Breitenstein, Phillips, and Weyhing and Nops,
Hahn, Rhines, and Corbett and Dr. McJames—
Where are their shoots and their puzzling drops?
Who cheers to-day when you mention their names?
Lost in the shadows, their story is told;
On memory’s ramparts their pictures are hung;
But here in the lime light, as great as of old,
Looms up the stalwart—the only Cy Young.
Where is the mighty Dalrymple to-day?
Miller and Denny and “Cuppy the Sly?”
Show me their names in the line-up, I pray.
Vainly I wait for an answering cry.
Few of us stand to the guns through the years;
One at a time from the heights we are flung.
Heroes soon pass in this Valley of Tears;
But here’s to the king of them all—Denton Young.
THE UMP’S MIDWINTER DREAM.
It was a sunny day in spring;
The warbling birds were all a-wing;
An April sky of azure hue
Enchanted the fanatic’s view,
And sultry was the atmosphere
Upon the first game of the year.
Upon the field His Umps appeared,
And, lo! the throng arose and cheered,
While all around the fife and drums
Played “Hail! the Conquering Hero Comes.”
The game began, and to the plate
The first man wandered up, sedate;
“Strike one, strike two, strike three—you’re out!”
The umpire waited for the shout
Of rage from all around, but not
A murmur bubbled from the lot;
The player bowed and walked away,
Without another word to say;
Nor paused, with language somewhat free
Impugning his ancestral tree.
Nobody had a kick to make,
However costly his mistake;
And when a foul tip off the bat
Came hurling by and knocked him flat,
In sympathy the bleachers sat
With saddened hearts and tear-dimmed eyes,
Until once more they saw him rise.
He was to player and to fan
A scholar and a gentleman,
While every paper in the land
Was boosting him to “beat the band.”
And then in joy he gave a shout,
And woke to FIND HIS PIPE WAS OUT!
A REAL JOB FOR TEDDY.
Teddy, when your work is through in the Presidential chair;
When another takes the shift where you’ve learned to do and dare,
You will need another job—one that’s a monstrosity,
That will soak up, day by day, all your strenuosity.
It must be a husky job, full of smoke and fire to boot;
And in looking round I’ve found only one I know will suit,
Only one where your big stick will be needed day by day;
Only one to fit in, Ted, with your rough-and-tumble way;
Only one where in the end you will some day long for rest,
Where your energy will wane and your spirit be depressed.
You will find it different from any “nature-faking” fuss;
You will find it harder than mauling up the Octopus.
It will be a rougher job than a charge up San Juan Hill,
Or a battle with the trusts—it will take a stronger will.
Fighting predatory wealth of the kings of high finance,
Calling railroad moguls down will not be a circumstance.
All in all, ’twill suit you fine. Never having been afraid
Of aught else upon this earth, you should be an umpire, Ted!