^ 
 
 STACK 
 ANNEX 
 
 060 
 006 
 
 . ...-
 
 LITTLE BGDK 
 SERIES
 
 a tt*tW' ' 
 
 A Little Volume, 
 
 CRASHAW 
 
 3
 
 Tfie 
 
 BOOK 
 SPORTS 
 
 Compiled and Edited 
 with an Introduction by 
 Wallace and Ranees Rice 
 
 Publishers 
 THE REILLY &> BRITTDM CO. 
 
 Chicago
 
 <? AIL rights reserved^ 
 
 \ e;
 
 Introduction 
 
 THE poetry of sport is modern emphatically so. 
 Practiced for little more than a century in Eng- 
 land and Scotland, it has arisen in America 
 within the memory of many still living. Until a gen- 
 eration ago we were too busy wresting a living from 
 virgin soil to find the time to play, much less to write 
 about it in either prose or verse. To-day we are begin- 
 ning to notice the value of games in the open and 
 the sheaf of songs and lyrics which follow show the 
 result. 
 
 Yet even now the spirit of humor which is so marked 
 a national characteristic with us has prevailed, and our 
 national game of baseball has found almost none who 
 can set down in rhyme the varied feelings that it in- 
 variably arouses in its devotees. The one familiar 
 poem is the memorable "Casey at the Bat," and it 
 must be confessed that it has not been equaled by us 
 for hearty humor admirably expressed. The time is 
 coming, it may be safely predicted, when the lover 
 of noble poetry will have his wishes gratified to the 
 full in regard to baseball, no less than the other in- 
 ventions of man for enjoyment in the open. 
 
 Meanwhile, the verses which follow do contain 
 much of delight, much of the hearty spirit of good 
 sportsmanship which has done so much to make the 
 English-speaking peoples what they are. 
 
 WALLACE EICE. 
 
 M 
 
 156388
 
 Index of Sports 
 
 24, 
 10, 13. 37, 45, 50, 
 
 Archery . 
 
 Baseball . 
 
 Basket Ball 
 
 Bicycling 
 
 Boating . 
 
 Broad Jumping 
 
 Cricket 
 
 Curling 
 
 Fishing 
 
 Football . 
 
 Golf 
 
 Hammer Throwing 
 
 Handball 
 
 High Jumping 
 
 Hockey . 
 
 Horse Eacing . 
 
 Hurling . 
 
 Jumping 
 
 Lawn Tennis . 
 
 Mountaineering 
 
 Pole Vaulting 
 
 Rowing . 
 
 Running . 
 
 Sailing 
 
 Shooting 
 
 Skating . ' . 
 
 Sprinting 
 
 Swimming 
 
 Tennis 
 
 Walking 
 
 Wrestling 
 
 Yachting 
 
 . 13, 40, 
 
 . 9, 13, 23, 36, 
 
 14, 19, 21, 36, 49, 54, 58, 
 
 . 14, 18 
 13, 19, 30, 36, 37
 
 Index of Authors 
 
 Adams, Franklin P. 
 Ainger, A. C. . 
 Ashe, Thomas 
 Bannister, Christopher 
 Bayley, Thomas Haynes . 
 Bell, John Joy 
 Browning, Robert 
 Campbell, Isabella . 
 Chalkhill, John 
 Dana, Richard Henry 
 De Koven, Ethel le Roy . 
 Egerton-Warburton, R. E. 
 Fiske, Horace Spencer 
 Hardy, Thomas 
 Holden, John Jarvis 
 Housman, Alfred Edward 
 Hovey, Richard 
 Keene, Francis Bowler 
 Kernahan, Coulson . 
 Kiser, Samuel Ellsworth . 
 Knowles, Frederic Lawrence 
 Lamb, Louis Albert 
 Lang, Andrew 
 Lindsey, William 
 Lytton, Edward Lord 
 Macleod, Norman 
 Macurda, Arthur Amsden 
 Marble .... 
 McGaffey, Ernest 
 Matheson, Greville E. 
 Noel, Roden . 
 Pier, Arthur Stanwood 

 
 Rice, Wallace 
 Rolleston, Thomas William 
 Russell, Charles E. . 
 Stephens, Sennett . 
 Scollard, Clinton 
 Thayer, Ernest Lawrence 
 Thomson, James 
 Whitman, Walt
 
 LITTLE 
 BOOK OF 
 SPORTS
 
 Ah, what avail the largest gifts of Heaven, 
 When drooping health and spirits go amiss? 
 
 How tasteless then whatever can be given! 
 Health is the vital principle of bliss, 
 And exercise, of health. In proof of this, 
 
 Behold the wretch, who slugs his life away, 
 Soon swallowed in disease's sad abyss; 
 
 While he whom toil has braced, or manly play, 
 
 Has light as air each limb, each thought as clear as 
 day. 
 
 Oh, who can speak the vigorous joys of health! 
 
 Unclogged the body, unobscured the mind: 
 The morning rises gay, with pleasing stealth, 
 
 The temperature evening falls serene and kind. 
 
 In health the wiser brutes true gladness find: 
 See, how the younglings frisk along the meads, 
 As May comes on, their joy all joy exceeds! 
 Yet what but high-strung health this dancing pleas- 
 aunce breeds? 
 
 James Thomson.
 
 The 
 Little Book of Sports 
 
 The Athlete 
 
 Better than Fame, is still the wish for Fame, 
 The constant training for a glorious strife; 
 
 The Athlete, nurtured for the Olympian game, 
 Gains strength at least for life. 
 
 Edward Lord Lytton 
 
 cubic foot of healthful sport! 
 
 A judgment cool, a courage high, 
 And brawn the old Olympic sort 
 
 Control thy zigzag through the sky. 
 
 Frederic Lawrence Knowles. 
 
 The Runner 
 
 On a flat road runs the well-trained runner, 
 
 He is lean and sinewy with muscular legs, 
 
 He is thinly clothed, he leans forward as he runs, 
 
 With lightly closed fists and arms partially raised. 
 
 Walt Whitman 
 
 To a Boy 
 
 Play and play hard, for youth 's a song; 
 Play and play true, for age is long! 
 9
 
 Casey at the Bat 
 
 It looked extremely rocky for the Mudville nine that 
 
 day: 
 The score stood four to six with just an inning left to 
 
 Play; 
 And so, when Cooney died at first, and Burrows did 
 
 the same, 
 A. pallor wreathed the features of the patrons of the 
 
 game. 
 
 A straggling few got up to go, leaving there the rest 
 With that hope that springs eternal within the human 
 
 breast; 
 For they thought if only Casey could get one whack, 
 
 at that 
 They 'd put up even money, with Casey at the bat. 
 
 But Flynn preceded Casey, and so likewise did Blake, 
 But the former was a pudding, and the latter was a 
 
 fake; 
 
 So on that stricken multitude a death-like silence sat, 
 For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting 
 
 to the bat. 
 
 But Flynn let drive a single to the wonderment of all, 
 And the much-despised Blaikie tore the cover off the 
 
 ball; 
 And when the dust had lifted, and they saw what had 
 
 occurred 
 There was Blaikie safe on second and Flynn a-hugging 
 
 third! 
 
