hmm 으 I am very glad that Casey at the bat has been asked for, because I haven't the corrosive supplement of nerve to volunteer it, having done it now ever since I've been on the stage. And that's some little time. Well, I don't mind telling you how long it is. Almost six years. It's a very comforting reflection and connection with this recitation that if I should forget the liner to hear of it, most any one of you could trust me. Now for the mock heroic. The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mabilane that day. It's a cost to fall to two with the black one in the moth to play. And so when Koony died at first and burrowed to the same, a six-ly silence fell upon the patrons of the game, as a wriggling fugitive to go and just fell the rest, along to that boat which rings the candle in the human bright. And they thought it was only Casey, but yet I wiped it back. And we put up even money now. We're chasing us about but slim, free-steed, Casey. And it also seemed like, and the form of a no-go gun, the blacker was a fake. So upon that to rich and multitudes, the rinnellan covered that, for the seemed what it was chance to see the jetting to the mass, but brilliant, unless the rival singles to the wonderment of all and place them at death by death. Oh, that's a power of the ball. And when the duck had risen and the men saw what had occurred, how they all was blaker, paper-second, and Lynn, a giver, and from five thousand sorrows, who went up on that sea elven, and rumbled in the valley of rattle in the shell, it knocked upon the mountains out, and the recoil of the black, all that Casey said. My king, Casey, what has done to the duck? Well, now, riding in his bearing, as he kept him with place, there was his incasey manner, and up my long-tested face, and when responding to the cheer, he lightly duped his hand, and no stranger in the crowd could doubt it. The one that gave the chance to death. He said, hold the dice, what on him, as he roughed his hands with death, and bowed on and blotted as he wiped them on his shirt, and when the riding picture, ground the ball into his hips, his violent, blooming pitilies, his near-cale cases, and now the lever covered fear came up and drink through the air, and Casey's to the washing it in lofty, grand jovel, close by that dirty, that smun, the ball and he said, that ain't my style, Titchy, the right one, the empire, the best, and from the bent hills, black with people, when tough on the roar, I like the beaten storm, where the common, distant shore, kill him, kill the empire, cry someone on the sand, and it's lightly made of killed him, has not tasted, or tasted, and with a smile of Christian charity, great kiss his busy son, he's still the rising tumult, he's that big game girl one, he's tingled to the picture, one small that's an eye-blue, but his is still ignited, and the empire has been, the right soul, a cry some back and pow, a panic, a cry some cry, a cry some back, one calm, a look from his head, and the mouth ate you the wargog, and I saw his face, close to her, and cold, and I saw his muscle, tremor, and they knew that he's a important left side ball, a cowboy, again, that smile is gone, from his his face, his teeth are clipped in hate, he pouls with cruel violence, he's back up on the plate, and now the picture holds the ball, and now he lets it go, and now the air is shuttled, by the force of Jesus blow, somewhere in the haybok land, the sun is shining bright, somewhere bands of play, somewhere of the light, somewhere of men are laughing, and somewhere chilled on his scalp, but there is no joy in my veil, my CKC has dropped out. you