Dorlan's Home-Walk
The ninth; last half; the score was tied,
The Hour was big with Fate,
For Neal had fanned and Kling had flied
When Dorlan toed the plate.
And every rooter drew a breath
And rose from where he sat,
For Weal or Woe, or Life or Death
Now hung on Dorlan's bat.
The Pitcher scowled; the Pitcher flung
An inshoot, swift and queer;
But Dorlan whirled his wagon-tongue
And smote the leathern sphere.
He smote the ball with might and main,
He drove it long and low,
And firstward like a railway train
He sped to beat the throw.
He reached first base with time to spare
(The throw went high and wide),
But what a tumult rent the air
When " Safe! " the Umpire cried.
" What! " shrieked the Pitcher, lean and tall,
" What! " roared the Catcher stout,
" Wha-at! " yelled the Basemen one and all,
" Ye're off! the man is out! "
The Shortstop swore, the Catcher pled,
They waved their arms around.
The Umpire shook his bullet-head
And sternly held his ground,
Though in the wild-eyed Fielders ran
To tear him limb from limb
Or else to tell that erring man
Just what they thought of him .
The Basemen left the bases clear
And came to urge their case; —
So Dorlan yawned and scratched his ear
And strolled to second base.
" Safe? Safe? " the Pitcher hissed, " Ye're blind! "
And breathed a Naughty Word;
While Dorlan hitched his belt behind
And rambled on to third.
And throats were hoarse and words ran high
And lips were flecked with foam,
As Dorlan scanned the azure sky
And ambled on toward home.
And still he heard in dreamy bliss,
As down the line he came,
The Umpire growl, " Enough o' this!
He's safe. Now play the game! "
" All right. Come, boys, " the Pitcher bawled;
" Two out; now make it three! "
When Dorlan touched the plate and drawled,
" Hey! score that run fer me! "
What wrath was there, what bitter talk,
What joy and wild acclaim!
For Dorlan's peaceful homeward walk
Had won the doubtful game.
Aye, thus the game was lost and won;
So, Athletes, great and small,
If like mischance ye fain would shun
Keep cool, don't kick, play ball.
The Hour was big with Fate,
For Neal had fanned and Kling had flied
When Dorlan toed the plate.
And every rooter drew a breath
And rose from where he sat,
For Weal or Woe, or Life or Death
Now hung on Dorlan's bat.
The Pitcher scowled; the Pitcher flung
An inshoot, swift and queer;
But Dorlan whirled his wagon-tongue
And smote the leathern sphere.
He smote the ball with might and main,
He drove it long and low,
And firstward like a railway train
He sped to beat the throw.
He reached first base with time to spare
(The throw went high and wide),
But what a tumult rent the air
When " Safe! " the Umpire cried.
" What! " shrieked the Pitcher, lean and tall,
" What! " roared the Catcher stout,
" Wha-at! " yelled the Basemen one and all,
" Ye're off! the man is out! "
The Shortstop swore, the Catcher pled,
They waved their arms around.
The Umpire shook his bullet-head
And sternly held his ground,
Though in the wild-eyed Fielders ran
To tear him limb from limb
Or else to tell that erring man
Just what they thought of him .
The Basemen left the bases clear
And came to urge their case; —
So Dorlan yawned and scratched his ear
And strolled to second base.
" Safe? Safe? " the Pitcher hissed, " Ye're blind! "
And breathed a Naughty Word;
While Dorlan hitched his belt behind
And rambled on to third.
And throats were hoarse and words ran high
And lips were flecked with foam,
As Dorlan scanned the azure sky
And ambled on toward home.
And still he heard in dreamy bliss,
As down the line he came,
The Umpire growl, " Enough o' this!
He's safe. Now play the game! "
" All right. Come, boys, " the Pitcher bawled;
" Two out; now make it three! "
When Dorlan touched the plate and drawled,
" Hey! score that run fer me! "
What wrath was there, what bitter talk,
What joy and wild acclaim!
For Dorlan's peaceful homeward walk
Had won the doubtful game.
Aye, thus the game was lost and won;
So, Athletes, great and small,
If like mischance ye fain would shun
Keep cool, don't kick, play ball.
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