BASEBALL BARDS "ON DECK."

There's a glad old-fashioned feeling stealing over me once more; I forget that I'm gray-headed and am verging on threescore; There are many weighty matters that my earnest care should claim— But come, old man, let's knock off and go out and see the game. Let's get a bag of peanuts, and be boys again and shout For the men who lam the leather and who line three-baggers out; Let's go out and root and holler, and forget that we have cares, And that still the world has markets which are worked by bulls and bears. Every year or two they tell us that baseball is out of date; But each spring it's back in fashion when they line up at the plate, When the good old, glad old feeling comes again to file its claim— When a man can turn from trouble and go out and see the game. I can feel the warm blood rushing through my veins again—hooray! See those slender pennants waving? Hear the umpire calling "Play!" Yah, you bluffer—no, you didn't—aw, say, umpire, that's a shame! What? Two strikes? Come off, you robber! Well, you're rotten all the same! Oh, if we'd a man like Anson or Dan Brouthers used to be, To hold down that first bag—say, what a corker that was! Gee! Go it! Slide, you chump—you've got to—never touched him! Yip! Hurrah! Say, that boy's a wonder—hold it! Ah, the dub, they've caught him—pshaw! Ever see John Ward as short-stop? There's the boy that had the head! Why, if we had him out yonder he would scare those fellows dead! And Mike Kelly—Whee-e-e! A beauty! Home run, sure as Brown's my name! Downed 'em nine to eight, by golly! Wasn't it a corkin' game? Chicago Record-Herald.

Just see him stride from bench to plate— The boy who keeps the bats; With truly a majestic gait— The boy who keeps the bats. His clothes are old, his feet are bare, His face unwashed, unkempt his hair, He's still in pride a millionaire— The boy who keeps the bats. A most important man is he— The boy who keeps the bats; Possessed of great activity— The boy who keeps the bats. He knows each player by his name, His age, his weight, from whence he came, And just how long he's played the game— The boy who keeps the bats. He'll lug ten sticks and laugh with glee— The boy who keeps the bats. "De gang" regards with jealousy The boy who keeps the bats. Although he's not employed for pay, He "gets inside to see 'em play," Which beats his former knot-hole way— The boy who keeps the bats. He knows each player's stick, you bet— The boy who keeps the bats. 'Twould break his heart should he forget— The boy who keeps the bats. Whene'er a ball is knocked away, He throws them one with which to play, He's there for business ev'ry day— The boy who keeps the bats. He yells when worthy work is done— The boy who keeps the bats. He "hollers" after ev'ry run— The boy who keeps the bats. He's overjoyed at victory, And tells the other kids how "we" Won out as easily as could be— The boy who keeps the bats! St. Joseph News.

It looked extremely rocky for the Mudville nine that day; The score stood two to four, with but an inning left to play. So, when Cooney died at second, and Burrows did the same, A pallor wreathed the features of the patrons of the game. A straggling few got up to go, leaving there the rest, With that hope which springs eternal within the human breast, For they thought: "If only Casey could get a whack at that," They'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat. But Flynn preceded Casey, and likewise so did Blake, And the former was a puddin', and the latter was a fake, So on that stricken multitude a deathlike silence sat, For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat. But Flynn let drive a "single," to the wonderment of all, And the much-despised Blakey "tore the cover off the ball." And when the dust had lifted, and they saw what had occurred, There was Blakey safe at second, and Flynn a-huggin' third. Then, from the gladdened multitude went up a joyous yell, It rumbled in the mountain-tops, it rattled in the dell; It struck upon the hillside and rebounded on the flat; For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat. There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place; There was pride in Casey's bearing, and a smile on Casey's face. And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat, No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat. Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt, Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt; Then while the New York pitcher ground the ball into his hip, Defiance gleamed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip. And now the leather-covered sphere came hurling through the air, And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there. Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped— "That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said. From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar, Like the beating of storm waves on a stern and distant shore. "Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted some one on the stand. And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised a hand. With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone; He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on: He signaled to Sir Timothy, once more the spheroid flew; But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two." "Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!" But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed. They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain, And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again. The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate; He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate. And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go, And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow. Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright; The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light. And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout: But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.