Base-Ball Ballads/The Bug's View-Point
THE BUG'S VIEW-POINT.
Beyond the sleet, across the snowsHe did not see the budding roseThat waved its crimson welcome toAn earth of green, a sky of blue,Nor yet the daffy daffodilsThat crowned the valleys and the hills;The apple blossoms, pink and white,That drifted into lanes of light;He did not hear the bluebird singNor yet the south wind whisperingIn murmur through the maple treesThat swayed and slanted to the breezeAnd harbored on each bending limbThe 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 blueHeave boldly into public view,And in a fog-horn tenor callTo thousands: "Batter up—play ball!"He saw a tall guy nod and beckAnd then cut one around the neck,While in a trance the slugger thereInanely paddled at the air;He saw the shortstop leave his placeAnd flag one back of second baseAnd wing it swiftly on aheadTo where the dashing runner sped; He saw, before his flashing eye,The keen outfielder fenceward fly,And with a mighty effort pullThe 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 jeersLike 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 glenThe Bugland Chorus rang again—For he, like every other thing,Had drawn his dream of golden spring.