A swarthy boy opened a book and propped it nimbly under the breastwork of his satchel. He recited jerks of verse with odd glances at the text:

He calls himself a sprinter? I could outrun him any day of the week!

Cricket: Don't pinata me!

What a charming amusement for young people this is, Mr. Darcy! There is nothing like dancing after all.—I consider it as one of the first refinements of polished societies.