The Rev. Elisha Fawcett . . . a Manchester Evangelist. . . devoted his life to teaching the natives of the Admiralty Islands the Commandments of God and the Laws of Cricket. Too poor to purchase a monument to this good man, his parishioners erected his wooden leg upon his grave. In that fertile clime it miraculously took root and for many years provided a bountiful harvest of bats. As if mistaking a foghorn for The Last Trump, This risen limb, come forth before its time, Dryadic, out of a turned and varnished stump, A Lazarus with one foot still in the grave, (To whom some shameless newsman presses his query, "What was it like . . . I mean . . . you know . . . down there?" And with all the sad reserve of the truly weary, The leaves signal their dignified " No Comment") This umbrageous Evangelical Christmas tree Is festooned with a troupe of gymnasts all in gray Instead of with globes and tinsel, a filigree Of bats, or acrobats, hung upside-down As if to receive a well-timed fling of wrists Or ankles, and known as "The Flying Pipistrelli." Their capes wrapped close about them these aerialists Let their blood pool in their tiny frontal lobes And dream they are now, in the words of the secular Pope, "The light Militia of the lower Sky," Attendant Sprites, cruising through stroboscope, Slow-motion frames of inner loops and dives, Guided by sonar wit or the saintly folly Of those the World at large describe as "batty," Raising their little, high-pitched, melancholy Squeaks in a Chapel hymn by Isaac Watts. The Commands of God and Ordinances of Cricket Meshed and were married in the good man's sermon Titled, "The Straight Gate Is a Sticky Wicket," Still quoted with approval at church picnics, And all the parish point with ordinate praise To the leafy witness of the life that died And rose again in green (with some scattered grays). That went forth, was fruitful, and multiplied.