III.
Say, dat guy playin’ second is a dandy.
Did yer pipe him block dat bingle on de bound?
He’s got Ted Roosevelt double-crossed fur candy
When it comes to swingin’ hard and coverin’ ground;
But de mutt wot went and booted dat last roller—
He’d duck to-night if I but had my wish.
In my time I t’ink I’ve seen a bunch o’ dubs some punkerino,
But dat feller couldn’t ketch contagious fish!
In vain I looked, but I only saw
A hat that was nine feet high or more!
A WARNING.
Makers of bonnets the women wear,
Molders of fashion, whoe’er ye be,
Drear is the curse of my daily prayer,
Deep is the hatred I have for thee.
This is the warning I fling afar:
“Mold ’em more on a smaller plan.
Chop off a couple of yards of ‘spar,’
Or beware the wrath of an angry fan.”
Yesteryear to the game I went,
Daily the pilgrimage I made.
O what a waste of coin I spent,
Wondering there how the game was played!
Was it a hit or an error raw?
Was it a stolen base or score?
I peered in vain, but I only saw
A hat that was nine feet wide or more!
Back to the park this spring I passed,
Knowing the old styles out of date.
“Now,” I thought, “I shall get at last
A look once more at the old ‘home plate.’”
Was it a hit or fielding flaw?
Why the deuce did the bleachers roar?
In vain I looked, but I only saw
A hat that was nine feet high or more!
Makers of bonnets the women wear,
Molders of fashion, whoe’er ye be,
Drear is the curse of my daily prayer,
Deep is the hatred I have for thee.
This is the warning I hurl to-day:
“Cut on a narrower, shorter plan;
Chop off a couple of yards each way,
Or beware the wrath of a maddened fan.”
OUT ON THE LINES.
It isn’t so much, “Did you make a hit?” but, “How did you swing at the ball?”
Did you go up to bat with your nerve all gone and never half try at all?
Did your heart beat strong? Were your eye gleams bright? Did you swing as it cut the plate?
Or did you stand in a listless way and hit at the ball too late?
It isn’t so much, “Did you score a run?” but, “How did you act on base?”
Did you run it out at the crack of the bat with a rattling, dashing pace?
Did you look for a chance to steal a bag? Did you score by your own keen wit?
Or did you get all the way around on another fellow’s hit?
It isn’t so much, “Did you win the game?” but, “How did you play, old scout?”
Did you give ’em a fight to the bitter end and scrap till the last was out?
Did you let ’em know they were in a game? Did you always come back strong?
Or did you loaf when the game seemed lost, and quit when the “break” went wrong?
ON MEMORY’S WALL.
Of all the horrible pictures
That hang on memory’s wall,
Is one of a certain ball game
That seemeth the worst of all;
Not for the money wasted,
Counting the coin it cost;
Not that the umpire robbed us,
Not that the home team lost;
Not that the shortstop fumbled
Four balls, while I madly cursed,
Nor the catcher caught like a lobster—
It seemeth to me the worst.
I once had a little sweetheart
With eyes that were deep and dark;
Unto that game I took her
Into the baseball park.
Light as the down of thistles,
The fielders chased the ball;
Loud as the roar of tempests
Followed the rooters’ call;
And I heard my heart beat loudly
As our star man came to bat,
When my little sweetheart murmured:
“Say, look at that woman’s hat!”
Loudly the base hit rattled,
Bringing the tieing score;
Wildly the crowd upstarted,
Yelping a mighty roar;
Softly there came the whisper,
Ending my joyous fit:
“Why is that poor man running?
What is a three-base hit?”
Therefore of all the pictures
That hang on memory’s wall,
That one of a certain ball game
It seemeth the worst of all.
THE GAME.
Let’s play it out—this little game called Life,
Where we are listed for so brief a spell;
Not just to win, amid the tumult rife,
Or where acclaim and gay applauses swell;
Not just to conquer where some one must lose,
Or reach the goal, whatever be the cost:
For there are other, better ways to choose,
Though in the end the battle may be lost.
