Finally we grew so proud of our progress in base-ball that after great efforts we managed to get special suits. These were really wonders in their way. True, they were nothing but a shirt and a pair of trousers that came down just below the knee. But all the boys were dressed alike, and the suits were made of blue with a red stripe running down the side of the legs to help the artistic effect. After this, we played ball better than before; and the fame of our club crept up and down the stream and over beyond the hills on either side. Then we began issuing challenges to other towns and accepting theirs. This was still more exciting. By dint of scraping together our little earnings, we would contrive to hire a two-horse wagon and go out to meet the enemy in foreign lands. In turn, the outside clubs would come to visit us. The local feeling spread from the boys to their families and neighbors, and finally the girls got interested in the game and came to see us play. This added greatly to our zeal and pride. Often, in some contest of more than common interest, the girls got up a supper for the club; and when the game was done we ranged ourselves on the square and gave three cheers for the other club, and then three cheers for the girls. This they doubtless thought was pay enough.
A game of ball in those exciting times was not played in an hour or two after the day’s work was done. It began promptly at one o’clock and lasted until dark; sometimes the night closed in before it was finished. The contest was not between the pitcher and the catcher alone; we all played, and each player was as important as the rest. Our games never ended with four or five sickly tallies on a side. A club that could get no more runs than this had no right to play. Each club got forty or fifty tallies, and sometimes more; and the batting was one of the features of the game. Of course, we boys were not so cool and deliberate and mechanical as players are to-day. We had a vital interest in the game; and this, more than any other activity, was our very life. The base-ball teams of these degenerate days are simply playing for pay; and they play ball with the same precision that a carpenter would nail shingles on a roof. Ball-playing with us was quite another thing. The result of our games depended as much upon our mistakes, and those of the other side, as upon any good playing that we did. In a moment of intense excitement the batter would knock the ball straight into the short-stop’s hands; it was an easy matter to throw it to first-base and head off the runner, and every boy on the field and every man in the crowd would shout to the short-stop just what to do. He had time to spare; but for the moment the game was his, and all eyes were turned on him. As a rule, he eagerly snatched the ball and threw it clear over the first-baseman’s head, so far away that the batter was safely landed on third-base before the ball was again inside the ring. The fielder, too, at the critical time, when all eyes were turned toward him, would get fairly under the flying ball, and then let it roll through his hands while the batter got his base. At any exciting part of the game the fielding nine could be depended upon to make errors enough to let the others win the game.
Then, as now, the umpire’s place was the hardest one to fill. It was the rule that the umpire should be chosen by the visiting club; and this carried him into a violently hostile camp. Of course, he, like everyone else, could be relied on in critical times to decide in favor of his friends; but such decisions called down on him the wrath of the crowd, who sometimes almost drove him off the field.
It was a famous club that used to gather on the square. Whether in batting, catching, or running bases, we always had a boy who was the best in all the country round, and the base-ball club added not a little to the prestige that we all thought belonged to Farmington.
One game I shall remember to the last moment of my life. The fight had been long and hard, with our oldest and most hated rivals. The day was almost done, and the shadows already warned us that night was close at hand. We had come to the bat for the last half of the last inning, and were within one of the score of the other side, with two players out, and two on bases. Of course no more exciting situation could exist; for this was the most critical portion of the most important event of our young lives. It came my turn to take the bat. After one or two feeble failures to hit the ball, I swung my club just at the right time and place and with tremendous force. The ball went flying over the roof of the store, and rolled down to the river-bank on the other side. I had gone quite around the ring before anyone could get near the ball. I can never forget the wild ovation in which I ran around the ring, and the mad enthusiasm when the home-plate was reached and the game was won. Whenever I read of Cæsar’s return to Rome, I somehow think of this great hit and my home-run which won the game.
All the evening, knots of men and boys gathered in the various public places to discuss that unprecedented stroke. Next day at church almost every eye was turned toward me as I walked conspicuously and a little tardily up the aisle, and for days and weeks my achievement was the chief topic of the town. Finally the impression wore away, as all things do in this busy world where everybody wants the stage at once, and then I found myself obliged to call attention to my great feat. Whenever any remarkable play was mentioned or great achievement referred to, I would say, “Yes, but do you remember the time I knocked the ball over the store and made that home-run?” Many years have passed since then, and here I am again relating this exploit and writing it down to be printed in a book.
Since that late summer afternoon when I ran so fast around the ring amidst the plaudits of my town, I have had my rightful share of triumphs and successes,—especially my rightful share in view of the little Latin I knew when I started out in life. But among them all fame and time and fortune have never conspired to make my heart so swell with pride through any other triumph of my life as when I knocked the ball over the dry-goods store and won the game.
CHAPTER XIX
AUNT MARY
Like everything else in my early life, my Aunt Mary is a memory that is shrouded in mist. I have no idea when I first heard of her or first saw her, but both events were while I was very young. Neither can I now separate my earlier impressions of Aunt Mary from those that must have been formed when I had grown into my boyhood. It was some time after she was fixed in my mind before I knew that there was an Uncle Ezra, and that he was Aunt Mary’s husband. They had never had any children, and had always lived alone. Whenever either one was spoken of, or any event or affair connected with their lives was referred to, it was always Aunt Mary instead of Uncle Ezra.
When I first remember them, they were old, or at least they seemed old to me. They had a little farm not far from our home; and I sometimes used to go down the dusty road to their house for eggs, butter, and buttermilk. Aunt Mary was famed throughout the region for the fine butter she made; and, either from taste or imagination, I was so fond of it that I would eat no other kind.