been addicted to posies—from the first polyanthus to the last china rose, he has always a nosegay in his button-hole. George Simmons may be known a mile off by an eternal red waistcoat: Jem Tanner, summer and winter, by the smartest of all smart straw hats: and Joel Brent, from the day that he left off petticoats, has always, in every dress and every situation, looked like a study for a painter—no mistaking him. Yes; I know every man and boy of note in the parish, with one exception—one most signal exception—which “haunts and startles and waylays” me at every turn. I do not know, and I begin to fear I never shall know, Jack Hatch.
The first time I had occasion to hear of this worthy was on a most melancholy occurrence. We have lost—I do not like to talk of it, but I cannot tell my story without—we have lost a cricket-match, been beaten, and soundly too, by the men of Beech-hill, a neighbouring parish. How this accident happened I cannot very well tell; the melancholy fact is sufficient. The men of Beech-hill, famous players, in whose families cricket is an hereditary accomplishment, challenged and beat us. After our defeat, we began to comfort ourselves by endeavouring to discover how this misfortune could possibly have befallen. Every one that has ever had a cold must have experienced the great consolation that is derived from puzzling out the parti-