 10
 
 Then from the gladdened multitude went up a joyous 
 
 yell, 
 It bounded from the mountain-top, and rattled in the 
 
 dell, 
 
 It struck upon the hillside, and rebounded on the flat; 
 For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing 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 on 
 
 Casey's face; 
 And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed 
 
 his hat, 
 No stranger in the crowd could doubt 't was 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; 
 Then, while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into 
 
 his hip, 
 Defiance glanced in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's 
 
 lip. 
 
 AX: 
 
 And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling 
 
 through the air, 
 And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur 
 
 there; 
 
 Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped; 
 "That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the 
 
 umpire said. 
 
 11
 
 From the benches, black with people, there went up a 
 
 muffled roar, 
 Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and 
 
 distant shore; 
 "Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted some one in 
 
 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 bade the game go on; 
 He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid 
 
 flew, 
 But Casey still ignored it; and the umpire said, "Strike 
 
 two." 
 
 "Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and the 
 
 echo answered, "Fraud!" 
 But the scornful look from Casey, and the audience 
 
 was awed; 
 They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his 
 
 muscles strain, 
 And they knew that Casey would n't let that ball go 
 
 by again. 
 
 The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are 
 
 clenched with hate; 
 
 He pounds with cruel violence 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. 
 
 12
 
 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 chil- 
 dren shout; 
 
 But there is no joy in Mudville mighty Casey has 
 struck out. 
 
 Ernest Lawrence Thayer. 
 
 In the Procession 
 
 Spring comes: and baseball, robust flower, in every 
 meadow 's seen; 
 
 Summer: and tennis bourgeons white upon the shining 
 green; 
 
 Autumn: and football shakes at us chrysanthemum- 
 like hair; 
 
 Winter: and even ice is left a-bloom with skaters fair: 
 
 Four times a year the earth is glad with miscellaneous 
 joy; 
 
 As often sighs the man who was and now is not a 
 boy. 
 
 John Jarvis Holden. 
 
 A Chinese Angler 
 There was an old philosopher, 
 
 In China is his fame still rife, 
 Who spent his days in angling, sir, 
 
 Nor used a bait in all his life: 
 As he explained, 't was not his wish 
 That he should catch a fish. 
 
 Christopher Bannister. 
 13
 
 Time, the Victor 
 
 The strength and splendor of the world are ours. 
 See, how our eyes glow in the morning sun, 
 How down our arms the corded muscles run, 
 How youth sits on our brow like wreathed flowers! 
 
 Health, beauty, grace, High Heaven on us showers; 
 And deeds such deeds ! full f eatly have we done ; 
 Life's laurel lies in hand, already won! . . . 
 Poor souls, what strifes near by surpass your powers! 
 
 No Runner hath outstripped Oblivion; 
 
 No Thrower hurled his mortal strain afar; 
 
 No Swimmer gained salvation from Time's wave; 
 No Wrestler his dim Future seized and thrown; 
 
 No Vaulter brushed his locks 'gainst any star; 
 
 No Leaper leapt that little gulf, the Grave! 
 
 Wallace Rice. 
 
 Win if you can, by every means that 's fair 
 
 Play for the sport's sake, and always take good care 
 
 To be the best of losers, no matter when or where. 
 
 My Lady of the Links 
 
 Like Dian, her trim ankles seen, 
 
 And small feet treading lightly, 
 She drives the ball from green to green, 
 
 And grasps her lofter tightly. 
 Like Venus, her sweet lips and eyes 
 
 Above her wind-tossed plaidie, 
 She plays my fortune for her prize, 
 
 Dan Cupid for her caddie. 
 14
 
 Beth-El 
 
 Loinwise upgirded, with a leathern clout, 
 All stripped and weaponless, behold him go 
 Over the barrier, vaulting, fit for his foe, 
 A Man, unartificed, wide-stanced, and stout. 
 
 He breathes him, for the Champion 's coming out: 
 Shrill sounds the signal: springs he like a bow 
 Scorning the arrow See, his hold is low! 
 Like Death his sinews grip: His is the bout! 
 
 Thus, every man must do his fall with Fate 
 Naked, unarmed, unchampioned, alone, 
 The odds unweighed, the issue unforetold; 
 
 Only for him doth Victory's paean wait, 
 Who, in that day, shall marshal as his own 
 All ValhalTs virtues waxed a thousandfold. 
 
 Louis Albert Lamb. 
 
 I 'd rather be a cyclist 
 
 Than any other beast, 
 For though he slays he never stays 
 
 Upon the slain to feast. 
 
 It 's pleasant to remember, 
 
 While lying on the stones, 
 How, though you 're dead, you need n't dread 
 
 That he will pick your bones. 
 
 He comes! You fall! He 's gone! That 's all! 
 
 He does n't mind the least. 
 Oh, I 'd rather be a cyclist 
 
 Than any other beast. 
 
 John Joy Bell. 
 
 15
 
 The Pleasure Boat 
 
 Come, hoist the sail, the fast let go! 
 
 They 're seated side by side; 
 Wave chases wave in pleasant flow; 
 
 The bay is fair and wide. 
 
 The ripples lightly tap the boat, 
 Loose! Give her to the wind! 
 
 She shoots ahead! They 're all afloat; 
 The strand is far behind. . . . 
 
 Fair ladies, fairer than the spray 
 
 The prow is dashing wide, 
 Soft breezes take you on your way, 
 
 Soft flow the blessed tide! . . . 
 
 The boat goes tilting on the waves; 
 
 The waves go tilting by; 
 There dips the duck, her back she laves; 
 
 O'erhead the sea-gulls fly. 
 
 Now, like the gulls that dart for prey, 
 
 The little vessel stoops; 
 Now, rising, shoots along her way, 
 
 Like them, in easy swoops. 
 
 The sunlight falling on her sheet, 
 
 It glitters like the drift, 
 Sparkling, in scorn of summer's heat, 
 
 High up some mountain rift. 
 
 The winds are fresh; she 's driving fast 
 Upon the bending tide; 
 16
 
 The cringling sail and crinkling mast 
 Go with her, side by side. 
 
 Why dies the breeze away so soon? 
 
 Why hangs the pennant down? 
 The sea is glass; the sun at noon, 
 
 Nay, lady, do not frown; 
 
 For, see, the winge'd fisher's plume 
 
 Is painted on the sea; 
 Below, a cheek of lovely bloom 
 
 Whose eyes look up at thee. 
 
 She smiles; thou need'st must smile on her, 
 
 And see, beside her face 
 A rich white cloud that doth not stir: 
 
 What beauty and what grace! 
 
 And pictured beach of yellow sand, 
 
 And peaked rock and hill, 
 Change the smooth sea to fairyland: 
 
 How lovely and how still! 
 
 The parting sun sends out a glow 
 
 Across the placid bay, 
 Touching with glory all the show 
 
 A breeze! Up helm! Away! 
 
 Careening to the wind, they reach, 
 
 With laugh and call the shore. 
 They 've left their footprints on the beach, 
 
 But them I hear no more. 
 
 Eichard Henry Dana. 
 
 17
 
 x 
 I 
 
 The Hundred Yard Dash 
 
 Give me a race that is run in a breath, 
 
 Straight from the start to the tape; 
 Distance hath charms, but a "ding-dong" means death, 
 
 Death without flowers and crape. 
 
 "On your mark!" "Set!" For a moment we strain, 
 
 Held by a leash all unseen; 
 "P'ff!" We are off, from the pistol we gain 
 
 Yards, if the starter 's not keen. 
 
