are blissful. I feel as light as a feather, and equal to Jack at running, vaulting or hurdle jumping.
On my way downstairs I fall in with the girls—shrunken, insignificant creatures, measured by the standard of half an hour ago, when they boasted a circumference of from four to five yards of petticoat. They even look meek; for it is a fact that a large portion of a woman's assurance lies in her tail. Shear her of that and she is no way superior to man. Out in the cricket field I scan the assembly critically, and nothing but the consciousness of looking a greater guy than any one present prevents me from going off into a fit of convulsive laughter. If only Charles Lovelace, George Tempest, or Jack could see us!
We have roly-poly girls and bean-stalk girls, little girls, big girls, long girls, short girls; girls whose plump proportions fit their garments as closely as a kernel fits a shell; girls whose garments hang upon them loose, as did the armour on Don Quixote's gaunt form; girls who waddle, amble, jig, trot, hurry, and stride—their action plainly shown in the narrow, straight costume. Can an English girl walk? I trow not. It is a pity the time spent in needlework is not used in drilling. Conspicuous, even among this remarkable throng, is the German governess, short, square, stout, not over young, with a large flat face, enormous feet and hands, and that general look of a Dutch doll that usually marks her stolid race. She wears the regulation trousers and blouse; but whether under an impression that she is not sufficiently clad, or whether she wishes to give a full dress air to a somewhat severe costume I know not; at any rate she has over and above arrayed herself in a very large, ample, white muslin jacket, profusely frilled and starched, and tightly belted in at the waist, and these frills set straight out from her sturdy form in a fashion that would bring a smile to the face of a crocodile.
The wickets are pitched; the ball is flying from hand to hand;
