He came here in the early Spring with all the tryout mob, Striving to bat like Wagner and to slide (spikes first) like Cobb. Some of the vets cried, "Bonehead!" Others remarked, "Poor zob!" Modest as Spring's arbutus, calm as an April dawn, He asked for no advances though his ticker was in pawn; He learned the law from Jawn McGraw but never called him "Jawn." He graced the bench until July, leading the simple life-- He wouldn't touch a cocktail once to please a schoolmate's wife; The slightest hint of a "creme de mint" would cut him like a knife. The village smith that stood beneath the spreading chestnut tree Had nothing on this youngster in the dodging of a spree. Others could tipple if they would--not for Recruit McGee. Thus did the minor leaguer seek for affluence and fame-- Virtue's its own reward at times, but oft it pulls up lame. Now he has went back to the place from which he once had came! BALLADE OF A SUBSTITUTE I've been here nearly a season now, Watching the regulars, day after day; I wish some wizard would tell me how To break right into the game and stay. It isn't as if I were some thick jay, Like a lot of those clumsy "Class B" flivvers, But I'm glued to the bench so hard that, say-- The seat of my pants is full of slivers. McGill is a terrible lobbygow, But he's drawing a regular shortstop's pay; He romps around like a crippled cow And shows the speed of a two-ton dray. Night after night I kneel and pray For a chance to work with the real high livers, But I guess I'll sub till my hair turns gray-- The seat of my pants is full of slivers. Clancy ought to be steering a plow Back on the farm near old Green Bay; He's playing third, with his slanting brow; And Dugan ought to be pitching hay. The bulls they've made since the first of May Would give a McGraw one million shivers, But it's "stay on the bench!" for Kid O'Shay, The seat of my pants is full of slivers. "ENVY" Manager, pardon this mournful bray, But my pride is hurt and my conscience quivers; Give me one chance in the thick of the fray-- The seat of my pants is full of slivers. CASEY ON A BAT It looked extremely rocky for the Boston team that day, The score was one to nothing, with one inning left to play. Casey, who played in centre field, had shown an hour too late-- He hadn't any alibi when staggering through the gate. So when he tore his necktie off and stepped upon his hat The manager looked grim and said, "It's Casey on a bat." "Well," said the Boston manager, "with joy I ought to scream-- Here's Casey with a dandy load, the best man on the team. He told me he was sober, but he couldn't quite get by When he stepped upon his derby and was yanking off his tie. Of all the hard luck in the world! The mean, ungrateful rat! A blooming championship at stake and Casey on a bat."