 Off like lean greyhounds, the cinders scarce stir 
 
 Under the touch of our feet; 
 Flashes of sunlight, the crowd's muffled purr, 
 
 The rush of the wind, warm and sweet. 
 
 One last fierce effort, red worsted breaks, 
 
 Struggle and strain are all past; 
 Only ten ticks of the watch, but it makes 
 
 First, second, third, and the last. 
 
 William Lindsey. 
 
 The High Jump 
 
 He slowly paced his distance off, and turned, 
 Took poise, and darted forward at full speed; 
 
 Before the bar the heavy earth he spurned, 
 Himself an arrow. They who saw his deed, 
 
 Tensed muscles, poised and ran and leapt, and burned 
 With close-drawn breath, helping him to succeed: 
 
 Now he is over; they are over, too; 
 
 Foeman and friend were flying when he flew. 
 
 John Jarvis Holden. 
 IS
 
 My Lady on the Links 
 
 When my lady plays golf there 's commotion galore, 
 There 's a caddie beside her, another before; 
 And she handles her clubs with a confident ease, 
 For my lady is playing the game, if you please, 
 And gives strictest attention to bunkers and tees, 
 When my lady plays golf. 
 
 When my lady plays golf you must always avoid 
 Any subject but golf, or she '11 be much annoyed; 
 For if she should let her mind wander, I fear 
 She would "go off her game," and you 'd presently 
 
 hear 
 
 Far stronger expressions than simply "Oh, dear!" 
 When my lady plays golf. 
 
 When my lady plays golf then of stance and of grip 
 She 's as careful as if in the championship; 
 And when she leaves off at the close of the day, 
 And her caddies are paid, and her clubs put away 
 (Which never occurs till it 's too dark to play), 
 Then my lady talks golf. 
 
 A Love Game 
 As in tennis, so in love, 
 
 She 's the victor easily; 
 Always stands aloof, above, 
 
 Smiling at you breezily. 
 Were but just one love game mine 
 
 Hearts, and hers the best of them! 
 I 'd be willing, I opine, 
 
 She should win the rest of them! 
 
 Sennett Stephens. 
 19
 
 Curling Song 
 
 A' nicht it was freezin', a' nicht I was sneezin', 
 
 "Tak' care," quo' the wifie, "gndeman, o' yer 
 
 cough;" 
 "A fig for the sneezin'! Hurrah! for the freezin'! 
 
 This day we 're to play the bonspiel on the loch; 
 Then get up, my auld leddy, the breakfast get ready, 
 
 For the sun on the snawdrift 's beginnin' to blink; 
 Gi'e me bannocks or brochan, I 'm off for the lochan, 
 
 To mak' the stanes glee to the tee or the rink." 
 
 
 Then hurrah for the curlin', frae Girvan to Stirlin' ! 
 
 Hurrah for the lads of the besom and stane! 
 "Ready, noo!" "Soop it up!" "Clap a guard!" 
 
 "Steady, noo!" 
 Oh! curlin' aboon every game stands alane! 
 
 The ice it is splendid, it canna be mended; 
 Like glass ye may glower on 't, and shave aff yer 
 
 beard; 
 And see how they gaither, comin' ower the brown 
 
 heather; 
 
 The servant and maister, the tenant and laird. 
 There 's brave Jamie Fair lie, he 's there late and early, 
 
 Better curlers than him or Tarn Conn canna be; 
 Wi' the lads frae Kilwinnin' they '11 send the stanes 
 
 spinnin', 
 Wi' a whirr and a curr till they sib round the tee. 
 
 It* 's an unco-like story, that baith Whig and Tory 
 Maun ay collieshangie like dogs ower a bane, 
 
 And a' denominations are wantin' in patience, 
 For nae kirk will thole to let ithers alane; 
 20
 
 But in fine frosty weather, let a' meet thegither, 
 Wi' a broom in their haun', and a stane by the tee, 
 
 And then, by my certies! ye '11 see how a' pairties 
 Like brithers will love, and like brithers agree. 
 
 Norman Macleod. 
 
 The Yacht 
 
 Bocks smoothly in the river mouth 
 The rising tide; blows soft the south; 
 
 A ripple lips the land: 
 Reflected in the mirror bright, 
 The mast and canvas gleam as white 
 
 As pebbles on the sand. 
 
 The sailors trim the little yacht, and say, 
 Hoist sail: the sky has not a cloud to-day. 
 
 Ah, beauteous little ship! so bold 
 To sail upon the ocean old, 
 
 And take it for a friend! 
 Your helm and chart will idle prove, 
 If rude winds wake the sea they love, 
 
 And Heaven no succor send. 
 The sailors trim the little yacht, and say, 
 Hoist sail: the sky has not a cloud to-day. 
 
 Thomas Ashe. 
 
 Golf's Cardinal Virtues 
 An eye that never leaves the ball, 
 In swing, address, in flight and fall; 
 A nerve of iron, calm and cool, 
 Unruffled as a woodland pool; 
 And in the heart, and on the lip, 
 The spirit of true sportsmanship. 
 
 Francis Bowler Keene. 
 21
 
 V 
 
 
 
 Boating Song 
 
 We sing the song of the boat and oar, 
 
 Yeo-ho! lads ho! Yeo-ho! Yeo-ho! 
 As we launch our shells from off the shore, 
 
 Yeo-ho! lads ho! Yeo-ho! 
 
 With measured dip and steady clip we glide along, 
 Our pulses leap to the rhythmic sweep that marks our 
 
 song, 
 
 And all together we catch and feather and lift her 
 strong, 
 
 Yeo-ho! lads ho! Yeo-ho! 
 The flashing blade and gliding shell for me, 
 
 Yeo-ho! we go, so swift and free; 
 The flashing blade and gliding shell for me, 
 
 The flashing blade and shell for me! 
 
 At Alma Mater's shrine we vow, 
 
 Yeo-ho! lads ho! Yeo-ho! Yeo-ho! 
 That the laurel wreath shall crown her brow, 
 
 Yeo-ho! lads ho! Yeo-ho! 
 
 Or now we leap with bending sweep the river's tide; 
 For a noble class and a bonnie lass, and victory our 
 
 guide; 
 
 Who never shall wait to see us late past the line tc 
 glide, 
 
 Yeo-ho! lads ho! Yeo-ho! 
 The flashing blade and gliding shell for me, 
 
 Yeo-ho! we go, so swift and free; 
 The flashing blade and gliding shell for me, 
 
 The flashing blade and shell for me! 
 
 Play for the sport's sake; win if you may; 
 Lose like a sportsman; but, always, play! 
 
 22
 
 A Ballade of the Game 
 
 Tier upon tier, through the stands are strewn 
 
 Faces fervid and faces fair, 
 Banners aloft in the breezes blown, 
 
 Waving ribbons, and wayward hair. 
 
 Flushes the west with a crimson flare, 
 Glimmers the east like a summer sky; 
 
 Thunder of throngs in the frosty air: 
 Yale, old Yale, and a victory! 
 
 Joy of battle and brawn of stone, 
 
 Pride of pain in the deed they dare, 
 Yard by yard they are struggling on, 
 
 Backward the Crimson they bend and bear; 
 
 Met with the strain of a strong despair, 
 Into the strife again, do or die; 
 
 Till the shouts to tatters the stillness tear: 
 Yale, old Yale, and a victory I 
 
 Two long years o'er our flag have flown, 
 
 Years of darkness and dismal care; 
 Now the time of our time is known, 
 
 One short day shall our fate declare. 
 
