Every year or two they tell us that baseball is out of date;
But each spring it's back in fashion when they line up at the plate,
When the good old, glad old feeling comes again to file its claim—
When a man can turn from trouble and go out and see the game.
I can feel the warm blood rushing through my veins again—hooray!
See those slender pennants waving? Hear the umpire calling "Play!"
Yah, you bluffer—no, you didn't—aw, say, umpire, that's a shame!
What? Two strikes? Come off, you robber! Well, you're rotten all the same!
Oh, if we'd a man like Anson or Dan Brouthers used to be,
To hold down that first bag—say, what a corker that was! Gee!
Go it! Slide, you chump—you've got to—never touched him! Yip! Hurrah!
Say, that boy's a wonder—hold it! Ah, the dub, they've caught him—pshaw!
Ever see John Ward as short-stop? There's the boy that had the head!
Why, if we had him out yonder he would scare those fellows dead!
And Mike Kelly—Whee-e-e! A beauty! Home run, sure as Brown's my name!
Downed 'em nine to eight, by golly! Wasn't it a corkin' game?
Chicago Record-Herald.
THE BOY WHO KEEPS THE BATS.
By Bide Dudley.
Just see him stride from bench to plate—
The boy who keeps the bats;
With truly a majestic gait—
The boy who keeps the bats.
His clothes are old, his feet are bare,
His face unwashed, unkempt his hair,
He's still in pride a millionaire—
The boy who keeps the bats.
A most important man is he—
The boy who keeps the bats;
Possessed of great activity—
The boy who keeps the bats.
He knows each player by his name,
His age, his weight, from whence he came,
And just how long he's played the game—
The boy who keeps the bats.
He'll lug ten sticks and laugh with glee—
The boy who keeps the bats.
"De gang" regards with jealousy
The boy who keeps the bats.
Although he's not employed for pay,
He "gets inside to see 'em play,"
Which beats his former knot-hole way—
The boy who keeps the bats.