THE ODE TO SPRING
With the advent of that first warm spring-like weather the High School
athletic activities began in earnest. During March the baseball
candidates had practiced to some extent indoors and occasionally on
the field, but not a great deal had been accomplished. The “cage” in
the basement of the school building was neither large nor light, while
cold weather, with rain and wet ground, had made outdoor work far from
satisfactory. Of the Baseball Team, Clearfield had high hopes this
spring. There was a wealth of material left from the successful Nine
of the previous spring, including two first-class pitchers, while the
captain, Warner Jones, was a good leader as well as a brainy player.
Then too, and in the judgment of the school this promised undoubted
success, the coaching had been placed in the hands of Dick Lovering.
Dick had proven his ability as a baseball coach the summer before and
had subsequently piloted the football team to victory in the fall,
thus winning an admiration and gratitude almost embarrassing to him.
Dick, who had to swing about on crutches where other fellows went on
two good legs, came out of school Monday afternoon in company with
Lansing White and crossed over to Linden Street where a small blue
runabout car stood at the curb. Dick was tall, with dark hair and eyes.
Without being especially handsome, his rather lean face was attractive
and he had a smile that won friends on the instant. Dick was seventeen
and a senior. Lansing, or Lanny, White was a year younger, and a good
deal of a contrast to his companion. Lanny fairly radiated health and
strength and high spirits. You’re not to conclude that Dick suggested
ill-health or that he was low-spirited, for that would be far from
the mark. There was possibly no more cheerful boy in Clearfield than
Richard Lovering, in spite of his infirmity. But Lanny, with his flaxen
hair and dark eyes――a combination as odd as it was attractive――and his
sun-browned skin and his slimly muscular figure, looked the athlete
he was, every inch of him. Lanny was a “three-letter man” at the High
School; had captained the football team, caught on the nine and was a
sprinter of ability. And, which was no small attainment, he possessed
more friends than any other fellow in school. Lanny couldn’t help
making friends; he appeared to do it without conscious effort; there
had never been on his part any seeking for popularity.
Lanny cranked the car and seated himself beside Dick. Fully half the
students were journeying toward the field, either to take part in
practice or to watch it, and the two boys in the runabout answered many
hails until they had distanced the pedestrians.
“This,” said Lanny, as they circumspectly crossed the car-tracks and
turned into Main Street, “is just the sort of weather the doctor
ordered. If it keeps up we’ll really get started.”
“This is April, though,” replied Dick, “and everyone knows April!”
“Oh, we’ll have more showers, but once the field gets dried out
decently they don’t matter. I suppose it’ll be pretty squishy out there
to-day. What we ought to do, Dick, is have the whole field rolled right
now while it’s still soft. It’s awfully rough in right field, and even
the infield isn’t what you’d call a billiard table.”
“Wish we could, Lanny. But I guess if we get the base paths fixed up
we’ll get all that’s coming to us this spring. Too bad we haven’t a
little money on hand.”
“Oh, I know we can’t look to the Athletic Association for much. I was
only wondering if we couldn’t get it done somehow ourselves. If we
knew someone who had a steam roller we might borrow it!”
“The town has a couple,” laughed Dick, “but I’m afraid they wouldn’t
loan them.”
“Why not? Say, that’s an idea, Dick! Who do you borrow town property
from, anyway? The Mayor?”
“Street Department, I guess. Tell Way to go and see them, why don’t
you?”
“Way” was Curtis Wayland, manager of the baseball team. Lanny smiled.
“Joking aside,” he said, “they might do it, mightn’t they? Don’t they
ever loan things?”
“Maybe, but you’d have to have the engineer or chauffeur or whatever
they call him to run it for you, and that would be a difficulty.”
“Pshaw, anyone could run a steam roller! You could, anyway.”
“Can’t you see me?” chuckled Dick. “Suppose, though, I got nabbed for
exceeding the speed limit? I guess, Lanny, if that field gets rolled
this spring it will be done by old-fashioned man-power. We might borrow
a roller somewhere and get a lot of the fellows out and have them take
turns pushing it.”
“It would take a week of Sundays,” replied Lanny discouragingly. “You
wait. I’m not finished with that other scheme yet.”
