The Wooing
[The sporting instinct is now so keen among girls that a man who gallantly moderates his hitting in mixed hockey is merely regarded as an incapable slacker by his fair opponents.]
When first I played hockey with Kitty,
I was right off my usual game,
For she looked so bewitchingly pretty
When straight for the circle she came;
As a rule I’m not backward, or chary,
Of hitting and harassing too,
But who can be rough with a fairy—
Not I—so I let her go through.
She scored, and we couldn’t get equal;
The others all thought me a fool,
And Kitty herself, in the sequel,
Grew most unexpectedly cool.
They gave us a licking, as stated,
I was sick at the sight of the ball,
She thought me a lot over-rated,
And wondered they played me at all.
But she frankly approved Percy Waters,
Who uses his stick like a flail,
And always impartially slaughters
Both sexes, the strong and the frail;
A mutual friendliness followed,
I watched its career with dismay—
Next match-day my feelings I swallowed.
And hit in my orthodox way.
I caught her a crunch on the knuckle,
A clip on the knee and the cheek,
She said, with a rapturous chuckle,
“I see—you weren’t trying last week.”
Such conduct its cruelty loses
When it brings consolation to both,
For after she’d counted her bruises
That evening we plighted our troth.