In

your dark elastic substance hiding,
Brought from mystic Asia's far Malay,
Is there not some potent charm abiding
That will lead me on to perfect play?

Faithful index, every stroke recording,
Cynosure of every eye you 'll be.
Lead the way, my practice well rewarding,
Fortune wing you on to victory!

FRANCIS BOWLER KEENE.

THE LAWN-TENNIS PLAYER.

FEARFUL to lose our little place,
We dare not venture far
To welcome others of our race,
Men of the self-same star.

Eager to win beyond our ranks,
We trample others down,

And pressing o'er them murmur thanks,
Our eyes upon the crown.

And yet we bear no enmity;

“It's life," we sadly say;

"We would be genial, open, free

To all men as the day.

"This armour that doth make us safe,

This visor to the eye,

We feel their weight, we feel them chafe,

We fain would put them by."

And when we come to our green field,
Far from the strife of town,
Forthwith in gentleness we yield
And lay that armour down.

The touch of flannels to our skin,
Of grass beneath our feet,
Of sun at throat may help us win
Safe past the judgment seat.

ARTHUR STANWOOD PIER.

UPON THE DIAMOND.

In vivid May and rustling June
When breeze's breath is like a tune,
Oh, where can life be free?

Where swings the bat,

Where shoots the ball,

Where rings the umpire's sudden call,
And curve and catch must settle all-

Upon the diamond.

The sunlight pours a golden flood across the grassy field,

As up against a cloudless sky the grand stand throws its shield;

The umpire tosses out the ball, the batter takes

his stand;

The catcher snugly fits his mask, the pitcher twirls his hand,

And the new white sphere goes twisting like a bullet from a gun,

And the crowds upon the bleachers settle down to see the fun.

Three times the batter hits the air in lieu of the whirling ball,

And takes his seat with a heavy look at the umpire's final call;

The second pounds a liner straight that beats him to the base;

The third sends up a flier that seems made for climbing space

Yet the centre softly takes it in without the least distress,

And the hopeful "ins" have a whitewashed stone on the road to hard success.

Then the "outs" use all their brain power to find the little curve,

And they learn that this is a little thing that can't be found by nerve;

For the sullen ball and the angry bat don't seem inclined to meet,

And never an eager batter has a chance to use his feet.

So the sides keep swinging back and forth, with now and then a hit,

But without a single fought-for score to either's benefit.

་

Then the ninth-it opens hotly with a triplebagger crack,

And the runner makes the bases like a racer round the track;

Till the catcher's fumble brings him in amid the roaring cheers,

And the hopes of half the people change to soul-depressing fears;

For the aliens have a tally safe and the home team has an O,

And only half an innings left to beat the foreign foe!

Now two are out; the third leads off with a dainty little bunt,

And the hardest hitter plants his feet to meet the battle's brunt.

Lo! through the sky and over the fence the ball goes climbing fast,

While the pair of runners touch the plate amid the blare and blast;

And the people, standing, lift his praise on the wave of a mighty cheer,

As the jubilant team on their shoulders bear the winner of the year!

HORACE SPENCER FISKE.

IN MAYTIME.

TWICE a week the winter thorough
Here stood I to keep the goal:
Football then was fighting sorrow
For the young man's soul.

Now in Maytime to the wicket
Out I march with bat and pad:
See the son of grief at cricket
Trying to be glad.

Try I will; no harm in trying:
Wonder 't is how little mirth

Keeps the bones of man from lying

On the bed of earth.

ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN.

PARKER'S PIECE.

(May 19, 1891.)

To see good Tennis! what diviner joy
Can fill our leisure, or our minds employ?
Not Sylvia's self is more supremely fair
Than balls that hurtle through the conscious air.
Not Stella's form instinct with truer grace
Than Lambert's racquet poised to win the chase.
Not Chloe's harp more native to the ear,

Than the tense strings which smite the flying sphere.