The Bridgeport evening farmer., 1912-04-06
CASEY AT THE BAT.

Fans have been writing in, with symptoms of baseball fever, asking about Casey at the Bat" The sea- son being what 1t is, we reprint the classic.
 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 struggling few got up to go, leav-
 ing there the rest, With the hope that 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 like
 wise so did Blake, And the former was a puddin', and
 the latter was a fake. So on that stricken multitude death
 like silence sat, For there seemed but little chance of
 Caseys 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-hugginA third. Then from the gladdened multitude
 went up a joyous yell; It rumbled in the mountain tops, Il
 rattled in the dell; It struck upon the hillside and re-
 bounded on the flat; For Casey, mighty Casey, was ad-
 vancing 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 upon his 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:
 ground the ball into his hip Defiance glanced in Casey's eye, a
 sheer curled Casey's lip. And now the leather covered sphere
 came hurtling through the air, And Casey stood a-watching it, in
 naughty 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 untitled roar. Like the beating of the 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 his hand. With a smile of Christian charity
 great Casey's visage shone; He stilled the rising tumult, he made
 the game go on; He signalled to the pitcher, and once
 more the spheroid flew; But Casey still ignored it, and the
 umpire said, Strike two!" ''Fraud!" cried the maddened thous-
 ands, and the 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 train, And they knew that Casey wouldn't let the ball go by again. The sheer is gone from Casey's lips,
 his teeth are clenched in hate, He pounds with cruel vengeance 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.