There's the guard at each base who, alert in his place,
Knows his work and performs it with pleasure;
And the fielders that stand with the game well in hand
And consider high balls but a treasure.
'Tis the men of each age, who on history's page
Have written their names with their actions;
Catching fame on the fly, though it comes from the sky,
And ne'er bothered with foolish attractions.
So the old game of life, with its conquest and strife.
Ever moves, with no pause or delaying.
The wise and the great and the foolish with fate
On the field of the great world are playing.
And the games will ne'er close 'till the books shall disclose
All the wonderful outings and innings,
With the sun 'neath the West and the players at rest,
And the blest with their bountiful winnings.
THE SLIDE OF PAUL REVERE.
Grantland Rice, in Atlanta Journal.
Listen, fanatics, and you shall hear
Of the midnight slide of Paul Revere—
How he scored from first on an outfield drive
By a dashing sprint and headlong dive—
'Twas the greatest play pulled off that year.
Now the home of poets and potted beans,
Of Emersonian ways and means.
In Base Ball epic has oft been sung
Since the days of Criger and old Cy Young—
But not even fleet, deer-footed Bay
Could have pulled off any such fancy play
As the slide of P. Revere, which won
The famous battle of Lexington.
The Yanks and the British were booked that trip
In a scrap for the New World Championship—
But the British landed a bit too late,
So the game didn't open till half-past eight,
And Paul Revere was dreaming away
When the umpire issued his call for play.
On, on they fought 'neath the Boston moon.
As the British figured—"Not yet, but soon"—
For the odds were against the Yanks that night,
With Paul Revere blocked away from the fight—
And the grandstand gathering groaned in woe,
While a sad wail bubbled from Rooters' Row.