran King of Sport.
The truth's resemblance is, I own, but slight To these proud visions which my soul inflate. This is the sort of thing: In abject fright I totter down the steps and through the gate; Somehow I reach the pitch and bleat, "Umpire, Is that one leg?" What boots it to inquire? The impatient bowler takes one grim survey, Speeds to the crease and whirls--a lightning ray? No, a fast yorker. Bang! the stumps cavort. Chastened, but not surprised, I go my way. Cricket in sooth is Sovran King of Sport.