PS 3525 m& iili Class JESjl5:^g- TO COPyRIGHT DEPOSIT. r THE POEMS OF RALPH E. McMILLIN /; '^aJUU A magic "harvest home" — A thousand ships of lordly size Toss up the silver foam. A *' harvest home" of armored might, Arrayed in splendor grand It sweeps ahead to join the fight And saves a stricken land. One youth, one ship, one boyhood dream, One impulse living yet! And now — a sea of arms a-gleam — Our "hosts of Lafayette." [ 19 ] WHAT IS THE LIBERTY LOAN? It 'S forts and it 's ships and it 's shining guns. It's squadrons that sweep the sea. It's all of the circling band of steel that shall keep all the home shores free. It's grub and it's warmth for the sailor lad, far out on the wintry foam — for the brave jack tar, as he fights afar, it's the good old "Money from Home.'* WHAT IS THE LIBERTY LOAN? IT'S rifle and helm and it's bayonet, it's shovel and shard and shell, for the soldier boy in the olive drab, out there on the edge of hell. It's the soaring wings of the whirring planes that battle on high alone. For the lad who is daring "Over There," it's the good old "Money from Home." WHAT IS THE LIBERTY LOAN? IT'S succor and Hfe for a bleeding world. It's the glimmer of Peace at dawn. It's the strength of a mighty arm to strike. It's the gleam of a great sword, drawn; but, more than all, it's a pledge of love to the lads whom we call "Our Own," to the boys on land, afloat, on high, it's the good old "Money from Home." [ 20 1 SILVER BILLOWS Out of the old cracked pitcher, Out of the old wool sock, From the depths of the feather mattress And the dark nook behind the clock, New England dollars are pouring As they clang and tinkle and ring In the stream of the nation's off 'ring — And this is the song they sing — Clink, dinky clink , Tinkle, tinkle, clink, Roll on, oh, silver billows, On your shining bosom wide Bearing all our precious legions Onward to the battle tide, Standard bearer, soldier, sailor. All our host of fighting men; Bear them safely, silver billows, ^'Over there'' and home again. Out of the vaults wealth laden, Out of the well-filled tills. From the Croesus palaces lying In the rear of the great bronze grills. New England dollars are pouring As they clang and tinkle and ring In the stream of the nation's off 'ring — And this is the song they sing — [ 21 ] Clink, clink t clink, Tinkle, tinkle, clink, Roll on, oh, silver billows, ^ On your shining bosom wide Bearing all our precious legions Onward to the battle tide. Standard bearer, soldier, sailor, All our host of fighting men; Bear them safely, silver billows, ^^Over there" and back again. I 22 1 LIGHTLESS (Dedicated by one who frets at home to a soldier "Over There" who has lost his sight for us and for democracy.) 1 MISS the dancing lights of town, Their clustered cheer, Complaining at the lamp, turned down. The dim streets, drear. The White Way darkened and its garish sights Eclipsed and sobered on the "Lightless Nights." He never more will see the sun, The sheen of trees, Or count the ripples, one by one, Of shimmering seas — But always groping on uncertain ways Smiles, uncomplaining, on his Lightless Days. [ 23 ] LINCOLN'S BIRTHDAY (The following poem was based on this thought from Lincoln's Gettysburg Address: "That we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain.") And these new windrows of the dead Across new fields encrimsoned blown, To what high purpose have they bled Upon the altar of a throne? Each mound the heart throb of a King, Each soldier's gasp of fevered breath; The measure Time ordains to bring An age of monarchs nearer death. To us who watch the lines dissolve And melt amid the leaden rain ; Again there comes HIS high resolve, **God grant they shall not die in vain." [ 24 ] '6i TO '17 Comrade, let me clasp your hand! Now the battle gods are calling And the bugle notes are falling Sweet and clear across the land ; Though this body halts with pain, In my heart I hear them too, — Comrade, I shall march with you In a world grown young again. Comrade, I have heard the hiss Of the red Death's whispered greeting, Known the steely shock of meeting In the roar of times like this ; Though my step be lame and slow, In my heart I '11 charge with you. Side by side we '11 fight — we two — I, in dreams of long ago. Comrade mine of 'Seventeen, Trail the battle gods to glory. Write your chapter of the Story On a new page, clear and clean; Underneath the lurid sun Of the battle lines — with you I shall fight and conquer, too, I, in dreams of 'Sixty-one. [ 25 1 CAN WE FACE HIM? (If the Liberty Loan Fails) Somewhere along the battle Ilne A mud-grimed soldier dares his part And wears above a loyal heart A starry flag he holds divine. By night, by day, though Death may ride Beside him in the fearful hail, He bravely breasts the doom-shot tide And breathes **My Country" in his pride ■ How can we face him if we fail? Though other banners wave above And other lands the fight may share He holds his own beyond compare And glories in his country love. To fight for her alone, to die If need be, that she may prevail — A vision lights his weary eye. The vision of her flag on high — How can we face him if we fail? What have we then that we can give So precious in this great world strife, That we can balance it with life. To let him die that we may live? To urge him on to heed the call. To pray his strength may us avail, To cheer him through the smoky pall And giving nothing, ask his all? — How can we face him if we fail? [ 26 ] OUR MESSAGE TO BELGIUM August, 1914-1917 Once again the August sunshine Gleams upon the harvest there, Once again war's crimson glory Flashes on the Summer air; All along that awful pathway, Inland