He was tall and rugged and coated with tan, He asked no odds and he feared no man. When he shouted "Strike!" or yelped "Ball Two!" You can wager it went, and went clear through. Seldom he argued, and never he fined The player who cursed or the player who whined, But he ran the game from beginning to end, Knew no mercy and feared no friend. Six years in the league he remained the same, Sneering at kickers and bossing the game, Snapping at roughnecks who made foolish howls, Slapping them, sometimes, fair on the jowls; Taking no talk, always making good, He ran the game as an umpire should, Till every paper and every fan Allowed that Flynn was a fearless man. Flynn weighed two hundred, ringside weight, His sweet little wife weighed a hundred and eight; But when he finished the daily game And home to his small apartment came It was "Mike, you're late!" and "Stay in the flat!" "Mike, do this!" and "Mike, do that!" 'Twas surely a shame, and almost a sin, The way that she bullied the fearless Flynn. * * * Kipling knew nothing concerning the Flynns When he wrote about "bearing the yoke." A woman is only a woman, perhaps, But an umpire's only a joke. "CHOOSING SIDES" Baseball, they say, has changed a heap; I guess it has, in spots, And yet I liked it better when we played it on the lots. There were no signs for "hit and run," no dazzling "fadeaways"; We had no high-priced managers to tell us fancy plays. No, we were just a lot of kids, with tanned and freckled hides; There were no concrete grand stands when we played at "choosing sides." I saw a ball game yesterday, and o'er a brass band's blare The cheers of thirty thousand fans were soaring through the air. The turnstiles had been clicking for three solid golden hours, Recording wealth and profit for the big league baseball powers. How soon we lose our play days! How swiftly childhood glides! There were no clicking turnstiles when we played at "choosing sides." The captains used to toss a bat, and then, hand over hand-- But why repeat a story every boy must understand? Then came the careful picking--"I'll take Reddy." "Give me Flynn." "I'll choose you, Skinny Murphy." "I'll take you, Pat McGinn." They picked the live ones first, of course, and finished with the snides; Feelings were often ruffled when we played at "choosing sides." Dear reader, you'll remember, if you peek into the past, The little four-eyed fellow that was always chosen last. The little weak-kneed urchin that the captain would ignore Until he found by counting, that he needed one man more. He couldn't bat, he couldn't field, and yet that shrimp to-day Is making laws in Congress, while his captain drives a dray. ODE TO A GEORGIA GENT