Our wickets keep falling in this life. One after the other goes down. They are becoming few who joined in those Border matches where there was but one lady spectator, when we made such infrequent runs, and often dropped a catch, but never lost heart, never lost pleasure in the game. Some of them may read this, and remember old friends gone, old games played, old pewters drained, old pipes smoked, old stories told, remember the leg-hitting of Jack Grey, the bowling of Bill Dryden and of Clement Glassford, the sturdy defence of William Forman. And he who writes, recalling that simple delight and good fellowship, recalling those kind faces and merry days in the old land of Walter Scott, may make his confession, and may say that such years were worth living for, and that neither study, nor praise, nor any other pleasure has equalled, or can equal, the joy of having been young and a cricketer, where The oak, and the ash, and the bonny ivy tree, They flourish best at home in the North Countrie. * * * * * It is long since the writer has played in Border cricket, or even seen the game in those quarters. A more modern sportsman, and an infinitely better player, has kindly drawn up a few observations made in recent years. On the whole, nothing, it seems, is altered. The game is played mainly, as of old, by the stalwart artisans. There is little patronage from the counties, and the middle classes are sunk in golf. Money, therefore, is scarce, and, while very fair wickets are provided, the out-fielder is harassed by difficulties of ground in many cases. Time also is scarce, and thus lack of wealth prevents the Borderers from doing themselves justice. At Langholm the family of the Duke of Buccleuch, ‘the Langholm Lordies,’ set an example, and, at Dalbeattie in Galloway, Steels, as of old, Studds, and Tylecotes play in autumn. Mr. Maxwell of Glenlee, now dead, and Mr. Maxwell Scott of Abbotsford were recently patrons of the game. On the whole, however, money and encouragement are sadly lacking.