 Each in our sorrow has borne a share, 
 Each has a share in the glad, loud cry 
 
 Shaking the skies with a trumpet-blare: 
 Yale, old Yale, and a victory! 
 
 Queen of Violets, reigning there, 
 Spirit of strength in a violet eye, 
 
 Lend us the power of thy whispered prayer: 
 "Yale, old Yale, and a victory!" 
 23
 
 Bow-Meeting Song 
 
 The tent is pitched, the target reared, the ground is 
 
 measured out, 
 For the weak arm sixty paces, and one hundred for 
 
 the stout! 
 Come, gather ye together, then, the youthful and the 
 
 fair, 
 And poet's lay, to future day, the victor shall declare. 
 
 Let busy fingers lay aside the needle and the thread, 
 To prick the golden canvas with a pointed arrow-head; 
 Ye sportsman quit the stubble, quit, ye fishermen, the 
 
 stream, 
 Fame and glory stand before you, brilliant eyes around 
 
 you beam. 
 
 All honor to the long-bow which many a battle won, 
 Ere powder blazed and bullet flew from arquebus or 
 
 gun; 
 
 All honor to the long-bow, which merry men of yore, 
 With hound and horn, at early morn, in greenwood for- 
 est bore. 
 
 Oh, famous is the archer's sport, 't was honored long 
 
 ago, 
 The God of Love, the God of Wit, bore both of them a 
 
 bow; 
 Love laughs to-day in beauty's eye and blushes on her 
 
 cheek, 
 And wit is heard in every word that merry archers 
 
 speak. 
 
 The archer's heart, though, like his bow, a tough and 
 sturdy thing, 
 
 24
 
 Is pliant still and yielding, when affection pulls the 
 string; 
 
 All his words and all his actions are like arrows, point- 
 ed well 
 
 To hit that golden center, where true love and friend- 
 ship dwell. 
 
 They tell us in that outline which the lips of beauty 
 
 show, 
 
 How Cupid found a model for his heart-subduing bow; 
 The arrows in his quiver are the glances from her eye, 
 A feather from love's wing it is that makes the arrows 
 
 fly! 
 
 R. E. Egerton-Warburton. 
 
 In Elizabeth's Day 
 
 Who would not give the treasure 
 
 Of very many lives 
 If some kind fate would pleasure 
 To let him be where Ben is 
 A-playing Kit at tennis, 
 Or playing Will at fives? 
 
 The racquet ne'er so deftly 
 
 Is turned, whoever drives, 
 The ball flies ne'er so swiftly 
 
 As thought and tongue where Ben is 
 A-playing Kit at tennis, 
 Or playing Will at fives. 
 
 Wallace Rice. 
 
 Cheer when you win but cheer the loser, too: 
 He needs encouragement much more than you. 
 25
 
 Cycling Song 
 In the airy whirling wheel is the springing strength of 
 
 steel, 
 
 And the sinew grows to steel day by day, 
 Till you feel your pulses leap at the easy swing and 
 
 sweep, 
 As the hedges nicker past upon the way. 
 
 Then it 's out to the kiss of the morning breeze, 
 
 And the rose of the morning sky, 
 And the long brown road where the tired spirit's 
 
 load 
 Slips off as the leagues go by. 
 
 Black and silver, swift and strong, with a pleasant un- 
 dersong 
 
 From the steady rippling murmur of the chain, 
 Half a thing of life and will, you may feel it start and 
 
 thrill 
 
 With a quick, elastic answer to the strain. 
 As you ride to the kiss of the morning breeze, 
 
 And the rose of the morning sky, 
 And the long brown road where the tired spirit's 
 
 load 
 Slips off as the leagues go by. 
 
 Miles a hundred you may run from the rising of the sun 
 
 To the gleam of the first white star; 
 You may ride through twenty towns, meet the sun upon 
 
 the downs, 
 Or the wind on the mountain scaur. 
 
 Then it 's out to the kiss of the morning breeze, 
 
 And the rose of the morning sky, 
 And the long brown road where the tired spirit's 
 
 load 
 
 Slips off as the leagues go by. 
 26
 
 Down the pleasant countryside, through the wood- 
 land's summer pride, 
 You have come in your forenoon spin 
 And you never would have guessed how delicious is the 
 
 rest 
 In the shade by the wayside inn, 
 
 When you 've sought the kiss of the morning 
 
 breeze, 
 
 And the rose of the morning sky, 
 And the long brown road where the tired spirit's 
 
 load 
 Slips off as the leagues go by. 
 
 Oh, there 's many a one who teaches that the shining 
 
 river reaches 
 
 Are the place to spend a long June day. 
 But give me the whirling wheel and a boat of air of 
 
 steel 
 To float upon the Queen's highway! 
 
 Oh, give me the kiss of the morning breeze, 
 
 And the rose of the morning sky, 
 And the long brown road where the tired spirit's 
 
 load 
 Slips off as the leagues go by. 
 
 Thomas William Eolleston. 
 
 The Running Broad Jump 
 
 High, high, he climbs, his dashing run 
 
 Taking him on and upward; all 
 
 His limbs and body in a ball; 
 And, when we thought him fairly done, 
 With quick unbending, forward feet 
 
 And thrusting arms, near flat he lies 
 
 Above the ground and on he flies 
 To stand erect, adroit and fleet. 
 27
 
 The Archery Meeting 
 
 The archery meeting is fixed for the third, 
 The fuss that it causes is truly absurd; 
 I 've bought summer bonnets for Rosa and Bess, 
 And now I must buy each an archery dress! 
 Without a green suit they would blush to be seen, 
 And poor little Eosa looks horrid in green! 
 
 Poor fat little Eosa! she 's shooting all day! 
 She sends forth an arrow expertly they say; 
 But 't is terrible when with exertion she warms, 
 And seems to me getting such muscular arms; 
 And if she should hit, 't were as well if she missed, 
 Prize bracelets could never be clasped on her wrist! 
 
 Dear Bess with her elegant figure and face, 
 
 Looks quite a Diana, the queen of the place, 
 
 But as for the shooting she never takes aim, 
 
 She talks so, and laughs so! the beaux are to blame; 
 
 She doats on flirtation but oh! by-the-by, 
 
 'T was awkward her shooting out Mrs. Flint's eye! 
 
 They 've made my poor husband an archer elect; 
 He dresses the part with prodigious effect; 
 A paii of nankeens, with a belt round his waist, 
 And a quiver, of course, in which arrows are placed; 
 And a bow in his hand Oh! he looks, of all things, 
 Like a corpulent Cupid bereft of his wings! 
 
 They dance on the lawn, and we mothers, alas! 
 Must sit on camp-stools with our feet in the grass; 
 My Eosa and Betty no partners attract! 
 The archery men are all cross beaux, in fact! 
 28
 
 Among the young ladies some hits there may be, 
 But still at my elbows two misses I see. 
 
 Thomas Haynes Bayly. 
 
 "Mark" 
 
 The heavy mists have crept away, 
 
 Heavily swims the sun, 
 And dim in mystic cloudlands gray 
 
 The stars fade one by one; 
 Out of the dusk enveloping 
 
 Come marsh and sky and tree, 
 Where erst has rested night's dark ring 
 
 Over the Kankakee. 
 
