THE pitcher is pitching, the batsman is itching to punish the ball in
the old-fashioned way; the umpire is umping, the fielders are
humping—we’re playing baseball in our village today! Two thousand mad
creatures are perched on the bleachers, the grand stand is full and the
fences the same, the old and the youthful, the false and the truthful,
the plain and the lovely are watching the game. The groaning taxpayers
are watching the players, forgetting a while all their burdens and
wrongs, and landlord and tenant are saying the pennant will come to this
town where it surely belongs. The lounger and toiler, the spoiled and
the spoiler, are whooping together like boys at the fair; and foes of
long standing as one are demanding the blood of the umpire, his hide and
his hair. The game is progressing, now punk and distressing—our boys are
all rattled, the audience groans! But see how they rally—O, scorer, keep
tally! We’ll win at the finish, I’ll bet seven bones! The long game is
ended, we fans have all wended back, back to our labors, our cares and
our joys, once more grave and steady—and yet ever ready to stake a few
plunks on our own bunch of boys!
[Illustration]
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