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! TO THE LADY BUGS Lady Bug, Lady Bug, don't you fly home-- Stay till the ninth ere deciding to roam; Don't you despair when the outlook seems blue, Be a game Lady Bug--see the game through!