from the North Sea's foam, Through the blood-red battle breakers. We shall lead you home. Now the foes* gray tide receding Leaves its mark upon the land. Blackened home and ravished city, Cratered field and scarlet sand. Back along the fringe of carnage, Where the hosts of death still roam Fearing nothing, pressing onward. We shall lead you home. Home again to peaceful rivers By your heroes' life-blood dyed. Home again new fires to kindle On a quiet country side, Back along your path of valor. O'er the weirdly 'richened loam. With our star-lit flag above you. We shall lead you home. [ 27 ] THE FLAG'S BIRTHDAY P OREVER new, despite its ancient story, Forever young, through all its hallowed years, Forever mighty in its breeze-swept glory, Forever smiling through a Nation's tears: Flag of all flags — its brave and tender meaning Shines in each deep and battle-honored scar, Pure as the heavens its flowing folds are screening, Bright as each glowing flame-refulgent star. Forever true, in stanch and knightly beauty, Forever free, to all the world flung wide, Forever bravest in the fight of duty. Forever proud, though taunting foes deride. Flag of all flags — above, its rippled beaming, Blazing on high in freedom's purest ray. Waves o'er the Sword, unsheathed, with vict'ry gleaming, War-tossed and love-blessed on its Natal Day. [ 28 ] THE GOOD OLD PRICES OOMETIMES the price of things goes up and up and up, And all that life appears to hold is dregs within the cup. I find a solace sweet and sure, no matter then how sick My heart may be, in looking through my boy^s arithmetic. With eager eye I turn again the well-thumbed pages o'er To find he does the problems that I did in days of yore. "If Mr. Smith had eighteen bucks," demands a knotty one, "How much good coal could Smithy buy at just four bucks per ton?" And when the rush of bills and such have nicked me in the neck, I find the one that runs like this: "At twenty cents a peck. How many spuds, in bushels, please, were sent to Mr. Jones, Who took into the grocery store exactly seven bones?" 129 ] ^'When beans are just six cents a quart — and beef ten cents a pound/' I gloat again upon these facts until my head goes round, And once again I 'm wafted back into my boyhood days And see the Golden Age again right through the High Cost haze. For though these other things may change and rise through all the years Until the thought of buying food brings only bitter tears, There's one place that the good old days just hang around and stick — They have n't boosted prices in the kid's arithmetic. [ 30 ] OCCASIONAL POEMS ' MY FLAG Other flags have dipped in blood, Youth has kissed their folds and died, While, above the battle flood, Watched the women tender-eyed ; Other flags, snatched to the skies, Christened in the crimson wine. Other flags — before my eyes Floats but one, O Flag of Mine. Youth with faith, serene and sweet As the love a baby holds, Marching on with steadfast feet. Underneath their rippling folds, Holding them as things apart Set in manhood's inmost shrine, Other flags — within my heart Reigns but one, O Flag of Mine. Flag of Mine, with stripe and star. Glorified, unsullied, pure, Best beloved of all you are, On the heights, alone, secure; Come what may of peace or strife Never shall your folds entwine Other flags — in death or life, One, alone, O Flag of Mine. ^ [ 33 ] THE YOUNG MEN Gettysburg, 1863-1913 We were the Young Men then — Flower of the patient Northland, Flower of the fiery Southland, We were the Young Men then — Looking on death with a laugh in the Chance of the leaden Gamble, Breathing the smoke of the Fight and the reek of the Angle's shamble, Gray in lines swept by the hail from the hills and broken asunder. Blue in the ranks standing fast and stanch, there in the Ridge's thunder — We were the Young Men then — Flower of the North, my comrade, Flower of the South, my comrade — We were the Young Men then. We were the Young Men then — Flower of our cherished Homeland, Flower of our fathers' Homeland, — We were the Young Men then. Swifty the years file by with the measured tread of the Ages, We who could laugh in the face of Death, faltering gray-haired Sages, [ 34 ] March to the Call again, gaze o'er the grim, hal- low'd field and ponder. What all our Fifty Years have gained, they lost, 'neath the white stones yonder — We were the Young Men then — Comrade, beneath the lilies, Foeman, beneath the lilies, We were the Young Men then. [ 35 ] CHUCKING A REPROBATE Farewell to 19 14 Our hands are on your collar, no use to grip your chair; No use to plead with us to mark your white and snowy hair; For we know your bloody record now beyond all shade of doubt, And though the night be cold and drear we 're going to throw you out. For you ^ve been a cold, hold year With your swords and guns and battles; You ^ve been a bold, cold year With your death gurgles and rattles. We HI heave you on the highway, We will pitch you through the door^ Out upon the old, cold by-way Of the bad years gone before. When first you came among us all your manners were quite mild, You tripped the flowery hills of spring as harmless as a child; But as your head grew gray and wise beneath the summer suns, You spoke in grim, gruff monotones as of a million guns. [ 36 ] For you^ve been a tough, rough year^ And your eyes are shot and bleary; You've been a rough , tough year, With your mutter in gs we Ve weary. We 've stood your bluff and bluster, Now it '5 turn and turn about; We We proceeding without fluster, And weWe going to turn you out. You 're a hoary headed reprobate who 's worn a wel- come bare, Your beard is spiked with bayonets and gunsmoke wreathes your