"And you, too, Tom," he said, for he never doubted his cousin's powers. "It won't be a very grand match, you see, but it will be capital fun, and the boys play"—

      "Oh, I know!" said Tom.

      "All right: that will be capital," said Allan; and Tom, who had never held a bat in his life, found himself engaged to play in the match.

      "But I shall find it quite easy," he thought. "I've seen it played, and the boys at school seem to find it simple enough."

      His uncle was out riding when Tom reached Felford, having had business to attend to, so the boys at once went out into the garden and inspected the scene of the future cricket match.

      Tom looked at it a moment, then visions of Lords came before him, and he said decidedly, "It wants rolling dreadfully!"

      "Father said it was too dry to roll," said Allan, in rather a melancholy tone. "You see, if"—

      "Oh, I know!" interrupted Tom; "but we might try to roll it ourselves, don't you know. That would be fun, and it would surprise him. Is there a roller anywhere?"

      "Yes, the small garden-roller; but Father said"—

      "Oh, I know!" said Tom impatiently. "Let us fetch it."

      Allan said no more. It was clear that Tom did not intend to listen to anything he had to say.

      "Do you know how to use the roller?" asked Allan.

      "I should hope so! Any one must know that," said Tom; and away they went to fetch it.

      Now, there is a right way and a wrong way to do everything, and a garden-roller should be pulled and not pushed, but this Tom did not understand; therefore, he set to work with Allan to push the roller through the garden towards the field, while Twinkle, the fox-terrier, followed at their heels.

      A garden-roller is an awkward thing to manage if you don't understand it. The iron handle is heavily weighted, and if pressed down and then released it springs up with great force, owing to the weight with which it is balanced.

      Tom knew nothing of this; and Allan had never been allowed to touch the roller, so he was as ignorant as Tom. They had paused to draw breath, when Twinkle's bark of delight made Allan exclaim, "There's Father!"

      At that moment Tom took his arms off the iron handle on which they had been resting, and the handle sprang up. There was a cry from Allan, and Tom saw to his horror that one end of the iron bar had struck the boy just above the eye. It was a painful blow, and the bruise began at once to discolor and swell, so that by the time his father came up poor Allan was a piteous object.

      It was a most unfortunate beginning to Tom's visit. Of course his uncle was angry, for the garden-roller was quite useless for the purpose of rolling the field, and the ground was so hard and dry that no rolling, even with the heaviest horse-roller, would have done any good. Allan was very sorry for Tom, and took more than a fair share of the blame, saying he ought to have been more careful; but he was rather distressed when he found that he had a black eye, and that it could not be well before the cricket match, when the boys would be sure to chaff him.

      This exploit of Tom's and his uncle's anger made the boy more careful; and all went well until the day before the cricket match, when Tom and Allan went out for a private practice in the field.

      "You aren't standing right. Your leg's before the wicket," said Allan, as Tom stood ready, bat in hand, to receive the ball.

      "Oh, I know! but it's only for practice," said Tom quickly. "Send me the ball."

      Allan bowled, Tom hit, the ball spun straight up in the air and came down almost at Tom's feet.

      "Hullo!" said Allan, pointing to the stumps; "how did you do that?"

      Tom looked round and found he had knocked over the stumps. This slight mistake having been set right, Tom was ready to start again. This time, as the ball spun off his bat, there was a crash, and Allan exclaimed in horror, "Oh, Father's precious orchids!" for the ball had gone through the glass of the small greenhouse, and had overturned and injured several cherished plants.

      Poor Tom thought he had had enough of cricket for that day, and went in to make his confession to his uncle. Allan's piteous face did more towards softening his father than Tom's regrets, and he said very little about the matter, though possibly he felt the more.

      The next day the cricket match came off. Tom very soon found that in playing it was necessary to have done something more than look on. He knew little or nothing of the rules of the game, and brought disgrace on himself, and on his cousin for having introduced so bad a player into the village eleven. Had there been any one to take his place he would have been turned out in spite of anything Allan could say, but as it was they were obliged to put up with him.

      When Tom went in, his first action was to put himself out, amid the hootings of fury and amusement of the rest of the party. Even Allan was getting cross with him.

      When the other side went in again, Tom made more effort to follow the game and catch the ball; but he knew nothing of cricket, and was wearing his ordinary walking-boots. The grass was dry and slippery, and Tom was clumsy. He was chasing the ball, and thought he should really succeed in catching it this time, when his foot slipped and he fell heavily on the grass. He had broken his leg!

      The boys who had laughed before were now full of sympathy. He was at once taken into the house and the doctor sent for. What poor Tom suffered for the rest of that day and all the night, only those who have broken a leg can tell, and added to his pain was the feeling that he had shown all Allan's friends what a boastful fellow he was.

      The Swallows' Song

      "Tweet! tweet! tweet!" the swallows say,

      "It is time we flew away

      Far across the pathless sea,

      For it winter soon will be!

      Then will fall the rustling leaves,

      And our nests beneath the eaves

      Will be very damp and chill,

      While the fogs our playgrounds fill."

      "Tweet! tweet! tweet!" the swallows say,

      "It is time we flew away!"

      "Tweet! tweet! tweet!" the swallows cry,

      As they circle far on high,

      Gathering thickly overhead

      Now that summer days have fled.

      "See!" they say, "the flow'rets fair

      Now are drooping ev'rywhere,

      And no more the scented breeze

      Roves amid the leafy trees!"

      "Tweet! tweet! tweet!" the swallows say,

      "It is time we flew away!"

      "Tweet! tweet! tweet!" Alas! we hear

      All you utter, swallows dear!

      And, if it indeed must be,

      Take

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