Let’s play it out, as if it were a sport
Wherein the game is better than the goal,
And never mind the detailed “score’s” report
Of errors made, if each with dauntless soul
But stick it out until the day is done,
Not wasting fairness, for success or fame,
So when the battle has been lost or won
The world at least can say: “He played the Game.”
Let’s play it out—this little game called Work,
Or War or Love or what part each may draw;
Play like a man who scorns to quit or shirk
Because the break may carry some deep flaw;
Nor simply holding that the goal is all
That keeps the player in the contest staying;
But stick it out from curtain rise to fall,
As if the game itself were worth the playing.
MUDVILLE’S FATE.
(Being No. 3 of the Casey series, depicting the sad finish of Mudville after the celebrated Son of Swat put the township on the blink by whiffing in the championship game, thus wiping out all interest in a hitherto thriving baseball center. The pathetic fate of Mudville afterwards is only equaled by that of the “Deserted Village,” so aptly doped out by the late O. Goldsmith, “real” poet.)
I wandered back to Mudville, Tom, where you and I were boys,
And where we drew in days gone by our fill of childish joys;
Alas! the town’s deserted now, and only rank weeds grow
Where mighty Casey fanned the air just twenty years ago.
Remember Billy Woodson’s place, where, in the evening’s shade,
The bunch would gather and discuss the home runs Casey made?
Dog fennel now grows thick around that “joint” we used to know,
Before old Casey whiffed the breeze some twenty years ago.
The grandstand, too, has been torn down; no bleachers met my gaze
Where you and I were wont to sit in happy bygone days;
The peanuts which we fumbled there have sprouted in a row
Where mighty Casey swung in vain just twenty years ago.
O how we used to cheer him, Tom, each time he came to bat!
And how we held our breath in awe when on the plate he spat;
And when he landed on the ball, how loud we yelped! But O
How loud we cursed when he struck out some twenty years ago!
The diamond is a corn patch now; the outfield’s overgrown
With pumpkin vines and weedy plots; the rooters all have flown—
They couldn’t bear to live on there, for nothing was the same
Where they had been so happy once before that fatal game.
The village band disbanded soon; the mayor, too, resigned.
The council even jumped its graft, and in seclusion pined;
The marshal caught the next train out, and those we used to know
Began to leave in flocks and droves some twenty years ago.
For after Casey fanned that day the citizens all left,
And one by one they sought new lands, heartbroken and bereft;
The joyous shout no more rang out of children at their play;
The village blacksmith closed his shop; the druggist moved away.
Alas for Mudville’s vanished pomp when mighty Casey reigned!
Her grandeur has departed now; her glory’s long since waned.
Her place upon the map is lost, and no one seems to care
A whit about the old town now since Casey biffed the air.
A TOAST WORTH WHILE.
Ye may drink if ye will to the star of renown
Who is listed far over the mass,
Who has planted his name on the hallway of fame
At a height which no other can pass.
I will take off my hat to a player like that—
He is worthy of plaudits, I know—
And none can refuse to extend him his dues,
And we’ll bow down to him in a row.
But come; fill your glasses, my lads and my lasses—
A toast as the wine drops run:
“And here’s to the fellow who plays the game and sticks till the game is done.”
Ye may drink, if ye will, to the brilliant brigade
And the hair-raising chances they take;
To their wonderful stops and their fast-breaking drops,
And the one-handed catches they make.
They are worthy of fame, for they light up the game,
And it’s right that their luster should grow;
And none can refuse to extend them their dues,
And we’ll bow down to them in a row.
Then, ho! fill your glasses, my lads and my lasses—
A toast as the red drops run:
“And here’s to the fellow who plays the game and sticks till the game is done.”
It doesn’t count much at the tale’s far end
Whether victory cometh or not,
If but early and late we will stand to the plate,
And give ’em the best we have got;
If we’ll keep up the fight till the end is in sight
And never give up, though we tire—
Although out of breath, we’ll “be in at the death”
With a pretty fair lead at the wire.
So up with your glasses, my lads and my lasses—
A toast as the wine drops run:
“And here’s to the fellow who plays the game and sticks till the game is done.”
THE CHAMPS OF THE ALLEY LEAGUE.