hair; Now while you sit and grin and gloat o'er suffering mortals' tears, We 're going to heave you on your head out with the old bad years. For you *ve been a bad, mad year. And your gnarled old hands are gory; You 've been a mad, bad year. With your tale of blood and glory. Our left hand 's on your collar. Our right 's upon your pants; You can yell and scream and holler. But you have nH got a chance. [ 37 ] THE SPIRIT OF VICTORY HE'S only ten and his tousled head Echoes the gold of the April sun — Gripping them both 'til he goes to bed, His baseball bat and his trusty gun. He marches along with sturdy stride Over the meadows and through the street, Ready for all that may betide The sternest foe that his path may meet. Strife of the diamond, war's grim work Falling alike to his sunburned hand, His not the heart of a slacker-shirk, Leading to battle his trusty band. Give us the heart of that ten-year-old, Lighter the tasks that must soon be done - The ready strength of those hands that hold The baseball bat and the trusty gun. [38] THE FOOTBALL PLAYER i OUR autumn armor girds you 'round From cleated shoon to leathern helm, Your thund'ring rushes scar the ground 'Twixt lime-lined borders of your realm ; 'Gainst wearing rack, For sharp attack, Swift forrays, 'neath the spheroids flight - 'Gainst jarring knock And brushing shock You stand a well-accoutred knight. Your pliant sinews scorn the strain Of wind-swift tackles* swooping clasp; Your shoulders carve the yawning lane, Your high knees tear the frantic grasp; Or waiting low The rushing foe. Your steel arms tighten, left on right; Torn free away Or sore at bay You roam a strong and sturdy knight. Revered tradition holds you true And blazes all your rugged way, As did the heart the Douglas threw Into the turmoil of the fray; [ 39 ] And striking square And hard and fair You cleave your way with main and might; Nor yield an inch Nor foul nor flinch But strive as best becomes a knight. [40] IF I WERE — If I were Robert Chambers — well I '11 bet I 'd write the stuff to sell ; I 'd write of men in evening dress, And ladies in a little less — Until the public cried, *'Gee whizz, How warm that stuff of Chambers' is." If I were F. P. A., I wot I 'd translate Latin with a trot And shoot that fluff for days and days In ultra-modern paraphrase, Until the high-brow bunch would say, "Some clever bloke, that F. P. A." If I were Monty Glass — say, kid, I guess I could n't sling the Yidd — I 'd write of ''bibble" and of ''ish," Pfannkucken and gefullte-fische, ** Believe me, Mawruss," you would cry, *'He's got it class, that writer guy." If I were only Bernard Shaw, My stuff at times would be quite raw; But I, of course, would have to pan The foibles of my fellow man, And when the prudent felt the sting They'd sneer, ''This Shaw knows everything. [ 41 ] If I were only Teddy R. I 'd box and wrestle, ride and spar, And sign my bold, historic name To crates and crates of tropic game ; My gentle readers would declare, **Our Teddy knows, for he was there." In fact, I often stop to think. If I were any other gink Besides the author of this col — Compiler of this fol-de-rol — How nice 't would be to overhear — "He grabs off fifty thou per year." [ 42 ] SNOW 1 KNOW a bleak unlovely plain, A dismal stretch of weed and sand, Where Desolation's horrors reign, Severe and grim on every hand. The shrill winds whistled through the night; The great drifts eddied here and there And buried deep and out of sight My well- trimmed walks and gardens fair. And now I look across the snows — A sea of sparkling diadems, A garden white, wherein there glows A myriad of precious gems. The dreary plain must stretch away Beyond the borders of my plot, And yet it shimmers back to-day As dazzling white as Camelot. There, where the drifts in billows swell. And border line with border blends, I know and yet I cannot tell Where waste begins and garden ends. And so I wot, were we to see Some bleak unlovely lives we know Through eyes of perfect charity Our careful border lines would go — The Thee and Me and Me and Thee Quite buried as in dazzling snow. [ 43 1 A CITY WATCHER U PON the chasms of the town The winter twilight closes in, The ev'ning draws her mantle down Upon the dusty, noisy din ; I press my face against the glass And peer above the buildings high To where the moon-tipped cloudlets pass Across my strip of starry sky. A little strip of star and cloud — It stretches high above the street, So far above the jostling crowd And noisy tread of rushing feet, So far away from where I peer Out through my smudgy window-pane; And yet, I fancy, there I hear The bells and see the reindeer train. And so I watch there every night When all about the room is still ; Before they bring the supper light; I lean my elbows on the sill, And watch the racing cloudlets go — The reindeer cloudlets that I see, And wonder if St. Nick will know The boy who 's looking up is me. [ 44 ] A TOAST TO THE MANY I OU have drunk to the line of your heroes That sprang when the world began ; You have raised to its kingly station The name of the Man-who-can ; You have crowned him with bay and laurel, You have echoed the ancient boast, And now while the wine is with us I '11 pledge you another toast. You have drunk to the feet that are fleetest, The might of a strong right arm, To the courage that answers boldly The shock of the quick alarm ; And so ever your glasses clinking, You have shouted a Victor's name And sung in your ringing measures The tale of a Winner's fame. I would pledge you the wondrous visions The blind man's eyes must see; I would drink to the deaf man's fancy Of a bird's song, ringing free. To the