*

"_ECLIPSE_ first, the rest nowhere," is a celebrated racing record. The
disappointed astronomers of Europe, last Friday, modified the
_mot_--"Eclipse nowhere" is the common burden of their reports.

* * * * *

MOTTO FOR AGRICULTURISTS.--Set a parasite (_the Chalcis fly to wit_) to
catch a parasite (_the Hessian ditto_).

* * * * *

A BURNING QUESTION.

_By Our Own Cricket Enthusiast._

"The four Counties in whose doings the interest of the Cricketing
public is centred, were all hard at work yesterday. [Friday, August
19.] Yorkshire doing very badly against Surrey at the Oval, and
Nottinghamshire showing to considerable disadvantage with Lancashire
at Old Trafford."--_Daily News._

OH, don't talk to me of the close of the Session, or who's to be
Premier, perchance, in the next one;
Those questions, no doubt, may excite party spouters, but there is a
far more important and vext one.
The Cricketing Season draws fast to a close; the rain's come at last
with inopportune bounty.
And there is a question eclipsing all others,--which, _which_ for this
year will be Premier County?
It's narrowing down,--oh, it's narrowing down, and it grows more
soul-harrowing every minute,
For Surrey and Lancashire, Yorkshire and Notts are the only four
Counties a man can call "in it."
Trent-Bridge is astir with a fever of fidgets, the Tykes are all hurry,
and worry, and flurry,
Old Trafford is all upon thorns, and, by Jove, what excitement there is
at the Oval in Surrey!
HORNBY and HAWKE cannot sleep of a night, and their nerves into coolness
in vain strive to tutor;
GLADSTONE and SALISBURY'S rivalry's child's-play compared with the ditto
of SHERWIN and SHUTER.
Plague upon Jupiter Pluvius! _Why_ did he not hang aloof just a week or
two longer?
Oh, don't talk to me of your turnips and things,--what are they to the
question which team is the stronger?
Glorious season for Cricket all round, as is proved by the lots of
Leviathan scoring,
And now, hang it all, at the very identical point when it comes to the
pinch, it is pouring.
Cockshies all chance, every average crabs, this detestable deluge.
Slow wickets and sticky.
Muck even the great ARTHUR SHREWSBURY'S play, and make WALTER READ'S
chance of top-average dicky,
ARTHUR'S two centuries _plus_ sixt