Just at this time every season, when the sun beats down on the street;
When the breath of another springtime comes up with its fragrance sweet;
When the winter league race is over, and the clans of a new campaign
Are camped in the fields of Dixie, cheered on by the fan refrain;
As they talk of a coming pennant or speak of an all-star team
My fancy flies on the south wind, on the crest of an old, old dream,
Back where the eye gleamed brightly, where the soul knew no fatigue,
When I was one of “The Ragged Stars,” the champs of the Alley League.
I hear that the “fever is rising,” that “the great fan flock once more
Is ready to sit in the bleachers and cheer for the winning score;”
They speak of a “coming wonder,” they talk of a “flag to fly,”
They whisper the thrilling story of “Mike and his batting eye;”
But out from the mad fanatics my fancy wanders free
From the hopes of a glad to-morrow to the land of the used-to-be,
Far from the “spit-ball” gossip, far from “McGraw’s intrigue,”
Where I “played first” on “The Ragged Stars,” the champs of the Alley League.
And what is the mighty Wagner to Mickey, “the Human Slat,”
Who batted around “eight hundred,” with a broomstick for a bat?
Where is the “big league gameness” of stars they have set on thrones
To “Johnny the Jew,” who tied the score with a slide over cobblestones?
“Matthewson’s curves are a mystery,” “Walsh is a wonder, too,”
But Pat Maguire set the “strike-out” mark with a pellet of “yarn and glue;”
Boast of your Chance and Jennings, winners of keen intrigue;
But they never stacked up with “The Ragged Stars,” the champs of the Alley League.
Just at this time every season, when the March sun warms the town;
When the little green leaves peep shyly from the stark, bare limbs of brown;
When the voice of the rooter rises in the roll of a rippling cheer,
The winds of another springtime blow back from another year.
The cry of the barefoot legions, the shouts of the tattered host
As twinkling feet raced madly in a dash for the telephone post,
To a wagon wheel “for second base,” with never a touch of fatigue,
When I was one of “The Ragged Stars,” the champs of the Alley League.
THE MAN WHO PLAYED WITH ANSON ON THE OLD CHICAGO TEAM.
(A case parallel to Eugene Field’s account of “The Man Who Worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun.”)
Thar showed up out in Mudville in the spring of ’83
A feller evidently just recoverin’ from a spree.
He said his name was Casey, and he wuz a sight to view
As he walked into the ball park, and inquired for work to do.
Thar wuzn’t any openin’, for you should understand
That wuz the time when Mudville had a bunch of stars on hand;
But the stranger lingered, tellin’ Mickey Nolan and the rest
What an all-fired battin’ av’rage he possessed when at his best,
Till finally he stated, quite by chance, as it would seem,
That he had played with Anson on the old Chicago team.
Wal, that was quite another thing; we owned that any cuss
Who’d played with old Pop Anson must be good enough for us;
So we took Casey at his word and signed him while we could,
Well knowin’ if we didn’t that some other ball club would,
For Kankakee wuz lookin’ round for people that could play,
And Pikeville wouldn’t overlook this feller any day;
And we give him quite a contract, tho’ it made the others swear,
Sayin’ we had done ’em dirty and it wuzn’t on the square;
But we laid back and cackled, for the pennant warn’t no dream
With the man who’d played with Anson on the old Chicago team.
It made our eyeballs nigh pop out and pop back in again
To hear that Casey tellin’ of old Anson and his men;
Why home runs wuz so common that nobody waved a hat,
With Williamson, King Kelly, or Fred Pfeffer at the bat;
A man who didn’t hit above .500 couldn’t stick
With that old bunch, for Anson would release him mighty quick;
They handled ground balls with their teeth and often shut their eyes
While in the act of pullin’ down the longest, hardest flies;
And after all the “fannin’ bees” each night we used to dream
Of the man who played with Anson on the old Chicago team.
But somehow this feller Casey never felt like goin’ in;
He spent his time at Wilson’s shakin’ poker dice for gin.
Whenever he wuz needed he wuz always sure to shirk,
Remarkin’ he would have to wait before he started work.
