THE BUG’S VIEW-POINT.

Beyond the sleet, across the snows He did not see the budding rose That waved its crimson welcome to An earth of green, a sky of blue, Nor yet the daffy daffodils That crowned the valleys and the hills; The apple blossoms, pink and white, That drifted into lanes of light; He did not hear the bluebird sing Nor yet the south wind whispering In murmur through the maple trees That swayed and slanted to the breeze And harbored on each bending limb The maker of a woodland hymn— And yet, like every living thing, He, too, had drawn his dream of spring. He saw a gent arrayed in blue Heave boldly into public view, And in a fog-horn tenor call To thousands: “Batter up—play ball!” He saw a tall guy nod and beck And then cut one around the neck, While in a trance the slugger there Inanely paddled at the air; He saw the shortstop leave his place And flag one back of second base And wing it swiftly on ahead To where the dashing runner sped; He saw, before his flashing eye, The keen outfielder fenceward fly, And with a mighty effort pull The drive down with the bases full. He heard once more the rooters call, The ringing clash of bat and ball, The cry of “Belt it on the snout! Don’t try to bunt there, whale it out!” The groans and curses, cheers and jeers Like music tinkled in his ears; The grandstand rocked and roared in strife, The howling bleachers leaped to life, As whooping, jeering, shouting, cheering, Praying, cursing, pleading, fearing, Stamping, howling, smiling, growling, Laughing, weeping, snarling, scowling, Over city, field, and glen The Bugland Chorus rang again— For he, like every other thing, Had drawn his dream of golden spring.