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118 trees; a little farther off are Miss Tyburn, and Mr. Frere, who has just come over from the parsonage. In common mercy to our numbers he ought to play, and allow us to enjoy the distinction of having a man on each side; but apparently he is more careful of his shins than ambitious of honour, so sits in the shade at his ease looking on. All too soon comes that terrible moment when "Helen Adair!" is called, and bat in hand, I walk forth to my fate. I begin my illustrious career by hit-wicket, but in consideration of my extreme greenness and inexperience am permitted to take my innings, that is to say, if I can get it. The ground flies up into my face, the sky lies at my feet, as I stand awaiting my first ball, holding with stiff nervous fingers my bat, in what may be called the "first position" of cricketers—bolt upright, with my person carefully curved out, and away from it, like Cupid's bow. In comes the ball, and I swipe wildly at it. Have I hit it or the wickets, or the wicket-keeper, or myself? I am still in doubt and undecided as to whether I ought to walk off to the shade of the friendly tree when another ball comes creeping in, very insidiously this time, and somehow I give it a neat little tip that sends it straight into Fräulein's face; and while I am looking all about, and marvelling where it has got to, she is led away, weeping bitterly, with a bleeding nose. Quite overpowered by this proof of my skill, I send the next ball, which somehow seems to run of its own accord against my bat, a tolerable distance; and being pleased at the circumstance, and engaged in looking round with a modest smirk for admiration, am amazed at being violently hustled by my fellow bats-woman, who wildly exhorts me to run. Ah! I had forgotten all about the runs, I was too much taken up in congratulating myself, but I set out with a will, and am considerably taken aback on arriving at my bourne to find that I am ignominiously run out.

Moral: stick to business. Back to the tree I go, as crestfallen