He knows each player's stick, you bet—
The boy who keeps the bats.
'Twould break his heart should he forget—
The boy who keeps the bats.
Whene'er a ball is knocked away,
He throws them one with which to play,
He's there for business ev'ry day—
The boy who keeps the bats.
He yells when worthy work is done—
The boy who keeps the bats.
He "hollers" after ev'ry run—
The boy who keeps the bats.
He's overjoyed at victory,
And tells the other kids how "we"
Won out as easily as could be—
The boy who keeps the bats!
St. Joseph News.
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.