If any other gent had loafed the way he used to do,
We’d have fined him fifty dollars every day, and benched him too;
But you see the fans respected him and backed him to the last
On account of his connections with the diamond in the past,
For no one felt like knockin’ or handin’ out a call
To the man who’d played on Anson’s team, the greatest of ’em all.
Wal, finally the climax came—the big test of the year—
And the fans wuz there in bunches from the country far and near,
Especially attracted by the statement made that day
That, having rounded into shape, big Casey wuz to play.
The other nine wuz lookin’ kinder worried and upset,
And they wouldn’t even listen to an even-money bet.
We kidded ’em and joshed ’em, but no wagerin’ wuz done,
Till at last they placed a thousand at the odds of ten to one;
But even at these odds it looked an easy-money scheme,
With the man who’d played with Anson on the old Chicago team.
But Casey never drew a chance to shine in any way;
They handed him a base on balls without the least delay;
The pitcher didn’t seem to care to put one over straight
While the man who’d played with Anson was a-standin’ at the plate.
He only had one fly in left, which bounded off his head
(It seems the sun was shinin’ in his countenance, he said);
And so the people waited in much anger and suspense
For Casey’s opportunity to drive one through the fence;
And it came—O yes—it landed with a nauseating rap
For the man who’d played with Anson, and referred to him as “Cap.”
Old Mudville was a run behind when that last inning came;
The bases full and two wuz out—a hit would win the game.
“He’s got to put it over now,” each rooter waved his hat,
And shouted in delirium as Casey stepped to bat.
The first two inshoots jumped across the center of the plate,
As Mr. Anson’s college chum found out a bit too late;
The next looked good and Casey swung—there came a mighty crack—
But the noise originated from the spine in Casey’s back.
In reaching for that outshoot he had wrenched the spinal beam
Of the man who played with Anson on the old Chicago team.
. . . . . . . . . .
That night we wired Anson to discover if he knew
A man by name of Casey, as we felt we ought to do;
And when the answer came next day it stirred up quite a fuss:
“Yes, I remember Casey well—he carried bats for us.”
We hunted for him quite a spell, but he had gone away,
Else the daisies would be bloomin’ over his remains to-day.
But if you land in Mudville on the lookout for some fun,
Don’t ever mention Casey’s name unless you wear a gun.
THE RECORD.
When the game is done
And the players creep,
One by one,
To the League of Sleep,
Deep in the night
They may not know
The way of the fight,
The fate of the foe;
And the cheer that passed
From applauding bands
Is stilled at last—
But the record stands.
The base hits made,
And the errors wrought;
How the game was played,
How the fight was fought;
Though the game be done
Where the night is deep
And one by one
From the field they creep;
Their day has passed
Through the twilight gates,
But the scroll is cast
And the record waits.
“THE MAJOR LEAGUER’S DAUGHTER;” OR, “THE TURNING OF THE TIDE.”
(Up to the hour of going to press the music of this soon-to-be popular ballad had not been written. The sport department office boy was out at the time, while the janitor was busy; so any who peruse it must compose their own music to the selection.)
They were seated in the parlor, where the gas was burning low.
And he held her little paw within his own;
He looked at her and whispered: “Mame, you know I love you so;
You’ve made more hits with me than Fielder Stone,
Your curves look awful good to me, your speed is just my style.”
But here he stopped and sadly bowed his head;
The decision was against him, he was out about a mile,
When unto him these cruel words she said:
Chorus.
“I am the only daughter of a major league phenom,
While you are but an unknown bush league bloke.
My old man hits .300 almost every season, Tom;
While they tell me that your average is a joke.
Some day when you are drafted or you have a batting eye,
I may listen to the words you have to say;
So Tom, he passed her up for good, and now she wonders why
Them cruel words unto him once she said.
But until you show the goods, take a hike back to the woods,
For there’s nothing doing here for you to-day—day—day!”
The years went by and Tom improved; his work began to shine,
His batting and his fielding were immense.
His average jumped from .083 around .449,
While every day he splintered up some fence.
But in the meantime Mame’s old man began to lose his eye;
They canned him when his salary whip went dead.
So Tom, he passed her up for good, and now she wonders why
Them cruel words unto him once she said:
Chorus.
