Wild was the night, yet a wilder night
Hung ’round the fielder’s pillow,
For he dreamt that night of his wondrous might
With the ash, also known as the willow.
A few fond cockroaches lingered near,
From the mouldy moulding pouring;
They knew, by the sounds that smote the ear,
That the hard hitting demon was snoring.
They knew by the way he floundered there,
By the murmurs hastily spoken,
That he dreamed a bit of his home run hit
The day that the fence was broken.
They knew that he dreamed of his record grand,
His wonderful batting and fielding,
That he always hit safe when Ty Cobb fanned,
That he had the pitchers yielding.

Wild was the night in the farming town,
Wild as the wildest battle,
Then the father’s voice rang out, “Come down
And feed them gol dern cattle!”
The cockroaches back to the moulding crept,
The sleeper rose from the clover;
And into his boots he deftly leapt—
The outfielder’s dream was over.

THE LAW OF AVERAGES

The Winter League is here again, and in his native town
The hero of a thousand games has quietly settled down.
* * *
Spike Mulligan, the shortstop brave, who led the league in hitting,
And drew one thousand bones a month for tending to his knitting,
Is working in the corner store, slaving to beat the band,
And drawing fifteen seeds a month for selling sugared sand.
O’Halloran, the pitcher, who was certainly a hummer,
And got a prince’s ransom for the work he did last Summer,
Is keeping books this Winter for a shop that deals in buckets,
And getting for the same each month as much as twenty ducats.
McGonnigal, the fielder fleet, who hit like mad all season,
And got a monthly envelope that seemed beyond all reason,
Is driving team in Grangerville, and adding to his hoard
By drawing down a salary of five a week and board.
McGinn, the famous backstop, who could throw so well to bases,
And who received last season fifty-seven hundred aces,
Is throwing cordwood on a sled, far from the rooters’ gaze,
And getting eighteen dollars cash for every thirty days.
* * *
The Winter League is here again, and in his native town
The hero of a thousand games has quietly settled down.

A CONVERTED ROOTER

Say, on the level, fellows, just a year ago to-day
I wouldn’t give a nickel for to watch them Yankees play;
The Joints was good enough for me, and since I was a kid
I hustled to the Polo Grounds and seen each stunt they did.
Yankees? Well, say, I couldn’t see the Yankees with a glass;
I’d always say their style of play was very much high grass.
Yes, it was all the Polo Grounds—I never missed a game;
I’d go if I was blind and deaf and paralyzed and lame.
When Matty pitched I’d lose my head and outlung all the boys—
The ushers put me out once, when I made too blame much noise.
When Farrell’s club was here instead, I used to go to Coney,
Because I always figgered that the Yanks was only phony.

But, say! I’ve changed my mind a lot, and that’s no showgirl’s dream;
If Farrell hadn’t been all white, the Joints would be no team.
They didn’t have no home at all after the fire that time,
But Farrell says, “Use my grounds, boys; I hope it helps you climb.”
A guy that does a thing like that, without no hot-air mush,
Can have my fifty cents a day, the same as John T. Brush!