dream of a crippled soldier With his flag-love never dim. To the runner's heart that beats to The limp of a withered limb. [45 ] I would pledge you the hands that fumble, The brain that is dull and slow ; I would drink to old age that 's dreaming The dreams that youth should know. To the few? Of course, if you pledge them Who nestle in Fortune's lap; To the thousands, too, who are bearing The weight of the Handicap. You have drunk to the line of your heroes That sprang when the world began. To the nerve and brawn and the muscle, And the fame of the Man-who-can. But now while your cheers are loudest, And loudest the Victor's chant, I would pledge you in deeper earnest A health to the Man-who-can't. [46 ] THE MASTER DRIVER xdlS lash is on our shoulders, his taunts are in our ears; He goads us when we stumble, he plies his whip and jeers. Oh, Driver, Master Driver, pause ere it is too late, Lest we shall turn and show thee the fury of our hate. Rock strewn, the course that stretches across the noonday heat, Our backs are sore with striving and torn and scarred our feet. Oh, Driver, Master Driver, withhold the lash ye must! Lest we shall wrest it from thee and fling it in the dust. Beside the stony pathway we see the shady bowers, Sweet rest for pain-racked bodies amid the pleasant flowers. Oh, Driver, Master Driver, a moment would we stop ; A moment only, Master, this boon or else we drop. And now the course lies upward o'er gloomy ledge and crag. And still the whip is on us, he curses when we lag. Oh, Driver, Master Driver, the hilltop rises high. Fain we would loose our burden and lie down here to die. [47] A moment, super-human; the hot tears dim our eyes! And then, oh, dream and glory! we reach and clutch the prize. Oh, Driver, Master Driver, beneath whose lash we've bled. We bow the knee before thee, we kiss the ground you tread. 148] AND THEN WHAT? JVlOULDERS of novels and builders of books, Learn'd literati so mighty, Lords of the pens that run on like the brooks, Fanciful geniuses flighty — Over the planet in devious ways, Weave ye your wonderful dream plots — Hollow your measure of silver and praise Til ye have met the '' And-Then-Whats." The little boy was very poor, For folks and home he had not. And so upon a lonely moor He tended sheep — (Chorus) ''And Then What?" Well, one day while he watched the sheep That grazed across the great lot, Beneath a tree he fell asleep. Yes, quite asleep — (Chorus) ''And Then What?" Well, while he slept a giant came With bludgeon, sword, and top-knot; He shook the boy and called his name And woke him up — (Chorus) "And Then What?" [49] Writers of volumes and tellers of tales, Authors of treatise and story, Delvers in history, lifters of veils, Winners of gold and of glory, Fight ye your battles for name and for place, Slaves of the lamp and the ink-pot. Where shall ye win that which lights up that face Or breathes in that whispered ''And Then What?" [50] A DADDY TO HIS REAL VALENTINE JVl AID of chubby hands so tender, Maid of curls of sunHt splendor, Maid of laughing lips and eyes, Playful eyes with mischief teeming, Trustful eyes with true love beaming. Eyes of wonder, fairy wise — When I hear your footsteps patter, Down the hall, a tiny clatter, Then this bounding heart of mine. With a measured throbbing's beating. Just a wistful, questioned greeting — Maid of sunny smiles divine, **Are n't you Daddy's Valentine?" [51 ] THAT BOY JriE stands before me as I write; I look into his fearless eyes, Eyes that are clear and calm and bright, Filled with the solemn trust I prize — Sturdy and straight, he is, of limb. Of shoulders square and lithe of frame — I wonder what I bring to him Of strength and power to Play the Game, For though we battle in the sun, On Big League field or Bush League lot; The mighty Games we might have won, The Strike-out's sting, the Error's blot, All scrawled across the Scorer's sheet Obscure the things for which we strive — A record sad of stumbling feet To place before a boy of five. And yet, e'er in the Final Score We write our Totals line by line. The things we 've learned may count us more Than those we 've gained by margin fine. And where we 've Booted every Chance And Swung too late or Hurled too wide — Our faults may teach him at a glance And he may Win where we 've but Tried. [52] THANKSGIVING EXILES In the room of mocking laughter, Empty song and hollow jest, 'Mid the ghosts of fine beginnings. Long dead hope and wearied zest — On the smoke wisps, lazy-lying. In the ghastly, tinted glow. Blazes forth again the Vision — Home, Sweet Home, of long ago. Years that cloud the clearer reason, Years that dry the better tears, Life that blunts the finer feelings, Life that laughs at hopes and fears — All of this in mocking revel Drowns the self-accusing cry. Choking back the dearer mem'ries With the bitter question, "Why?" All around the ghostly laughter. Careworn, careless, ribald play — Wraiths of countless old Thanksgivings Rising in the weary way — Thankful we for twisted courses? Thankful we for bruise and blow? Nay, alone we hold the Vision — Giving thanks for Long Ago. [53] THE TROUT BROOK O PLASHING on the cold smooth stones In mysterious undertones; Singing in the brush that hedges Pools and rills and little ledges; Roaring in the cool ravine, Eddying in a change of scene, Through the half-ploughed meadow land ; Dancing gaily on the sand. Echoing in woods again. Like the swishing of the rain; Gurgling, singing, dancing, splashing, Onward, downward ever dashing, Now it 's murmuring almost sadly, Now it's gurgling onward gladly And it *s song that 's ever changing In a thousand keys a-ranging Needs but one small voice