“I am the only daughter of a major league phenom,” etc.
PEN SNAPSHOT OF THE BRITISH FAN.
(Baseball is making a great hit in England. But even the exciting American game hasn’t been strenuous enough to arouse the lethargic Briton from his stolidness. The most exciting plays bring forth only faint applause, such as “Jolly well tried for, old chap.”—Item from Sportman’s Review.)
For eight fleeting innings the Warwickshire Browns
Had battled like fiends with the Berkshire brigade;
The grandstand was crowded by fans from the towns
All around who had come out to see the game played.
The hitting and fielding were simply immense,
No snappier game anywhere could be found;
They doubled and tripled and dented the fence,
While one-handed pick-ups were pulled off each round.
With the home team at bat, some performer of brawn
Scored three with a triple—a terrible smash;
His lordship remarked as he stifled a yawn,
“Bloody clever, old chap,” and then twirled his mustache.
This swat put the Warwickshire bunch in the lead;
But when the ninth came, every Berkshire fought hard,
And five of them scored in the hour of need
By clouting the leather all over the yard.
In the last of the tenth, four runs to the bad,
The first home man up made a hurricane swipe;
He tripled to center. “That wasn’t half bad,
Doncher know,” said a rooter while puffing his pipe.
Then followed a double that whistled to right;
Two yeomen, applauding, were chased from the park;
The score was soon tied up with victory in sight.
“Bah Jove,” murmured one, “what a deuce of a lark!”
ON THE COACHING LINE.
Get in the game! Smoke up, old scout!
We’ve got to win this scrap to-day.
Take any chance, for two are out;
Get on your toes and watch the play.
Three balls—wow! wow! I guess he walks.
Come back, come back; you ain’t so lame.
Say there, you thickhead; watch them balks,
Get in the game; get in the game!
Get in the game, there—at the bat.
Just pick out one that suits your eye.
I guess those benders don’t look fat.
Don’t let a strike like that go by!
Just watch ’em over—make ’em ride.
A hit! A hit! It’s all the same,
You’ll beat it; slide, you lobster, slide!
Get in the game, get in the game!
Get in the game, no matter which,
Nor where, nor when, nor who you are.
The slogan rings at lofty pitch
From inland town to harbor bar,
From lowly surf to ruling kings,
If you would carve a laureled name,
The distaff of the epoch sings:
“Get in the game! Get in the game!”
Get in the game, you merchants and
You lawyers, doctors, preachers too;
You workmen who compose the band
With countless duties yet to do;
You leaders who must head the line,
One dumb play may bring lifelong shame;
Watch every signal, every sign.
Get in the game! Get in the game!
Get in the game—this age is live,
And loafers have no part to play.
If you would win, if you would thrive,
“Keep on your toes” in every fray;
And if you rise or if you fall,
It matters not—the Road to Fame
But echoes with the world-wide call:
“Get in the game! Get in the game!”
THE GOODS.
Here’s to the guy that delivers the goods—
Gent from the city or geek from the woods;
Hillside or valley, mountain or plain,
Sunshine or shadow or starlight or rain—
Any old time or condition or place;
Taking it easy or rough-house to face,
But putting it over and calling the bluff—
Here’s looking—the guy who delivers the stuff.
Here’s to the guy that delivers—and, say,
Chop out that dope on the luck of the day;
Fate took a wallop and slipped you the quid?
Well, wotthehell do we care if it did?
That ain’t the tip we are looking for here.
Bend down a minute and lend us an ear,
Geek from the brushes or guy from the town:
Did you deliver? or did you fall down?
THE WINTER LEAGUE WONDER.
Though I’ve never won a pennant in the race that starts each spring,
And the finish every autumn finds me muchly to the “punk;”
Though through June, July, and August you can hear the anvils ring
As the critics in a body dub my team a bunch of “junk,”
You have got to hand it to me on a silver platter when
The summer scramble’s over. Though some other mogul wins,
I’m the one and only wonder of the “coming season” then,
When the last real game is over and the winter league begins.
Though each October finds me under every rival’s heel,
Twenty games behind the others, do I stop and shed a tear?
