THE REAL SPRINGTIME.

I do not care about the spring Of which the high-browed poets sing— Of vines, where budding blossoms cling, And all that sort of blooming thing. I care not for the triolet Which boosts the early violet, Nor buzzing bees, nor budding trees, Nor scented stuff upon the breeze; The bard who brays of meadows green To me is balmy in the bean. I do not care about the spring, Of happy larks upon the wing, Of mocking birds that rise and sing, And all that fuzzy sort of thing; I care not for the “April snow,” Of white bloom wafted to and fro, “The sunlit weather,” purple heather, Lovers-down-the-lane-together; The dope who draws this brand of throb To me is knotty in the knob. But hail—thrice hail—the golden spring Which ushers in the spitball “fling;” The echo of the three-base “bing,” Which makes the Bugland welkin ring; The shout across the Great Divide Of “Slide, you bonehead lobster, slide!” The mighty roar that sings the score, The chance to lap the umpire’s gore; T’ell with your mocking bird’s spring call— Give me the melody, “Play ball.”