to break it, One swift monotone to make it Sweeter than the sweetest bells With the music that it tells, As you hear the tick-tick-ticking Of your trusty reel, whose clicking Speaks another silent battle In the roaring and the rattle Of the ever-singing brook Till you Ve "got him" safely, surely, ''on the hook." [ 54] TO GOLF — A TOAST Born by the Highland heather, Nurtured in mountain dew, Careless of wind or of weather, Hardy and brave and true, Forever waiting and ready, With a charm that 's always the same — A health — every hand now steady — A health to the Grand Old Game. To the outward journey o'er hill and vale, Where the fair green stretches straight ahead ; To the drive that sings over dune and dale And the mashie shot when the ball drops dead ; To the brassie lies we all have had ; To the hazards we 've cleared and the ones we Ve found ; To the game we've played when our luck was bad. To the records we break when our luck is sound. To the homeward journey in sunset glow. To the greens we have never tried nor seen, To the course that few of us really know. To the wish that our eyes may prove as keen As they were in the battles we used to fight When the ball shot out from our iron's face Like a bullet straight on its onward flight. To the form we '11 lose with grudging grace. [55] To the nineteenth green — let your glasses clink Wherever it is, by mountain or sea. Let us take it clean and the health we drink Let it echo out in the night air free, Like a slogan that startles the highland hills, Or the magic sound of a mighty name. A health — a health with a thousand thrills, A health, one and all to the Grand Old Game. Born where the salt winds whistle The heathered hills among, In the far-off land of the thistle, It's old, but it's ever young. So drink it — ye duffers — drink it, A toast to its mighty name, Fore ! Now as our glasses clink it, A health to the Grand Old Game. [56] TO THE SOLDIERS OF FIFTY YEARS AGO 1863 A HURRIED march o'er the trodden meadows, Under the trees torn bare in the shrapnel's rain; Over the sod crushed down by the TrampHng Legions, Into the scorching Breath of Death again. On where the smoke clouds ebb and eddy, Rising and falling in grim design ; Marking across the hail-swept valley, A Gray Foe's far-flung Skirmish Line. 1913 A halting march by the silent river; Under the trees, full blown in their spring array, Over the sod untracked by the Peaceful Legions, Sweet with the soft warm Breath of Life and May — On with the ranks forever closing. On where the rose and laurel entwine, Facing now o'er the still stream's border A Gray Foe's hidden Skirmish Line. [57] BASEBALL POEMS TO TIMOTHY H. MURNANE Jr ACK up his bats, pick up his glove, For him the Game is done ; At last the stars peep out above The setting of the sun. Once more the field, serene at night, Is still, and hushed the shout. The Presence chokes us as we write Just this: *'He ran it out." Above the plate Time held the ball : He turned the last gray bag With stride that weakened not at all. His spirit did not lag, But proudly Homeward bound he sped, Nor feared the final rout. High flung at last the silver'd head, Unbowed *'he ran it out." [61 1 LOOKING BACKWARD AND FORWARD I 1 HE great stand's massive horseshoe towers And casts its shadow o'er the field, The clean-cut base paths carve the sward, An emerald diamond on a shield; Across the glossy sheen — The verdant stretching green — Lazy, the bleachers rise, Gaunt frames against the skies. Daily I labor here, Labor to cry and cheer, Closing my eyes, look back Along the winding track. And see, dim set there in the year's gray haze. The tree-fringed diamond of my boyhood days. 2 The maple trees that lined the road, The meadow stretching to the stream ; The deep worn sunken pitcher's box. Each measured white stone base a-gleam, Planted at ev'ry turn, Your bare, bruised feet to burn ; There in the evening's cool Respite from field or school, Sacred to Saturday's Scroll of tremendous frays; There where the hills looked down, Guarding the nestling town. First came the Vision, pointing out the way. The dream of Big League diamonds far away. [62] SOME WORLD — AT TIMES IT'S a great little world, bo. Ain't it that? With its mornin's so bright and its evenin's so cool An' y' got all yer troubles jus' pinned to th' mat, So you kind o' forget that it ever was crool. It's a great little world, pal, take it from me. An' y' feel jus' like jumpin' aroun' like a kitten When yer poundin' the ball fer aroun' three-thirty- three. It 's a great little world — when yer hittin'. It's a great little game, bo. Ain't it that? With its ups an' its downs an' its pinches an' such When y' knows that y' got that ol' blow in yer bat An' y' don't care if pitchers has little er much. It's a great little world, pal, y' can believe. When yer gettin' a-hold till the fences are sphttin* When y' got that ol' wallop jus' hid up yer sleeve. It's a great little world — when yer hittin'. It's a gloomy ol' world, bo. Ain't it that? When yer swingin' so hearty with never a hit, When th' pitcher 's jus' flingin' 'em up like a gat An' wotever y' meet goes kerplunk in a mitt; It's a great little world, though all th' way roun'. Full o' bright happy hours that are fleetin' and flit- tin' When yer knockin' yer enemies off 'n th' moun'. It 's a great little world — when yer hittin'. [63] It's a gloomy ol' world, bo, gloomy and gray, When yer pluggin' along in a half-hearted way, When y' knows y' ain't got yer ol' min' on yer knittin' — But It's a great little world — when yer hittin'. [ 64] *'FER TO ADMIRE" (A Spring Fever Idyl) (A. to R. K. once more) 1 H' bleacher crowd jes* sets an' smiles An' stretches, lazy as kin be; While roun' th' field fer miles an' miles It 's run an' sweat an* work fer me. M' legs is tired, m' arm is lame, I guess I 'm done fer good an' all; An' 'mid the chatter of the game, ^ Th' empire drones, "Come on, play ball.'