If anything is lost or gone,
They’ve got some one to blame it on;
I get the blame for all the rest
Because I am the little-est;
And if they have to blame some one
For what is or what isn’t done—
It’s me!
A TRAGEDY OF CENTER FIELD
HE muffed the fly that lost the game; he never did before;
The boys don’t think he’ll ever be light-hearted any more.
Our captain didn’t say a word; he just picked up his bat
And started home with downcast head—what words could equal that?
Nobody spoke on our whole side, or didn’t even ask
How Stubby came to muff the fly. Bud Hicks picked up his mask
And sighed an awful sorry sigh. Stub Weeks is not the same—
Our boys don’t think he ever will, because he lost the game.
Nobody asked him to explain. They couldn’t understand
How Stubby dropped it when he had the ball right in his hand.
It sailed from Pudgy Williams’ bat and soared just like a bird
To center field where Stubby was. Nobody hardly stirred
Because it was so critical, but Bud Hicks gave a shout,
He knew a fly in center field was just as good as out
When Stubby Weeks was under it. And then he gave a cry
Of agony too great for words when Stubby muffed the fly.
Our boys all slowly walked away, and even Red Blake’s team
Were too surprised to cheer because it seemed just like a dream.
And over there in center field Stub Weeks was dreaming, too,
As though he was Napoleon and this was Waterloo.
The blow was such an awful one he acted sort of stunned,
And then he walked in from the field expecting to be shunned
Forevermore by all his friends. His throat was hoarse and dry;
We knew his heart was broken then because he muffed the fly.
He saw us all pick up our things and walk away, and then
The awful stain upon his name came back to him again.
He thought of how it should have been—the loud hurrahs and cheers,
And leaned against the back-stop fence and drenched it with his tears,
Till all the boys felt sorry then, and told him not to mind
Because the sun was in his eyes and must have made him blind.
But weeks and weeks have passed since then—his heart is awful sore,
Our boys don’t think he’ll ever be light-hearted any more!
IN SWIMMING
’IST boys—th’ kind you used t’ know,
What-d’-y’-call-him, So-and-so
An’ What’s-His-Name—an’ every one
’Ist full o’ health an’ out for fun.
No meanness in a one of us,
’Ist brown an’ strong an’ mischievous,
’Cuz that’s th’ way ’at boys all grow—
’Ist boys—th’ kind you used t’ know.
’Ist boys—th’ kind you used t’ be.
What! Never climbed an apple tree
An’ shook ’em down? Why, Mister, you—
You never was a boy, real true.
I’ll bet ’at you was mischievous
As you could be. You’re foolin’ us
’Cuz you can’t help but see ’at we
Are boys—’ist like you used t’ be.
Of course we ought t’ be at school,
But my! The water’s nice an’ cool
An’ when it calls you, w’y, you ’ist
Can’t be a real boy an’ resist.
An’ say! We caught a fish down there
’Most two feet long—right close t’ w’ere
You’re standin’ now. Now don’t you see
We’re boys—’ist like you used t’ be?