THE CATCH OF THE SEASON.

He was a person most unkempt,

And answered to the name of Cust.

He had a frenzied mass of hair,

A little redder than red rust,

And trousers so exceeding short

It looked as if by mounting high

They meant unceasingly to try

To change to knickers on the sly.

He was a person whom a Bat

Could view without the least distrust.

He caught me at the fifth attempt —

Imagine my profound disgust!

For if the ball had gone to hand

I had not felt the least unrest;

But, as it happened ( Fate knows best! )

It struck him smartly on the chest.

I cannot tell you how he squirmed

And capered on the greensward there,

Until at last he took the ball

( Or so it seemed ) from out his hair,

And meekly rubbed the coming bruise.

Thus was I humbled in the dust

Because of Albert Edward Cust.

Imagine my profound disgust!

Here's to the freckles and fielding and fun,

Here's to the joy that we ponder;

Here's to the Game that will glow in the sun

When the babes of our babies are — Yonder!