 "Mark right!" Afar and faint outlined 
 
 A flock of mallards fly, 
 We crouch within the reedy blind 
 
 Instantly at the cry. 
 "Mark left!" We peer through wild-rice blades, 
 
 And distant shadows see, 
 A wedge-shaped phalanx from the shades 
 
 Of far-off Kankakee. 
 
 "Mark overhead!" A canvas-back! 
 
 "Mark, mark!" A bunch of teal! 
 And swiftly on each flying track 
 
 Follows the shotgun's peal; 
 Thus rings that call, till twilight's tide 
 
 Rolls in like some gray sea, 
 And whippoorwills complain beside 
 
 The lonely Kankakee. 
 
 Ernest McGaffey. 
 
 29
 
 The Lawn-Tennis Player 
 
 Fearful to lose our little place, 
 
 We dare not venture far 
 To welcome others of our race, 
 
 Men of the self-same star. 
 
 
 Eager to win beyond our ranks, 
 
 We trample others down, 
 And pressing o'er them murmur thanks, 
 
 Our eyes upon the crown. 
 
 And yet we bear no enmity; 
 
 "It 's life," we sadly say; 
 "We would be genial, open, free 
 
 To all men as the day. 
 
 "This armor that doth make us safe, 
 
 This visor to the eye, 
 We feel their weight, we feel them chafe, 
 
 We fain would put them by." 
 
 And when we come to our green field, 
 Far from the strife of town, 
 
 Forthwith in gentleness we yield 
 And lay that armor down. 
 
 The touch of flannels to our skin, 
 
 Of grass beneath our feet, 
 Of sun at throat may help us win 
 Safe past the judgment seat. 
 
 Arthur Stanwood Pier. 
 30
 
 The Hammer Throw 
 
 We are the children of the strong god, Thor; 
 
 We hurl his hammer through the hollow sky; 
 
 No task is this for feeble hands to try: 
 This is the sport than men and gods adore. 
 
 A giant race are we, who each in turn 
 Step in the magic circle's narrow ring, 
 Around our heads the old god's hammer swing, 
 
 And send it whirling where the sunbeams burn. 
 
 Our fingers twine the handle tightly round, 
 Firm as a mountain oak we plant our feet, 
 With one long breath, filling each cell complete, 
 
 We lift and swing the dead weight from the ground. 
 
 Around our heads we swing with quickening speed, 
 The hot blood pressing in each swollen vein, 
 Each muscle corded with its mighty strain, 
 
 The handle bending like a river-reed. 
 
 
 A step, a turn, and staggering, we hurl 
 
 The heavy hammer whistling through the air; 
 We watch it in the sunbeams fly and flare; 
 
 We see it settle, with a thud and whirl. 
 
 All can not win; our giant game is o'er; 
 'T is better to be last in such a test, 
 Than in a little sport to rank the best; 
 
 We are the children of the strong god, Thor. 
 
 William Lindsey.
 
 Hockey 
 
 When you hack a fellow's shin, 
 
 Say "Sorry," 
 Or his ankle or his chin, 
 
 Say "Sorry": 
 
 If their right wing is too fast, 
 And you see him flying past, 
 Should you trip him, and he 's grassed, 
 
 Say "Sorry." 
 
 
 When the ball is thrown from "touch," 
 
 Mark your man; 
 "Mark the ball," you say? Not much, 
 
 Mark your man; 
 Whirl your cudgel in the air, 
 Anyhow and anywhere, 
 On any spot that 's bare 
 
 Mark your man. 
 
 When their forwards get away, 
 
 Shout "Sticks"; 
 But if your side scores, then they 
 
 Shout "Sticks": 
 Sometimes, of course, you call 
 "Offside," some times "Hand ball," 
 But better far than all 
 
 Shout "Sticks." 
 
 Knock corners off the foe, 
 
 That 's hockey, 
 And pay back what you owe, 
 
 That 's hockey. 
 
 Bound the goal the wounded sit, 
 32
 
 And the language they emit 
 Is W ell, suitable and fit 
 For Hockey! 
 
 A Song of Handball 
 Smooth and square and dry the wall; 
 White, elastic, round the ball; 
 Two on that side, two on this; 
 Two hands each to hit or miss, 
 Two hands each to hit or miss, 
 What more need we to possess, 
 Two good hours of happiness. 
 
 Send the "service" slow and high; 
 Hold your tongue, and mind your eye; 
 Eun and twist, and duck and dance; 
 Volley, when you see your chance 
 Volley, when you see your chance. 
 Hit them hard, and hit them low, 
 Thus your score will upwards go! . . . 
 
 Oft in life you '11 meet with knocks 
 'Gainst a harder pepper-box; 
 Fingers scraped and fingers bruised; 
 Balls and player roughly used, 
 Till cut down, or slow or fast, 
 Into dead man's hole at last! 
 
 So let Fives its lessons teach: 
 Hit all balls with your reach; 
 If you fail for want of pluck, 
 Don't abuse your rival's luck! 
 Every one can win who tries, 
 For the struggle is the prize. 
 
 A. C. Ainger. 
 
 33 

 
 The Swimmer's Joy 
 
 Who would linger idle, 
 
 Dallying would lie, 
 When wind and wave, a bridal 
 
 Celebrating, fly? 
 Let him plunge among them, 
 
 Who hath wooed enough, 
 Flirted with them, sung them! 
 
 In the salt sea-trough 
 He may win them, onward 
 
 On a buoyant crest, 
 Far to seaward, sunward, 
 
 Oceanborne to rest! 
 Wild wind will sing over him, 
 And the free foam cover him, 
 Swimming seaward, sunward, 
 
 On a blithe sea-breast! 
 On a blithe sea-bosom 
 
 Swims another, too, 
 Swims a live sea-blossom, 
 
 A grey-winged sea-mew. 
 Grape-green all the waves are, 
 
 By whose hurrying line 
 Half of ships and caves are 
 
 Buried under brine; 
 Supple, shifting ranges 
 
 Lucent at the crest 
 With pearly surface changes 
 
 Never laid to rest; 
 Now a dipping gunwale 
 
 Momently he sees, 
 Now a fuming funnel, 
 
 Or red flag in the breeze.
 
 Arms flung open wide, 
 
 Lip the laughing sea; 
 For playfellow, for bride, 
 
 Claim her impetuously! 
 Triumphantly exalt with all the free, 
 Buoyant, bounding splendor of the sea! 
 And if while on the billow 
 
 Wearily he lay, 
 His awful wild playfellow 
 
 Filled his mouth with spray, 
 Reft him of his breath, 
 
 To some far realms away 
 
 He would float with Death; 
 Wild wind would sing over him, 
 And the free foam cover him. 
 Waft him sleeping onward, . 
 Floating seaward, sunward, 
 
 All alone with Death; 
 In a realm of wondrous dreams 
 And shadow-haunted gleams. 
 
 Eoden Noel. 
 
 The Yachtsman 
 
 He wore a suit of blue, and a badge upon his cap, 
 And he liked to keep a pair of glasses handy; 
 
 He was lounging on the pier, when I met the dainty 
 chap, 
 
 (He wore a suit of blue, and a badge upon his cap) . 
 
 When I saw him on the boat, and the sails began to flap, 
 He was asking where the skipper kept the brandy. 
 
 He wore the suit of blue, and the badge upon his cap, 
 But he thought it best to keep a basin handy. 
 
