ON MEMORY’S WALL.

Of all the horrible pictures That hang on memory’s wall, Is one of a certain ball game That seemeth the worst of all; Not for the money wasted, Counting the coin it cost; Not that the umpire robbed us, Not that the home team lost; Not that the shortstop fumbled Four balls, while I madly cursed, Nor the catcher caught like a lobster— It seemeth to me the worst. I once had a little sweetheart With eyes that were deep and dark; Unto that game I took her Into the baseball park. Light as the down of thistles, The fielders chased the ball; Loud as the roar of tempests Followed the rooters’ call; And I heard my heart beat loudly As our star man came to bat, When my little sweetheart murmured: “Say, look at that woman’s hat!” Loudly the base hit rattled, Bringing the tieing score; Wildly the crowd upstarted, Yelping a mighty roar; Softly there came the whisper, Ending my joyous fit: “Why is that poor man running? What is a three-base hit?” Therefore of all the pictures That hang on memory’s wall, That one of a certain ball game It seemeth the worst of all.