Not upon your uncle’s portrait. I begin right off the reel
Lining up my winter legions for a “sure first next year.”
I admit “the luck broke badly” and the “umpires crimped my chance,”
I confess to “injured players” and a few less minor sins;
Then I jump out in the open and I do a pennant dance,
When the last real game is over and the winter league begins.
The pitchers I have gathered when the snow begins to fall
Are the wonders of the nation—every one’s a Hurling King;
And my outfield—Holy Whiskers!—how that bunch can hit the ball
When they walk up with the willow from October unto spring!
Every player on my pay roll is a star of purest ray,
Till they reach the field of battle, where they’re slower on their “pins”
Than a stream of cold molasses, and my phenoms fade away—
But you’ve got to hand it to me when the winter league begins.
A TIP TO THE FAN FLOCK.
Did you ever have the feeling you were “all in,” down, and out,
As of mud upon your skylight, or your brain pan had the gout?
When you sauntered to your office in a semi-hearted way
And earned about one-seventh of your wage or daily pay?
When your energy had left you and your dizzy dome would throb
As you spent the day in yawning or four-flushing on your job?
Well, you have if you are human; so while out among the crowd
In the grandstand or the bleachers, shouting curses long and loud
At some “boot” or costly bobble, let the old dope trickle through
That perhaps the second baseman has the same old feeling too.
While sparring with the cash book or the ledger in your den,
Don’t you feel a brain-storm blowing in your noodle now and then?
When the numbers dance around you, while you’re ripping, raving mad
That the pesky, peevish figures of the column fail to add?
When your orbs feel dry and blinky, and the harder that you look,
All the more the figures jumble on the pages of your book?
It’s a cinch you’ve had the feeling; so before you seek the gore
Of some indicator wielder whose decisions blocked a score,
Stop and figure for a second; let the old dope trickle through
That the umpire is entitled to his little off-day too.
AS THE GAME “BREAKS.”
Mulligan “catches the ball on the snout;”
It’s just where he likes it; he smashes it out.
Biff—on the trade-mark—it whirls like a shot;
They’re yelling and cheering all over the lot.
A shout, then a groan from the well-crowded stands;
The drive travels straight to the outfielder’s hands.
Two feet to the left or two feet to the right
And Mulligan’s swat would have captured the fight.
Just a matter of inches from out of the line
Changed him from a “star” to a “mutt” and a “shine.”
Just two stingy feet—aye, there is the rub—
He didn’t hit safe, so they called him a dub.
Pat Flaherty gets one that isn’t his kind,
But he closes his orbs and he swings at it blind.
’Twas a weak-sister swat and not one-half as stout
As the one which poor Mulligan “slammed on the snout.”
Yet the bleachers arose with a yelp and a screech
As it twisted just out of an infielder’s reach.
It broke up the game, and yet only two feet
Closer in and the tap would have been easy meat;
Just a matter of inches—a bit farther down—
Changed him from a “dub” to a “star” of renown;
Just two pesky feet, but it ended the game,
So they plastered a new-made cigar with his name.
You’ll find it the same upon life’s massive chart—
The “star” and the “dub” are but inches apart.
One smashes out hard, but his drive never lands,
As it travels direct to another one’s hands.
The next fellow’s effort is puny and tame,
But it hits the right spot and so gathers him fame.
It’s the lore of the age from the centuries brought:
“The bunt may roll safe, while the hard smash is caught.”
You may strive twice as hard for the rich prize at stake,
But the fellow that wins is the one “with the break.”
THE GRAND OLD WINTER LEAGUE.
Here’s to the league where they all hit three hundred;
Here’s to the league where they all bag the flag;
Here’s to the wonderful, mighty, and thunderful
Swat of the artist who’s springing the gag—
Springing the gag while the old stove is roaring,
Spieling of games that he won in the pinch;
Fence-breaking hammerer, clean-’em-up slammerer,
Where every pitcher he faced was a cinch.
Here’s to the league where they’ve all cinched the pennant—
Cinched with a line-up that’s keen on the job;
Where in the bingtime of oncoming springtime
Every guy signed is a “second Ty Cobb.”