* Fer to admire an' fer to see, Fer to git panned on ev^ry side — This game it ain't no good to we, But I can't quit it if I tried 1 I sees th' ladies in the stan's, All decked in red an' green an' blue. I lamps th' moguls shakin' ban's A-smokin' an' a-jokin' too. ! An' then m' cap down on m' eyes I pulls an' blinks up at th' sun, An' hears th' far-off cheerin' rise An' wishes that th' game was done. Dere 's bankers and dere 's lawyers there An' bus'ness guys an' doctors too. All drinkin' in the warm spring air — They ain't got nawthin' else to do. [ 65 ] An' when I thinks th' cinch they got, Jes' watchin' me an' all m' pals All chasin' roun' a bloomin' lot, Th' old blue feelin' in me swells. I wish I had a little shop, Er drove a team er sailed a ship, Instid of pluggin' till I drop An' takin' all th' boss's lip; Dere's nawthin' else but hit an' run An' slide th' skin all off yer gams, An' makin' out it 's so much fun, Jes' like a bunch of blasted lambs. Fer to admire an' fer to see^ Fer to git panned on euWy side — This game it ainH no good to we, But I canH quit it if I tried! [66 1 THE FLINGING WHIP Ages and ages ago, when the tunes of the Pipes of Pan Echoed afar and across the breadth of a shaggy world, When o'er the wooded hills the nimble cave men ran. Sought out their mortal foes and their flint-tipped spear shafts hurled — Then by the evening fires the Bards of the Caverns sang — And the tales of the Mighty Men echoed on every lip Till the shadowy depths of the forest rang With the old, old song of the Flinging Whip. Arm that is steady ^ arm that is true^ Backed by a heart that is unafraid; Arm that is tireless the long fight through — Symbol of power since the world was made. Spear tips and lance heads of old found in the muddy Nile, Boomerangs, bolos and slings borne from the jungle wild. Brought o'er the Seven Seas from some far-off sunny Isle — Javelins long, long ago, the toys of some Spartan child — [67] E'en from the frozen North and its dreary stretches, where In the depths of the lonely seas the sliding glaciers dip And the Eskimo hunts for the Polar Bear — Comes the old, old song of the Flinging Whip. Arm that is steady, arm that is true, Arm that is sure and sturdy and sound. Arm that will last nine innings through — Symbol of power the world around. [68] THE OLD TRAINER 1 SITS alone upon the bench An' leans my elbows on my knees An' looks away across the field Far to its fringe of buddin' trees. An' all around me, bare of limb, An' bare of arm, an' far an' near, I sees my boys at work agin Jus' as I have these twenty year. For Life is like the great wide field Where we work and toil and run our race^ • Where the strong ones win and the weak ones yield And we sweat in the heat of the driving pace, I sees the sprinter's nervous stride. His high-flung knees, his fighting face ; The distance runner's easy swing, The hurdler's graceful loping pace. An' up an' down the cinder path The awkward lurch, the faultless style, An' searches out the heart to stand The cruel flash of the quarter mile. Yes, Life is a quarter-mile^ s fearful grind, A scramble hard from the starting gun. With devil a chance if you lag behind, An' a heart that bursts when the race is done. [69] I Ve seen them come these twenty year, An' seen them win or lose and go ; I 've seen the young ones, fast and strong, An' watched the old ones getting slow. An' some that won, I 've found it hard To shake their hand and praise their part, An' some have lost, but losing still Have found th' soft place in my heart. For Life goes like a long cross-country run^ An'' we sets and watches it day by day, While the runners, passing us one by one^ Race over the hills and jar away, I mind the first spiked shoes I wore When I was no thin' but a lad, 'T is more than thirty years ago ; Yet all the joys I ever had Began with them, and now I think The day I won my first great race How like these boys of mine I was — Yet see these wrinkles in my face. For Life is a race, and we run it welly Or we lag behind and we pant and blow; Yet sooner or later we hear the bell That tells us we ^ve only one lap to go. [70] THE BOY AND THE DREAM Waif of the reeking streets, dust- spattered, thin, With cap aslant upon brave, wistful eyes, And piping voice that rings above the din Its warning call against the law's surprise; Knight of the great Black Glove so deftly turned, Master so soon of sweeping curve and speed — Tell us with what great Dream your soul has burned, To what Far Goal your Hopes and Visions lead. Yet, watching, do we note the Johnson pose. Two ragged arms stretched high, a bosom swelled. Then quickly shifting to a tense repose ; Two grime-stained hands against your jacket held — And then the hurl, the step, the follow through: Keen, anxious eyes that peer along the flight, A glimpse of Walsh, of Wood and Matty too, All blending in the swift descending right. Waif of the dusty streets, we know your Dream — Across the years there sounds the Bleachers' roar. Across the years the Big League standards gleam. Across the years one Name and nothing more — ' Your name, my lad, sharp called above the Fray: Your Name, my boy, far roU'd o'er many Fields, Your Dream, we said, yet, plodding day by day, Our own until they lay us on our Shields. [71 ] THE CALL TO ARMS Von MACKENSEN was wounded, Von Hindenburg had gout, Von Kluck had stopped some shrapnel That nearly knocked him out. Across the Kaiser's visage Ran dark despair and dread, "It' s iiber alles mit uns, "We're ausgetrimmed," he said. "Oh, Rotterdam and Potsdam, Oh, Amsterdam," cursed he; **0h, dam these three von generals, They've fallen down on me." And sounds of kingly sobbing Went from that place heraus, Until a noble queried: "Is Wagner in the house?'