charges, make a beautiful combination of play; while the eye can sometimes hardly follow the skilful feats and incidents which occur in such quick succession. How determinedly, how earnestly they work; how they put their hearts into the pleasure, and even enjoy their own misfortunes; letting out the most demonstrative proof of sound lung and limb ever developed by field game, and realizing something of the rush and thrill of a genuine battle. Nature may send born poets into the world, but she never sends Lacrosse players; at least, not in any white community. There is nothing more amusing to a good player than to watch the first attempts of a tyro, with a crosse and a ball. There it lies on the ground before him; nothing seems simpler than to pick it up. He makes a frantic dash with his stick lowered, but the ball makes a retrograde movement, and the more he pokes at it, the more it seems to evade him. By and bye he learns to take it cool; there is another plunge and a scoop, and he has it; and now the mischief of the thing is to carry it. If he holds his crosse out at arm's length, it persists in rolling off; if he attempts to throw to any point, it will go straight up over
