"Is this where Mathewson lives?" I asked Of a peaceful person, who calmly basked Up on the side of a sunny hill O'erlooking the town of Factoryville. "He was born here, stranger," the native said. "What is the matter? Is he dead? I wouldn't be sorry, to tell the truth, For there is a mighty swelled up youth! They tell me, those that follows them things, Matty is one of baseball's kings. That's a knock for him and his folks, I say, 'Cause baseball is crooked, anyway!" Then I went to the home of John McGraw, And hearkened well to the natives' jaw. They mentioned John in a manner grim, And told of all that they had on him. And I went to the home of François Chance, Hearing them give their idol the lance. And to many another home I went, Finding this truth to be evident: He who wins fame by moving away To a big league town will be wise to stay! THE OUTFIELDER'S DREAM 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._ * * *