The Critic and record., 1891-04-13
CRITIC ABROAD.

The following beautiful poem, which
deals with the dark side of baseball in
Washington, will doubtless touch a re-
sponsivc chord IN the heart of the locil
baseball public and fiji itwith that sweet
sorrow which is so strangely awakened
10y poetic reference to hopes that died and
iovs that were but are not. But it has
especial value from the fact IL hints, i'm
gentle, convincing way that cannot be
cQualcd by the raucOus voice of prose, at
an evil which has proved the banc of
many club-namcly, that Of utemper-
ance. It will doubtless add to the read
crs' interest In the poem when ii is stated
that ID was Cablcd red-hot from the gifted
pen of Algernon Charles Swnburne for
exclusive publication I'm THE CRTic:
ruE cASrictE or THE oRANRs.
In tho swirl Of the hralnfogs Of longing,
Up the nohulOus ladders OF hope
We climb In the seasons commencement
When the clubs are beginning to cope.
And VIC feel the full weight, in our climbing,
OF the tail.onded past like n rock
Ave. VIC hardly can ut that great burden
with the beautiful gugglug Of book.
There were days OF the past when the bleachcrs
Sat and shouted, nor rocked Of tho sun;
Aye, they yelled with their mouths US with one
mouth
But their Joy grew gray whiskers Of sorrow
Ere tho season waXCd old, and the shock
Filled their, souls with dcspairs that still
Knocked them
In the beautiful glugglug Of book.
And when the book season had ended
And the beer that Is palcr was drunk,
There were loud lamentations and sWcar-wOrdS
AT defeat In big solid chunk;
For INC sirong players thought they were
In the pride Of their strength. as rock,
And found Joy at the seasons commencement
In the beautiful glugglug OF book.
"Hll wait on you i'm a second, Trot, " said
one of the cOlured gentlemen who presides
behind Hancock's historic bar, the other
day. The person addressed braced him
self in anonChalant air against the counter,
and waited with more than usual patience.
| He was quite unlike the regular habitues
| of the place. He was not dainty, tender
| dude whose capacity was one whisky
| and ginger ale on the side nor was he
a red-nosed, hoarsc-toned "by God, sir "
| from Southern lands. Trot IS n bull dog,
| bOw-legged broad-chested, with a muzzle
! black and wrinkled as Crumpled velvet,
big brown eyes softer than debutante's.
He is the protege of the Columbia Ath-
| lctic Club, for whom he won n prize at
| the recent dog show. Big Sam Stinemetz
| is his guardian, and allows him to
slip across the street occasionally
and take bracer, which ac-
counts for the dogs presence in the sa.
loon on the day referred to. The bar
tender fixed mp delicious whisky punch,
the rim of the glass adorned with piece
| of orange and luscious strawberry. lie
held the glass while Trot slipped the con-
tents slowly and rapturously. When the
last drop had disappeared the canine de.
voured the entree of fruit. begged for q
cracker, got it and wagged himself ont OF
| the door,
1t is regretted that Trot sometimes gets
OH a Jag" One day he struck in a bar.
room a party of men bent on a racket, -
who filled the dog up to the neck with
milk punch. One of the C.. a. G.. people
coming up the Avenue found Trot leaning
against tree box with his legs locked in
grapevine twist. The drunkard wa
taken to the club and put 10 bed, with in
| structions to the steward that he be given
| gin cocktail in the morning. Did ht
drink il? Why, Trot is a rounder.