“Borrowing a roller from the town, you mean? Well, I’ve no objection,
but don’t ask me to run it. I’d be sure to put it through the fence or
something; and goodness knows we need all the fence we’ve got!”
“Yes, it’ll be a miracle if it doesn’t fall down if anyone hits a ball
against it!”
“If it happens in the Springdale game you’ll hear no complaint from
me,” said Dick, adding hurriedly, “That is, if it’s one of our team who
does it!”
“Ever think of putting a sign on the fence in center field?” asked
Lanny. “‘Hit This Sign and Get Ten Dollars,’ or something of that sort,
you know. It might increase the team’s average a lot, Dick.”
“You’re full of schemes to-day, aren’t you? Does that fence look to
you as if it would stand being hit very often?” They had turned into A
Street and the block-long expanse of sagging ten-foot fence stretched
beside them. “I’ve about concluded that being presented with an
athletic field is like getting a white elephant in your stocking at
Christmas!”
“Gee, this field is two white elephants and a pink hippopotamus,”
replied Lanny as he jumped out in front of the players’ gate. Dick
turned off the engine and thoughtfully removed the plug from the dash
coil, thus foiling youngsters with experimental desires. His crutches
were beside him on the running-board, and, lifting them from the wire
clips that held them there, he deftly swung himself from the car and
passed through the gate. They were the first ones to arrive, but before
they had returned to the dressing-room under the nearer grandstand
after a pessimistic examination of the playing field, others had
begun to dribble in and a handful of youths were arranging themselves
comfortably on the seats behind first base. But if the audience
expected anything of a spectacular nature this afternoon they were
disappointed, for the practice was of the most elementary character.
There was a half-hour at the net with Tom Nostrand and Tom Haley
pitching straight balls to the batters and then another half-hour
of fielding, Bert Cable, last year’s captain and now a sort of
self-appointed assistant coach, hitting fungoes to outfielders, and
Curtis Wayland, manager of the team, batting to the infield. The forty
or fifty onlookers in the stands soon lost interest when it was evident
that Coach Lovering had no intention of staging any sort of a contest,
and by ones and twos they took their departure. Even had they all gone,
however, the field would have been far from empty, for there were
nearly as many team candidates as spectators to-day. More than forty
ambitious youths had responded to the call and it required all the
ingenuity of Dick Lovering and Captain Warner Jones to give each one a
chance. The problem was finally solved by sending a bunch of tyros into
extreme left field, under charge of Manager Wayland, where they fielded
slow grounders and pop-flies and tested their throwing arms.
It was while chasing a ball that had got by him that Way noticed a
fluttering sheet of paper near the cinder track. It had been creased
and folded, but now lay flat open, challenging curiosity. Way picked
it up and glanced at it as he returned to his place. It held all sorts
of scrawls and scribbles, but the words “William Butler Shaw,” and the
letters “W. B. S.,” variously arranged and entwined, were frequently
repeated. Occupying the upper part of the sheet were six or seven lines
of what, since the last words rhymed with each other, Way concluded to
be poetry. Since many of the words had been scored out and superseded
by others, and since the writing was none too legible in any case, Way
had to postpone the reading of the complete poem. He stuffed it in his
pocket, with a chuckle, and went back to amusing his awkward squad.
Fudge Shaw sat on the bench between Felker and Grover and awaited his
turn in the outfield. Fudge had played in center some, but he was not
quite Varsity material, so to speak, and his hopes of making even the
second team, which would be formed presently, from what coach and
captain rejected, were not strong. Still, Fudge “liked to stick around
where things were doing,” as he expressed it, and he accepted his
impending fate with philosophy. Besides, he had more than half made
up his mind to cast his lot with the Track Team this spring. He was
discussing the gentle art of putting the twelve-pound shot with Guy
Felker when Dick summoned the outfield trio in and sent Fudge and two
others to take their places. Fudge trotted out to center and set about
his task of pulling down Bert Cable’s flies. Perhaps his mind was too
full of shot-putting to allow him to give the needed attention to the
work at hand. At all events, he managed to judge his first ball so
badly that it went six feet over his head and was fielded in by one
of Way’s squad. Way was laughing when Fudge turned toward him after
throwing the ball to the batter.
