It was clay in the hands of the potter,

But he tapped it with quiet contempt.

rned.The second was better - a leetle;

It was low, but was nearly long-hop;

As the housemaid comes down on the beetle

So down came the bat with a chop.

He was sizing me up with some wonder,

My broken-kneed action and ways;

I could see the grim menace from under

The striped peak that shaded his gaze.

The third was a gift or it looked it-

A foot off the wicket or so;

His huge figure swooped as he hooked it,

His great body swung to the blow.

Still when my dreams are night-marish,

I picture that terrible smite,

It was meant for a neighboring parish,

Or any place out of sight.

But - yes, there's a but to the story-

The blade swished a trifle too low;

Oh wonder, and vision of glory!

It was up like a shaft from a bow.

Up, up like a towering game bird,

Up, up to a speck in the blue,

And then coming down like the same bird,

Dead straight on the line that it flew.

Good Lord, it was mine! Such a soarer

Would call for a safe pair of hands;

None safer than Derbyshire Storer,

And there, face uplifted, he stands

Wicket keep Storer, the knowing,

Wary and steady of nerve,

Watching it falling and growing

Marking the pace and curve.

I stood with my two eyes fixed on it,

Paralysed, helpless, inert;

There was 'plunk' as the gloves shut upon it,

And he cuddled it up to his shirt.

Out - beyond question or wrangle!

Homeward he lurched to his lunch!

His bat was tucked up at an angle,

His great shoulders curved to a hunch.

Walking he rumbled and grumbled,

Scolding himself and not me;

One glove was off, and he fumbled,

Twisting the other hand free

Did I give Storer the credit

The thanks he so splendidly earned?

It was mere empty talk if I said it,

For Grace had already reCreator of Shelock Homes wrote this poem