Two Boston batters in the ninth were speedily retired, "Here, Casey!" cried the manager, speaking as one inspired, "Go in and bat for Grogan! There's a man on second base, And if you hit the way you can we'll win the pennant race." This is no knock on buttermilk, or anything like that, But the winning hit was made that day by Casey on a bat. THE PITCHER'S SOLILOQUY A pitcher known in the days gone by As a star of the first degree Was making the dirt and gravel fly In the shade of an old oak tree. His spade was long and his arm was strong, And the ditch that he dug was wide; He paused at the sound of the dinner gong-- And this is the sermon he sighed: "Young man, you are climbing the ladder now-- Your arm is as firm as steel; The wreath of laurel is on your brow And the pride of a prince you feel. Do you think you will play when your hair turns gray? I thought my prowess would last, But you can't strike out the men of to-day With the curves you threw in the past!" In the merciless baseball game of life We may shine for a fleeting hour, But the strongest frame comes to shun the strife And loses its youthful power. So strive to lay, while it comes your way, A fence for Adversity's blast. You can't strike out the men of to-day With the curves you threw in the past. BLESSED BE BASEBALL The game was on! The cheers and roars Rang Eastward to Long Island's shores; "Come on, you Matty--show your class!" "Oh, you Red Murray! Scorch the grass!" "Heads up, Big Injun!" "Scoop 'em, Bridwell!" "Devore stole home! And sure he slid well!" These and a thousand other roars Rang Eastward to Long Island's shores. And folks of various sorts were there From East Side yeggs to ladies fair; Here a tragedian, there a joker, Here a banker and there a broker. Young dry goods clerks with booze clerks mingled, And all sat in with nerves that tingled. One white-haired woman sat alone, Proud as a queen upon her throne. One dear old lady, calm, sedate, Age, very likely, eighty-eight. "Isn't she sweet?" the women said; "Look at that lovely silvery head!" As in the sun she serenely basked A rooter sitting beside her asked: "How did you come to get away?" "My grandson," she answered, "died to-day!" RAYMOND'S RIDE Listen, dear rooters, and you shall hear Of the ride of a modern Paul Revere. The Paul Revere of "seventy-five" Rode like a fiend and won in a drive. The Paul Revere whose praises I sing Is Arthur Raymond, the spitball king. No plunging charger, no Arab steed, Loans to Raymond its wondrous speed, No dainty thoroughbred, sleek of side, Plays a part in our Raymond's ride. Just a lumbering wagon, creaking and shaking Serves for the wonderful ride he's taking. And it hustles him over hollow and hill, Drawn by a good old horse named WILL.