“A fellow needs a pair of smoked glasses out here,” called Fudge
extenuatingly. This, in view of the fact that the sun was behind
Fudge’s right shoulder, was a lamentably poor excuse. Possibly he
realized it, for he added: “My eyes have been awfully weak lately.”
Way, meeting the ball gently with his bat and causing a wild commotion
amongst his fielders, nodded soberly. “And for many other reasons,” he
called across.
“Eh?” asked Fudge puzzled. But there was no time for more just then
as Bert Cable, observing his inattention, meanly shot a long low fly
into left field, and Fudge, starting late, had to run half-way to the
fence in order to attempt the catch. Of course he missed it and then,
when he had chased it down, made matters worse by throwing at least
twelve feet to the left of Cable on the return. The ex-captain glared
contemptuously and shouted some scathing remark that Fudge didn’t hear.
After that, he got along fairly well, sustaining a bruised finger,
however, as a memento of the day’s activities. When practice was over
he trudged back to the dressing-room and got into his street clothes.
Fortunately, most of the new fellows had dressed at home and so it
was possible to find room in which to squirm out of things without
collisions. While Fudge was lacing his shoes he observed that Way and
his particular crony, Will Scott, who played third base, were unusually
hilarious in a far corner of the room.
But Fudge was unsuspicious, and presently he found himself walking home
with the pair.
“Say, this is certainly peachy weather, isn’t it?” inquired Will as
they turned into B Street. “Aren’t you crazy about spring, Way?”
“Am I? Well, rather! O beauteous spring!”
“So am I. You know it makes the birds sing in the trees.”
“Sure. And it makes the April breeze to blow.”
“What’s wrong with you chaps?” asked Fudge perplexedly. The strange
words struck him as dimly familiar but he didn’t yet connect them with
their source.
“Fudge,” replied Way sadly, “I fear you have no poetry in your soul.
Doesn’t the spring awaken――er――awaken feelings in your breast? Don’t
you feel the――the appeal of the sunshine and the singing birds and all
that?”
“You’re batty,” said Fudge disgustedly.
“Now for my part,” said Will Scott, “spring art, I ween, the best of
all the seasons.”
“Now you’re saying something,” declared Way enthusiastically. “It
clothes the earth with green――――”
“And for numerous other reasons,” added Will gravely.
A great light broke on Fudge and his rotund cheeks took on a vivid
tinge. “W-w-what you s-s-silly chumps think you’re up to?” he demanded.
“W-w-where did you g-g-g-get that st-t-t-tuff?”
“Stuff!” exclaimed Way protestingly. “That’s poetry, Fudge. Gen-oo-ine
poetry. Want to hear it all?”
“No, I don’t!”
But Will had already started declaiming and Way chimed in:
“O Beauteous Spring, thou art, I ween,
The best of all the Seasons,
Because you clothe the Earth with green
And for numerous other reasons!”
“I hope you ch-ch-choke!” groaned Fudge. “W-w-where’d you get it? Who
t-t-told you――――”
“Fudge,” replied Way, laughingly, “you shouldn’t leave your poetic
effusions around the landscape if you don’t want them read.” He pulled
the sheet of paper from his pocket and flaunted it temptingly just out
of reach. “‘You make the birds sing in the trees――――’”
“‘The April breeze to blow,’” continued Will.
“‘The sun to shine――――’ What’s the rest of it, Fudge? Say, it’s
corking! It’s got a swing to it that’s simply immense!”
“And then the sentiment, the poetic feeling!” elaborated Will. “How do
you do it, Fudge?”
“Aw, q-q-quit it, fellows, and g-g-g-give me that!” begged Fudge
shame-facedly. “I just did it for f-f-fun. It d-d-dropped out of my
p-p-p――――”
But “pocket” was too much for Fudge in his present state of mind,
and he gave up the effort and tried to get the sheet of paper away.
He succeeded finally, by the time they had reached Lafayette Street,
where their ways parted, and tore it to small bits and dropped it into
someone’s hedge. Way and Will departed joyfully, and until they were
out of earshot Fudge could hear them declaiming the “Ode to Spring.”
He went home a prey to a deep depression. He feared that he had by no
means heard the last of the unfortunate poetical effort. And, as the
future proved, his fears were far from groundless.