[Illustration: "You, Mr. Stewart, by this thistle. Just to save the one, you know."] III [Illustration: His ruses were magnificent. When the Squire came in, Spinner (who had previously held a private consultation with the other bowler) shouted, "You won't want a fine leg for this man. Put him deep and square." And then----] IV [Illustration: The Squire was neatly taken first ball off a glance at fine leg by Spinner himself, who had crossed over (exactly as arranged) from his place at slip.] * * * * * A TRILL FOR TENNIS Now lawn-tennis is beginning, and we'll set the balls a-spinning O'er the net and on the greensward with a very careful aim; You must work, as I'm a sinner, if you wish to prove a winner, For we're getting scientific at this fascinating game. You must know when it is folly to attempt a clever "volley," Or to give the ball when "serving" it an aggravating twist; Though a neatly-made backhander may arouse a rival's dander, You'll remember when you try it that it's very often missed. Though your play thrown in the shade is by the prowess of the ladies, You must take your beating kindly with a smile upon your face; And 'twill often be the duty of some tennis-playing beauty To console you by remarking that defeat is not disgrace. For you doubtless find flirtation at this pleasant occupation Is as easy as at croquet; when you're "serving" by _her_ side, You can hint your tender feeling, all your state of mind revealing, And, when winning "sets" together, you may find you've won a bride. So we'll don the flannel jacket, and take out the trusty racket, And though other folks slay pigeons, we'll forswear that cruel sport, And through summer seek a haven on the sward so smoothly shaven, With the whitened lines _en règle_ for a neat lawn-tennis court. * * * * * THE PLACE FOR LAWN-TENNIS.--"_Way down in Tennessee._" * * * * * [Illustration: A SKETCH AT LORD'S _Eva_ (_for the benefit of Maud, who is not so well-informed_). "--and those upright sticks you see are the _wickets_. Harrow's in at one end, and Eton's in at the other, you know!"] * * * * * A POLONAISE "_Nemo me on pony lacessit._" Mad bards, I hear, have gaily trolled The boundless joys of cricket; Have praised the bowler and the bowled And keeper of the wicket. I cannot join their merry song-- _Non valeo sed volo_-- But really I can come out strong, Whene'er I sing of Polo! Let golfophiles delight to air Their putter-niblick learning; And, scarlet-coated, swipe and swear When summer sun is burning! Let _artful cards_ sit up and pass Their nights in playing bolo; But let me gambol--o'er the grass-- And make my game at Polo!