 Coulson Kernahan. 
 
 35
 
 To a Golf Ball Before a Match 
 
 Little sphere from out the tissue peeping, 
 White as snows that on tall summits lie, 
 
 Fickle chance consigned you to my keeping, 
 We to-day are playmates, you and I. 
 
 Soon your glossy surface geometric 
 May be seamed by some unsightly scar; 
 
 For your beauty, sleek, smooth, and symmetric, 
 Pitiless, my polished clubs must mar. 
 
 Can I guide you past the perils lurking 
 In the hazards and the bunker's yawn, 
 
 Stroke by stroke my winning way well working 
 Onward to the home hole's level lawn? 
 
 In your dark elastic substance hiding, 
 Brought from mystic Asia's far Malay, 
 
 Is there not some potent charm abiding 
 That will lead me on to perfect play? 
 
 Faithful index, every stroke recording, 
 
 Cynosure of every eye you '11 be. 
 Lead the way, my practice well rewarding, 
 
 Fortune wing you on to victory! 
 
 Francis Bowler Keene. 
 
 Compensation 
 
 For when the breeze in merry Maytime blows 
 And, merrier maid beside, our hero goes 
 
 Forth to his tennis, is not payment given 
 For football dangers and November snows? 
 36
 
 Lament of the Unathletic Maiden 
 
 I 'm born a century late, 
 And I 'm utterly out of my sphere; 
 
 My ideas are all out of date, 
 And so are my talents, I fear. 
 
 I used to play tennis, and row, 
 And take a mild walk with a friend; 
 
 But now all my pleasures must go, 
 All my simple delights have an end. 
 
 'T is only the crews that may row, 
 
 And I, I "belong to no crew; 
 My methods in tennis are slow, 
 
 And not scientific, nor new. 
 
 But walking, it surely remains? 
 
 No, there 's the pedestrian band, 
 That wanders all over the plains, 
 
 And climbs every hill in the land. 
 
 And what 's a poor maiden to do 
 
 Who 's not athletic at all, 
 Who 's no time to row on a crew, 
 
 Or learn scientific baseball? 
 
 Isabella Campbell. 
 
 Where there 's keenness 
 For sport, there's little likelihood 
 
 Of a man's displaying meanness. 
 
 Eobert Browning. 
 
 37
 
 To an Athlete Dying Young 
 
 The time you won your town the race 
 We chaired you through the market-place; 
 Man and boy stood cheering by, 
 And home we brought you shoulder-high. 
 
 To-day, the road all runners come, 
 Shoulder-high we bring you home, 
 And set you at your threshold down, 
 Townsman of a stiller town. 
 
 Smart lad, to slip betimes away 
 From fields where glory does not stay, 
 And early though the laurel grows 
 It withers quicker than the rose. 
 
 Eyes the shady night has shut 
 Cannot see the record cut, 
 And silence sounds no worse than cheers 
 After earth has stopped the ears: 
 
 Now you will not swell the rout 
 
 Of lads that wore their honors out, 
 
 Runners whom renown outran 
 
 And the name died before the man. 
 
 So set, before its echoes fade, 
 The fleet foot on the sill of shade, 
 And hold to the low lintel up 
 The still-defended challenge cup. 
 
 And round that early-laureled head 
 Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead, 
 38
 
 And find unwithered on its curls 
 The garland briefer than a girl's. 
 
 Alfred Edward Housman. 
 
 Zermatt: To the Matterhorn 
 
 Thirty-two years since, up against the sun, 
 Seven shapes, thin atomies to lower sight, 
 Laboringly leaped and gained thy gabled height, 
 And four lives paid for what the seven had won. 
 
 They were the first by whom the deed was done, 
 And when I look at thee, my mind takes flight 
 To that day's tragic feat of manly might, 
 As though, till then, of history thou hadst none. 
 
 Yet ages ere men topped thee, late and soon 
 
 Thou watch 'dst each night the planets lift and 
 
 lower; 
 
 Thou gleam 'dst to Joshua's pausing sun and moon, 
 And brav'dst the tokening sky when Caesar's power 
 Approached its bloody end: yea, saw'st that Noon 
 When darkness filled the earth till the ninth hour. 
 
 Thomas Hardy. 
 
 Keep Your Temper 
 
 Whatever you play, 
 
 Keep your temper in hand. 
 There is nothing you say, 
 Whatever you play, 
 That will get you your way 
 
 Like a speech that is bland; 
 Whatever you play, 
 
 Keep your temper in hand. 
 
 Oliver Marble. 
 39
 
 A "Rise" 
 
 Under the shadows of a cliff 
 
 Crowned with a growth of stately pine 
 An angler moors his rocking skiff 
 
 And o'er the ripple casts his line, 
 And where the darkling current crawls, 
 Like thistledown the gay lure falls. 
 
 Then from the depths a silver gleam 
 Quick flashes, like a jewel bright, 
 
 Up through the waters of the stream, 
 An instant visible to sight 
 
 As lightning cleaves the somber sky 
 
 The black bass rises to the fly. 
 
 Ernest McGaffey. 
 
 The College Athlete 
 
 Statue-like standeth he forth, quick, elate, 
 Sculptured from living flesh, and closely planned 
 As any marble from the sculptor's hand 
 In poise and posture, stature, form, and weight; 
 
 Thoughtful months, too, are in his making: Pate, 
 Win he or lose, here is not blind; command 
 Is laid that sinew and brain understand: 
 One fine tool, calculated, delicate. 
 
 Yet art sufficeth not. To gain his end 
 With glory Soul must be; the selflessness 
 Which bringeth sparks from Paradise to earth, 
 
 Muscle and mind to kindle and transcend; 
 Some high ideal he shall not confess, 
 Such as hath given martyrs mortal birth. 
 
 Wallace Eice. 
 40
 
 A Ballade of Lawn Tennis 
 
 Some gain a universal fame 
 
 By dint of pugilistic might; 
 To some all sports seem very tame 
 
 Except a fierce and fistic fight; 
 
 Some love the tourney, too, in spite 
 Of ancient armor, helm, and crest, 
 
 Where knights are smitten and do smite 
 I like the Game of Tennis best. 
 
 Some love to take a gun and aim 
 
 At pretty birdlings in their flight; 
 Some also think it is no shame 
 
 To make poor trout and pickerel bite; 
 
 Some chase the deer from morn till night 
 I like not such a bloody quest, 
 
 My sport is harmless, pleasant, light 
 I like the Game of Tennis best. 
 
 Some for the ancient, royal game 
 
 Of golf. Arrayed in colors bright 
 They '11 play until they 're sore and lame 
 
 A frenzy without justice, quite. 
 
 Baseball and football may have right, 
 Polo and cricket and the rest 
 
 Of sports too many to recite 
 I like the Game of Tennis best. 
 
 Queen of the Court, my skill is light 
 In rhyming, but, perhaps, you 've guessed 
 
 Why this ballade I thus indite 
 I like the Game of Tennis best. 
 
 Franklin P. Adams. 
 41
 
 The Cry of the High Hurdlers 
 
 With bodies bowed, with breath drawn in, 
 
 We 're waiting for the sound; 
 Our hot hearts shake the start to make 
 
 And leave the clinging ground. 
 
 We 're coming, coming, coming, like the old 
 
 Olympics fleet, 
 For we 've sworn to smash the record in the 
 
 race; 
 And we 're leaping, leaping, leaping, like 
 
 the hunters in a chase, 
 
 And we spurn the heavy ground with flashing 
 feet. 
 
