CASEY AT THE BAT.
BY PHINEAS THAYER.
It looked extremely rocky for the Mudville nine that day;
The score stood two to four, with but an inning left to play.
So, when Cooney died at second, and Burrows did the same,
A pallor wreathed the features of the patrons of the game.
A straggling few got up to go, leaving there the rest,
With that hope which springs eternal within the human breast,
For they thought: "If only Casey could get a whack at that,"
They'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat.
But Flynn preceded Casey, and likewise so did Blake,
And the former was a puddin', and the latter was a fake,
So on that stricken multitude a deathlike silence sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat.
But Flynn let drive a "single," to the wonderment of all,
And the much-despised Blakey "tore the cover off the ball."
And when the dust had lifted, and they saw what had occurred,
There was Blakey safe at second, and Flynn a-huggin' third.
Then, from the gladdened multitude went up a joyous yell,
It rumbled in the mountain-tops, it rattled in the dell;
It struck upon the hillside and rebounded on the flat;
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.
There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey's bearing, and a smile on Casey's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.
Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt,
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt;
Then while the New York pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance gleamed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.
And now the leather-covered sphere came hurling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped—
"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said.
From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of storm waves on a stern and distant shore.
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted some one on the stand.
And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised a hand.
With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on:
He signaled to Sir Timothy, once more the spheroid flew;
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two."
"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!"
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.
The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.
Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light.
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout:
But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.
FOIBLES OF LITERARY MEN.
Many qualities which would be regarded as censurable if possessed by ordinary men and women are often regarded with a respect that is tinctured with admiration when they are possessed by persons of genius.
There is scarcely an author or musician of note who has not been distinguished by some foible that has excited the amusement of his friends. In many instances these foibles afford an index to the character of their victim. Some are natural, while others would seem to be the result of some inexplicable affectation. Viewed in any light, however, all are interesting.
Keats liked red pepper on his toast.
Sardou imagines he has a perpetual cold.
Dickens was fond of wearing flashy jewelry.
Ernest Renan wore his finger-nails abnormally long.
Walter Savage Landor threw the dishes around to relieve his mind.
Edgar Allan Poe slept with his cat. He was inordinately proud of his feet.
Alphonse Daudet wore his eye-glasses when asleep. He did his best work when hungry.
Thackeray used to lift his hat whenever he passed the house in which he wrote "Vanity Fair."
Thomas Wentworth Higginson possesses a singular power over wild birds, and can easily tame them.
Alexandre Dumas, the younger, bought a new painting every time he had a new book published.
Robert Louis Stevenson's favorite recreation was playing the flute, in order, as he said, to tune up his ideas.
Robert Browning could not sit still. With the constant shuffling of his feet holes were worn in the carpet.
Longfellow enjoyed walking only at sunrise or sunset, and he said his sublimest moods came upon him at these times.
Washington Irving never mentioned the name of his fiancée after her death, and if anybody else did so, he immediately left the room.
Nathaniel Hawthorne always washed his hands before reading a letter from his wife. He delighted in poring over old advertisements in the newspaper files.
Macaulay kept his closets crammed with elaborately embroidered waistcoats, and the more gaudy they were the better he liked them.
Disraeli wore corsets. The older he grew, the greater became his desire to dress like a young man. He had a pen stuck behind each ear when writing.
F. Marion Crawford carries his own stationery, pen, and ink, and never writes with any other. He has written every word of every novel with the same penholder.
Bjornson kept his pockets full of the seeds of trees, scattering handfuls broadcast in his daily walks. He even tried to persuade his associates to do the same.
Darwin had no respect for books as books, and would cut a big volume in two, for convenience in handling, or he would tear out the leaves he required for reference.
Zola would pass whole weeks in the belief that he was an idiot. While in this state he wrote more than at any other time. He would never accept an invitation to dinner.
Oliver Wendell Holmes used to carry a horse-chestnut in one pocket and a potato in another to ward off rheumatism. He had a great fondness for trees, and always sat under one when he could.
Voltaire, as a preliminary to his day's work, would sharpen an even dozen lead pencils. He would untie and retie his stock whenever an idea concerning his work particularly pleased him.
Count Tolstoy used to go barefoot and hatless the year round. He is fond of French perfumes, and keeps his linens scented with sachet powder. There is always a flower on his desk as he writes. Although rich, he wears the cheapest clothes he can buy.
Sir A. Conan Doyle, even in the coldest weather, never wears an overcoat. When he gives an afternoon lecture he removes his vest and buttons his Prince Albert coat close to his body. He is a golf enthusiast, and spends all the time possible on the links.
Bret Harte, when the inspiration was on him, would hire a cab for the night, and drive, without stopping, through the darkness until the struggle for ideas was over, and he grew calm enough to write. Nothing pleased him more than to be taken for an Englishman.
The World's Fastest Trains.
Great Britain Leads in Speed, with France a Good Second, and the United
States Only a Slow Third.—Some Passenger Statistics.
Speed is the magician that makes the world smaller. Compare the hourly runs of the old stage-coaches with the hourly runs of the modern railroad train, and we can figure without difficulty just how much the world has shrunk in seventy-five years—though, as always happens in magic, the shrinkage is apparent, not real. Motor cars now are made so powerful that the fastest can go more than two miles in a minute—a speed which is not yet considered practicable for ordinary travel. Railroad trains have made phenomenal time over short distances, and there is one train which regularly travels one hundred and eighteen and one-half miles at about sixty miles an hour.
It is something of a surprise to learn that American trains are not the fastest. England is first, with France second. The following article from the New York Sun gives the speed figures of the fastest trains of all countries where good speed is made:
The fastest regular long-distance run without stop in the world is on the Great Western, from London to Bristol, 118½ miles in 120 minutes, or practically sixty miles an hour. In order to leave passengers at Bath a car is dropped from the train without stop, a time-saving device in operation on a number of European roads, though still unknown here.
The longest run without stop made in any country is from London to Liverpool on the London and Northwestern, 201 miles, made at the rate of fifty-four miles an hour. The next longest is on the Midland, from London to Leeds, 196 miles, at the rate of fifty-two miles an hour.