Hail to the Wagners and dashing young Matthewsons—
There with the speed and the curves and control;
Swift-footed, heady, keen-eyed, and steady,
Already sewing the flag to the pole.
Here’s to the league where the hapless tail-ender
Rises each year to the crest of the game;
Where there is never an artist unclever,
Never a star that is injured or lame;
Where for a spell all the umpires are honest,
Where every mogul has shown keen intrigue;
Hip for the dope from the circuit of hope,
Hail to the glorious Typewriter League!
THE SLIDE OF PAUL REVERE.
Listen, fanatics, and you shall hear
Of the midnight slide of Paul Revere;
How he scored from first on an outfield drive
By a dashing sprint and a headlong dive—
’Twas the greatest play pulled off that year.
Now the home of poets and potted beans,
Of Emersonian ways and means
In baseball epic has oft been sung
Since the days of Criger and old Cy Young;
But not even fleet, deer-footed Bay
Could have pulled off any such fancy play
As the slide of P. Revere, which won
The famous battle of Lexington.
The Yanks and the British were booked that trip
In a scrap for the New World championship;
But the British landed a bit too late,
So the game didn’t open till half past eight,
And Paul Revere was dreaming away
When the umpire issued his call for play.
On, on they fought, ’neath the Boston moon,
As the British figured, “Not yet, but soon;”
For the odds were against the Yanks that night,
With Paul Revere blocked away from the fight
And the grandstand gathering groaned in woe,
While a sad wail bubbled from Rooters’ Row.
But wait! Hist! Hearken! and likewise hark!
What means that galloping near the park?
What means that cry of a man dead sore?
“Am I too late? Say, what’s the score?”
And echo answered both far and near,
As the rooters shouted: “There’s Paul Revere!”
O how sweetly that moon did shine
When P. Revere took the coaching line!
He woke up the grandstand from its trance
And made the bleachers get up and dance;
He joshed the British with robust shout
Until they booted the ball about.
He whooped and he clamored all over the lot,
Till the score was tied in a Gordian knot.
Now, in this part of the “Dope Recooked”
Are the facts which history overlooked—
How Paul Revere came to bat that night
And suddenly ended the long-drawn fight;
How he singled to center, and then straightway
Dashed on to second like Harry Bay;
Kept traveling on, with the speed of a bird,
Till he whizzed like a meteor, rounding third.
“Hold back, you lobster!” but all in vain
The coachers shouted in tones of pain;
For Paul kept on with a swinging stride,
And he hit the ground when they hollered: “Slide!”
Spectacular plays may come and go
In the hurry of Time’s swift ebb and flow;
But never again will there be one
Like the first American “hit and run.”
And as long as the old game lasts you’ll hear
Of the midnight slide of P. Revere.
THE ANNUAL RETURN.
One by one they’re drifting back—
Hank McGee to Hackensack;
Pat Maguire, the world-famed “spitter;”
Mike the Bite, “three-hundred” hitter;
Jim and Ed and Bill and Jack.
One by one they’re drifting back,
With their curves, their keen intrigue,
To the swift Grass Cutter’s League.
One by one they leave and go
Back again to Kokomo,
Kankakee and Rural Dell,
Where they cast a mystic spell
On the “scouts” who touted them,
Each a “human diadem,”
In a serried line return
With their “curves and speed to burn.”
One by one they fade away
To the fragrant, uncut hay.
“Second Wagners,” “second Cobbs”
Back upon their old-time jobs
In the Fried Ham Circuit where
They were stars, with some to spare;
Where they played with famed eclat[*]
In the field and at the bat.
One by one they file back home
To the sweet scent of the loam;
Yet but one brief month ago
They were “making Walsh look slow”—
Each, the phenom of the age,
Flashed upon the sporting age
As the “greatest of them all”
When it came to playing ball.
Pounding on the beaten track—
Hank McGee to Hackensack,
Pat Maguire to Kankakee,
Mike to “Sunny Tennessee”—
In a serried line return,
With their “curves and speed to burn,”
Batting eyes and keen intrigue,
To the swift Grass Cutter’s League.