 The pistol cracks; we burst our bounds, 
 
 We 're working arms and feet; 
 Our heads go back as on the track 
 
 We stretch fresh racers fleet. 
 
 The hurdles lift their menace high 
 
 Like walls to break our flight; 
 We mount the air, a hidden stair, 
 
 And shoot their easy height. 
 
 And now we feel the final pull 
 
 A triple struggle hot; 
 We catch the cries, we feel the eyes, 
 
 We "hit her up" a jot. 
 
 We spurt as one, we rise abreast, 
 Like horses o'er a hedge;
 
 We hear the cry: ' 'A tie, a tie! " 
 We '11 drink to each a pledge. 
 
 We 're coming, coming, coming, like the old 
 
 Olympics fleet, 
 For we 've sworn to smash the record in the 
 
 race; 
 And we 're leaping, leaping, leaping, like 
 
 the hunters in the chase, 
 
 And we spurn the heavy ground with flashing 
 feet. 
 
 Horace Spencer Fiske. 
 
 Football 
 
 With heaving chest and wildly tossing hair, 
 The ball hugged tightly, down the field he goes; 
 The skillful "Mockers check opposing foes 
 Another touchdown cheering shakes the air. 
 
 For college honor strive the athletes there, 
 And by that spirit urged, care not for blows; 
 Each man with eagerness his prowess shows 
 That he in hard-won victory may share. 
 
 Chivalric days mayhap have passed away, 
 And sound of clashing steel in knightly strife; 
 More peaceful times are now our happiei lot. 
 
 Yet may such contests never lose their sway, 
 Where brain and muscle equally are rife, 
 And manly virtues to perfection brought! 
 
 Arthur Amsden Macurda. 
 43
 
 In a Single Gig 
 
 Sweep sweep sweep 
 By winding shore and willowy screen, 
 
 Sweep sweep sweep 
 Across tree-shadows gray or green, 
 By shelving beach of crinkling sand, 
 And deeps where drowsing cattle stand; 
 By meadow's rim, by mill-wheel's brim, 
 By white vine-suited cottage trim, 
 And where the red vine-clusters peep, 
 
 Sweep sweep sweep 
 And the strong white eddies leap 
 Where the broad blades run in the burning sun 
 With their sweep sweep sweep 
 
 By mouldering pier-heads that still keep 
 
 Their watch and ward on silent streams, 
 By grand-dams in wide doors asleep 
 
 And dreaming who shall say what dreams; 
 And further in cool breaths of pine 
 That taste like some old-vintaged wine, 
 Where scarce one ray of the saffron day 
 Through the arch of the incense shrine makes way, 
 Where the shadowy walls an echo make 
 
 To the sweep sweep sweep - 
 And the dancing globes in my wake 
 Of tree-top line and gold-leaf shine 
 
 The tinted image take. 
 
 Sweep sweep sweep 
 Now where great domes of cloud-land drift, 
 
 Sweep sweep sweep 
 Now where long shafts of sunlight sift, 
 44
 
 Through blue and white .and golden brown, 
 Where sloping fields of the wheat come down, 
 Where through burnt fume of summer bloom 
 The slender village steeples loom 
 Or broken lie in the bow- wave's curl, 
 Sweep sweep sweep 
 And the face of a country girl 
 Round-eyed and brown from the bridge looks down 
 To watch the foam-wreaths whirl. 
 
 Sweep sweep sweep 
 The oar rings true like a crystal bell; 
 
 Sweep sweep sweep 
 The rushes lie in the tiny swell; 
 And the treble tinkling of the song 
 Up where the keen prow shears along 
 Keeps tune and time with the plashing chime, 
 Keeps note for note with the sterner rhyme 
 Of the grumbling gear of the sliding seat. 
 
 Sweep sweep sweep 
 And beneath the hard-pressed feet 
 The ripples rise, the slim bow flies 
 To the song of the sliding seat. 
 
 Charles Edward BusselL 
 
 In vivid May and rustling June 
 When breeze's breath is like a tune, 
 Oh, where can life be free? 
 Where swings the bat, 
 Where shoots the ball, 
 Where rings the umpire's sudden call, 
 And curve and catch must settle all 
 Upon the diamond. 
 
 Horace Spencer Fiske. 
 45
 
 The Joys of Fowling 
 
 Of all the joys that sporting yields, 
 Give me to beat the stubble fields 
 
 Quite early in September: 
 A brace of pointers, staunch and true, 
 A gun that kills whate'er I view, 
 I care not whether old or new, 
 
 Are things one must remember. 
 
 Old Ponto makes a famous point, 
 As marble stiff, in every j oint. 
 
 I cautiously proceed, 
 When quickly up the covey fly 
 Bang, bang both barrels then I try- 
 And lo! a brace before me die, 
 
 The shooter's richest meed. 
 
 If hares I want for friends in town, 
 I can tell where to knock them down, 
 
 Within the furze-bush cover. 
 A leash I bag, then homeward go, 
 My spirits all in joyous flow, 
 And more delight, I 'm sure, I know, 
 
 Than doth a beauty's lover. 
 
 In wintry woods, when leaves are dead, 
 And hedges beam with berries red, 
 
 The pheasant is my spoil. 
 Fenced with high gaiters out I go, 
 And beat through tangled bushes low; 
 Each joy of mine my spaniels know, 
 
 Though wandering many a mile. 
 46
 
 At night returned, my bag well filled, 
 Perchance four brace of pheasants killed, 
 
 I sit me down in peace, 
 And envy not ambition's cares, 
 Nor e'en the crown a monarch wears, 
 Such joys as mine he seldom shares 
 
 Oh, may the joy ne'er cease. 
 
 Basketball at Bryn Mawr 
 
 An amphitheater built when Nature wrought her will, 
 Curve upon curve a glinting, grass-grown citadel; 
 A tawny hollow worn by many a well-fought rout, 
 And there a vivid, changing maze wreathes in and out. 
 
 The lithe young figures, with their striving, joyous 
 
 strength, 
 
 Entwined, rock to and fro in all their supple length; 
 Bright in October scarlet, gay in forest green, 
 They run like scurrying leaves, wind-blown through 
 
 Autumn's scene. 
 
 Here, first, a struggling knot will waver, swerve, and 
 
 form; , 
 
 There, then, it breaks, like scattering clouds before a 
 
 storm; 
 Wrenched bravely out with strength of straight young 
 
 arms, the ball 
 An instant hovers buoyant, high above them all. 
 
 Ethel le Roy de Koven. 
 Do your best; don't trust to luck; 
 Keep yourself out of the ruck; 
 Lose with smiles, and win with pluck. 
 
 47
 
 The Boy in Yellow 
 
 When first I strove to win the prize, 
 
 I felt my youthful spirits rise; 
 
 Hope's crimson flush illumed my face, 
 
 And all my soul was in the race. 
 
 When weighed and mounted, 't was my pride, 
 
 Before the starting-post to ride; 
 
 My rival 's dressed in red and green, 
 
 But I in simple yellow seen. 
 
 In stands around fair ladies swarm, 
 And mark with smiles my slender form; 
 Their lovely looks new ardor raise, 
 For beauty's smile is merit's praise! 
 The flag is dropped the sign to start 
 Away more fleet than winds we dart, 
 And though the odds against me lay, 
 The boy in yellow wins the day! 
 
