I saw him in the distance, as the train went speeding by, A shivery little fellow standing in the sun to dry. And a little pile of clothing very near him I could see: He was owner of a gladness that had once belonged to me. I have shivered as he shivered, I have dried the way he dried, I've stood naked in God's sunshine with my garments at my side; And I thought as I beheld him, of the many weary men Who would like to go in swimming as a little boy again. I saw him scarce a moment, yet I knew his lips were blue And I knew his teeth were chattering just as mine were wont to do; And I knew his merry playmates in the pond were splashing still; I could tell how much he envied all the boys that never chill; And throughout that lonesome journey, I kept living o'er and o'er The joys of going swimming when no bathing suits we wore; I was with that little fellow, standing chattering in the sun; I was sharing in his shivers and a partner of his fun. Back to me there came the pictures that I never shall forget When I dared not travel homewards if my shock of hair was wet, When I did my brief undressing under fine and friendly trees In the days before convention rigged us up in b.v.d's. And I dived for stones and metal on the mill pond's muddy floor, Then stood naked in the sunshine till my blood grew warm once more. I was back again, a youngster, in those golden days of old, When my teeth were wont to chatter and my lips were blue with cold. The Love of the Game There is too much of sighing, and weaving Of pitiful tales of despair. There is too much of wailing and grieving, And too much of railing at care. There is far too much glorification Of money and pleasure and fame; But I sing the joy of my station, And I sing the love of my game. There is too much of tremble-lip telling Of hurts that have come with the fight. There is too much of pitiful dwelling On plans that have failed to go right. There is too much of envious pining For luxuries others may claim. Too much thought of wining and dining, But I sing the love of my game. There is too much of grim magnifying The troubles that come with the day, There is too much indifferent trying To travel a care-beset way. Too much do men think of gold-getting, Too much have they underwrit shame, Which accounts for the frowning and fretting, But I sing the joy of my game.