* A smile lit up the Kaiser, He smote his knee and swore, "I'm dummer in der kopfe Why ain't I thought before? Bring hither mighty Honus From Pittsburgh o*er the sea! An Iron Cross for Honus, And three long ' hochs ' for me." , So from the fortressed harbor The submarines set out, To bring back Hans the mighty, And stem the allied rout. [72 J Gray-headed, grim, they found him, Rampaging like a Krupp, Still busting down the fences And busting ball games up. ''Come mit uns, Herr von Vogner, Der Kaiser says, come home ; Der submarine is waiting Beneath the ocean's foam.'* But Honus shook his noodle, And turned a careless ear And said, "Go tell der Kaiser Ich bin ein Pirate here." We're neutral here in Boston, Except upon the green, Upon the grassy diamond, Where deeds of might are seen. We give three hochs for Honus, We like his Pirate ways But it's Pittsburgh iiber alles As long as Honus stays. It's Pittsburgh iiber alles As long as Honus waves His many-bingled bludgeon Before our startled Braves. That 's why we hoch der Kaiser, And hope within our dome That when he needs good Pirates ' He '11 yank this Dutchman home. [73] THAT PENNANT r LING it out to the breeze, old scouts^ Break out each flutt'ring fold; The Flag of a Hundred Winning Bouts, The Sign of Hearts that told ; Hoist it above to the half-heard cheer, Flaunt it where Hope has dropped, Point where it spells your Title clear. The Right of the Guys that Copped. Sloughed in the ruckj Gripped by the luck, Beaten and hindered hut neuer stopped; The Ghost of a bragging Boast of a Flag Spurring you on where others might lag — And the Pride of the Guys that Copped. Fling it out and against the sky And let it ride the gale, A silken emblem floating high Above a thorny Trail ; Hold it aloft where all may see And read its legend bright, A flag that boasts as heraldry The Scroll of a Winning Fight. Battered and torn, Weary and worn. Holding the course through a darksome night Still being the flash of the sharp, swift dash. The start of the first real Forward smash; And the Punch of the Winning Fight. [74] Fling it out to the chilling gust And let it be a Boast, The Sign of a well-remembered Trust, The Badge of a Fighting Host ; And though you tread the harder way, And battle where Faith has flopped. Follow through all the bitter Fray, The Flag of the Guys that Copped. Sloughed in the ruck, Gripped by the luck, Battered and beaten but neuer stopped — Still holding the ways of the other days, The paths of Glory and pomp and praise With the Pride of the Guys that Copped. [ 75] "WOT'S D' SCORE" VjEE, but yer lookin' swell, mister, Drivin' yer great big car, An' settin' back like a bloomin' king A-smokin' a fat cigar! I bet you blowed, to-day, mister, A couple o' casers an' more ; But I ain't lookin' fer coin, mister, I'm askin' y' ''Wot's d' score?" Wot '5 d' score ? Wot '5 d' score ? F' kin shoot it goin'' by ; Wot 's d' score ? Wot 's d' score ? I kin grab it on J' fly. F' wonH have to slow a bit, mister — Say, y need nH look sore^ Cos I ainH beggin' a cent, mister; I'm askin' y' " Wot 's d' score?'' I asks me dad fer a two-bit piece, An' he gives me d' icy stare, An' I tries to borry it from me frien's. An' fer once me frien's ain't dere. I climbs in over the fence, mister. But d' cop puts up a roar; So dat 's why I 'm here in d' cold, mister. An' askin' y' *'Wot 's d' score?" Wot 's d' score ? Wot 's d' score 7 {I guess dis guy is deaf); Wot '5 d' score ? Wot 's d' score ? (Er he's stingy with his breaf). 176] / ain't askin' no dough, mister, F' ainH no call to get sore; I'm talkin' jes' as polite as I kin An' askin' y' '* Wot 's d' score? '* He's only a ragged youngster, And he's rather fresh, you say; Or perhaps your mind is busy Figuring out a play. But you Ve seen the game, and he has n't, And his heart is mighty sore, And it 's a brave little voice that pipes so loud ** Jes' askin' y' 'Wot's d' score? ' " Wot '5 d' score ? Wot 's d' score ? You hear it every day; Wot 's d' score ? Wot 's d' score ? A plaintive little lay. It does n't cost much for an answer^ A couple of breaths — no more; But they 're surely worth a smile apiece To the kid with his *' Wot 's d' score ? " [77] THE RETURN OF THE FAITHFUL IjACK here on the bleachers, bo, Settin' in the sun? Back here on the bleachers, pal, Waitin' for the fun? Hocked yer winter overcoat? Put yer job in soak? Don't see what 's a-makin' you Such a happy bloke. Zing! Zing! it '5 the same old smoke. With its hopj oV top, and the same oV dropf Did ye pipe where that fast one broke? Zowiel police! Say, did he hit that ball? Well, take it from me he did; He '5 the guy with the eye that they never get by^ The little, oV, murderin'' kid. Back here on the bleachers, bo, Settin' in the sun? Back here on the bleachers, pal, Waitin' for the fun? Shiver in the wind, ol' scout? Makes — no, never mind. Hot enough a-callin' down Umpires that is blind. Bing! bang! Get them outfield guys a hack, Fer it 's swing and bing, while they sizzle and sing^ And a lot of ^em never comes back — Come on! come on! keep a-comin^ in, oV boy! [78] That '5 the way to put on the steam; Fer it '5 pep, are y' hep, that 's give y yer rep^ You little, ol\ murderin' team. Back here on the bleachers, bo, Settin' in the sun? Back here on the bleachers, pal, Waitin' for the fun? Lemme shake yer mitt, ol* scout ; Jus' slip me yer fin ; Here 's the dreary days that 's gone — Good ones comin' in. [79] ABE POTASH ON SUMMER (Apologies to M. Glass) JjELIEVE me, I ain't making no kick, y' under- stand me; I ain't yet that kind of a low life bummer Which he is got to go round with an axe so handy And making it knocks that there ain't no summer And spoiling it trade, but there 's winters I 've seen it Which is got days that ain't so chilly As these here days when the Grass 's so green it Looks just like them suits we sell Sachs in Philly; And I goes by ball games and sits and hollers And makes it those sounds us rooters gives vent to — I 've shivered all spring and what is it f oilers? Sure it's summer, Mawruss, but where is it went to? [80 1 THE CHAMPION 1 HE Champion's way is the way of power, Of strength and courage and might, Of nerve that told in a crucial hour, Proved true in a gruelling fight ; And his bludgeon flashes above the fray As clean as a broadsword's blade, And he strides the field in the haughty way Of youth that is unafraid. PLAY BALL — Come, hoys, who^s the hatter? Hark! above the hleachers' roar Voices shrill and hoarse once more Hear the infieWs chatter — Winter sloth that flies again ^ Pennant hopes that rise again^ Summer in the skies again — Come, hoys, who '5 the hatter ? The Champion's way is a stony path. With no one to call him friend. And naught to meet but a loser's wrath Through the whole league and to end ; But he bides his time with a sturdy heart With the glint of steel in his eye. And he scorns the hand that would take his part And welcomes the battle cry. [81 ] PLAY BALL — Come, boys, who's the batter? On the paths from base to base. Kicked by flying feet that race, See the dust puffs spatter, Gleaming spikes that flash again, Crashing smash of ash again, Old-time foes that clash again — Come, boys, who^s the batter? The Champion's way is the way of pride And his goal is his title clear That his pennon bold on his spear may ride With never a blot or smear; Nor yet content with the combats won, Nor seeking rest from the fray, But leading the fight from sun to sun, A champion all the way. PLAY BALL — Come, boys, who '5 the batter ? Hark I above the bleachers^ roar Voices shrill and hoarse once more Hear the infield'' s chatter — Old-time friends that meet again, Throbbing hearts that beat again With the thrill that 's sweet again — Come, boys, who 's the batter ? [82] AN OLD STORY (More or less by Request of a New "Martyr") OUMMER girls there are a-plenty- Doubtless you could name me twenty Girls who motor, golf and sail their yachtlets over all the summer seas, Girls who sun themselves on beaches, Nut-brown maids, piazza peaches — Girls who grace old-fashioned hammocks under- neath th' old apple trees; But you do not know them all, Plain or pretty, short or tall. Till you Ve listened to them chatter at a Big League game of ball : — {Chorus) Why do they call him a short stop? What d' ye mean — a hit? Why do they have two umpires? Is that what you call a mitt? How old is that Mr. Speaker? Oh, is n't Carrigan cute? If that's what you call a regular Curve, then why do they say a shoot? What — did the catcher steal second? Does every one have to bat? I went to lots of the games last year — where do you s'pose I sat? [83] Is that man a regular player? Gracious he looks too small ! Say, which do you like the best, dancing or watch- ing a game of ball? We will not print the answers of the cross-examined man — Suffice to say he does explain as best becomes a fan ; For how can man lie better, as the wise Macaulay wrote, Than to the artless, winsome miss who thusly "gets his goat"? 184] ** HARVARD YALEWOCKY " (As it May Be) 1 WAS brickley and the edmahans Did mills and storer like a lion, All hardwick were the donovans And the rexhitchcock obrien. Beware the ketchamjones, my son, The bulldog jaws that snap and crack; Beware the hefflefinger, shun The bully johnnymack. He took his haughton sword in hand, Long time the hinkey foe he sought. Then rested he by a tedcoy tree And stood awhile in thought. And while a gallauer thought he did The ketchamjones, with eyes aflame, Pumpelleyed up the markle grid And cornished as he came. One, two, one, two, and through and through The haughton sword went snickersnack; He left it dead and with its head He percywendelled back. [85] And hast thou slain the ketchamjones? Come to my arms, my bettle boy; Oh, dudleydean, oh, dibblee day, He trumbuUed in his joy. *T was brickley and the edmahans Did mills and storer like a lion. All hardwick were the donovans And the rexhitchcock obrien. [86 1 SPRING KNOWS I OPRING knows the Dream of an Autumn Flag — So many games to win — so many games half won — Spring knows the Pep that shall never lag — A long, long Race ahead — a Race that is all but run — Swiftly the Summer garbles the Dope, The golden Vision rending, Twisting the Luck and dimming the Hope Long e'er the Season's ending; Till all that is left to a Fighting Clan, Through a Hopeless Half of a Schedule's span, Is the Right to do but the Best it Can With a Broken Dream, past mending. 2 Youth knows the Dream of a Distant Goal — So many deeds to do — so many Deeds half done — Youth writes its Fame in a Phantom scroll — A long, long Fight ahead — a fight that is all but won — Harshly the Swift Years Shatter the Dream, The Springtime Vision rending. Crushing the Hope and dimming the Gleam Long ere the Journey's ending; Till all that is left in the seething Fight Is the Tatter'd Banner — the Loser's Right To the Best He Can Do in the Fading Light Of his Broken Dream, past mending. CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS U . S . A