 Though now no more we seek the race, 
 I trust the jockey keeps his place; 
 For still to win the prize, I feel 
 An equal wish, an equal zeal: 
 And still can "beauty's smile impart 
 Delightful tremors through this heart: 
 Indeed I feel it flutter now 
 Yes, while I look, and while I bow! 
 
 My tender years must vouch my truth 
 For candor ever dwells with youth; 
 Then the sage might well believe, 
 A face like mine could ne'er deceive. 
 
 48
 
 If here you e'er a match would make, 
 My life upon my luck I '11 stake; 
 And 'gainst all odds, I think you '11 say, 
 The boy in yellow wins the day. 
 
 The Golfer's Big, Big D 
 
 I drove a golf ball into the air, 
 It fell to earth, I knew not where; 
 For so swiftly it flew, the sight 
 Could not follow it in its flight. 
 
 I breathed a word into the air, 
 It fell to earth, I knew not where; 
 For who has sight so keen and free 
 That it can follow a big, big D? 
 
 A short time afterward on the green 
 I found that golf ball round and clean; 
 And the word from beginning to end 
 I heard again from the lips of a friend. 
 
 Greville E. Matheson. 
 
 Of Skating 
 
 She 's just at my back, and 
 
 She sees me, I 'm certain. 
 I '11 show I 'm a crack hand; 
 She 's just at my back, and 
 But something goes crack, and 
 
 I 'd best draw the curtain; 
 She 's just at my back, and 
 
 She sees me, I 'm certain. 
 
 Coulson Kernahan. 
 49
 
 The sunlight pours a golden flood across the grassy 
 
 field, 
 As up against a cloudless sky the grand stand throws 
 
 its shield; 
 The umpire tosses out the ball, the batter takes his 
 
 stand; 
 The catcher snugly fits his mask; the pitcher twirls his 
 
 hand, 
 And the new white sphere goes twisting like a bullet 
 
 from a gun, 
 And the crowds upon the bleachers settle down to see 
 
 the fun. 
 
 Three times the batter hits the air in lieu of the whirl- 
 ing ball, 
 
 And takes his seat with a heavy look at the umpire's 
 final call; 
 
 The second pounds a liner straight that beats him to 
 the base; 
 
 The third sends up a flier that seems made for climb- 
 ing space 
 
 Yet the center softly takes it in without the least 
 distress, 
 
 And the hopeful "ins" have a whitewashed stone on 
 the road to hard success. 
 
 Then the "outs" use all their brain power to find the 
 little curve, 
 
 And they learn that this is a little thing that can't be 
 found by nerve; 
 
 For the sullen ball and the angry bat don't seem in- 
 clined to meet, 
 
 50
 
 And never an eager batter has a chance to use his feet. 
 So the sides keep swinging back and forth, with now 
 
 and then a hit, 
 But without a single fought- for score to cither's benefit 
 
 Then the ninth it opens hotly with a triple-bagger 
 crack, 
 
 And the runner makes the bases like a racer round the 
 track; 
 
 Till the catcher's fumble brings him in amid the roar- 
 ing cheers, 
 
 And the hopes of half the people change to soul-de- 
 pressing fears; 
 
 For the aliens have a tally safe and the home team has 
 an O, 
 
 And only half an innings left to beat the foreign foe! 
 
 Now two are out; the third leads off with a dainty 
 little bunt, 
 
 And the hardest hitter plants his feet to meet the! 
 battle's brunt. 
 
 Lo! through the sky and over the fence the ball goes 
 climbing fast, 
 
 While the pair of runners touch the plate amid the 
 blare and blast; 
 
 And the people, standing, lift his praise on the wave 
 of a mighty cheer, 
 
 As the jubilant team on their shoulders bear the win- 
 ner of the year! 
 
 Horace Spencer Fiske. 
 
 If the joy of the game be your first and best aim 
 You can stand being beaten; for, after all, fame 
 Is a torch that you never can long keep aflame. 
 51
 
 With Good Steel Ringing 
 
 When the wan white moon in the skies feels chilly, 
 
 And wraps her round with a rifting cloud; 
 When the poplar stands like a monster lily, 
 
 That swings and sways in a silvern shroud; 
 When you don't get up with the lark at dawning, 
 
 But snooze and slumber till twelve instead, 
 And vow by the fire in the evening yawning, 
 
 'T is really too chilly to go to bed; 
 Sing Tan-tarra-ti, 
 A-skating we hie, 
 Where good ice bends 'neath a frosty sky. 
 
 There are tiny waists you may put your arm round 
 
 (Don't attempt it on land that 's all!), 
 And white warm hands you may clasp till charm-bound, 
 
 (Just in case they should chance to fall) ; 
 There are tresses trailing and bright eyes glowing, 
 
 Lips that laugh when you lend a hand, 
 And dainty ankles they can't help showing 
 
 (Quite by accident understand!), 
 Sing Tan-tarra-ti, 
 A-skating we hie, 
 
 The jolliest sport in the world, say I! 
 
 As a yacht that bends with the wind's wild wooing, 
 And dips white wings in the waves that swirl, 
 
 We bound and bend with a glad hallooing, 
 We curve and circle and wheel and whirl: 
 
 As a ship that sweeps with her wet sail swinging 
 When storms are spent past the harbor bar, 
 
 We glide erect then, with good steel ringing, 
 52
 
 We skim like swallow or shoot like star. 
 
 Sing Tan-tarra-ti, 
 
 A-skating we hie, 
 Like curlew winging we wheel or fly. 
 
 You may chant of cricket and tell of tennis, 
 Or yarn of yachts, till you both get warm; 
 You may talk of travel, and Borne and Venice, 
 
 And brag of boating or croquet's charm; 
 But summer has gone, and, with all your prating, 
 
 The grapes are sour, for they hang too high: 
 So hurrah for winter, hurrah for skating, 
 The jolliest sport in the world, say I! 
 Sing Tan-tarra-ti, 
 A-skating we hie, 
 With the good steel ringing like wind we fly. 
 
 Coulson Kernahan. 
 
 The Pole-Vaulter 
 
 Balancing 'twixt earth and sky 
 Unto you an instant 's given 
 
 Shared with birds that soar and fly 
 In and from the vaulting heaven. 
 
 With a grace deliberate 
 That firm wand in hand retain you: 
 
 As a ladder starward set, 
 Yet a bond on earth to chain you. 
 
 Then: an agile twist and weave 
 Onward, upward, and you hover 
 
 Hawk-like, as the rod you leave 
 Instantly, and down you 're over! 
 53
 
 A Song of Life and Golf 
 
 The thing they ca' the stymy o' 't, 
 
 I find it ilka where! 
 Ye 'maist lie deid an unco shot 
 
 Anither's ba' is there! 
 Ye canna win into the hole 
 
 However gleg ye be, 
 And ay, where'er my ba' may row, 
 
 Some limmer stymies me! 
 
 Somebody stymying me, 
 
 Somebody stymying me; 
 The grass may grow, the ba' may row; 
 
 Some limmer stymies me. 
 
 I lo'ed a lass, a bonnie lass, 
 
 Her lips an' locks were reid; 
 Intil her heart I could na pass: 
 
 Anither man lay deid! 
 He cam' atween me an' her heart, 
 
 I turned wi' tearfu' e'e, 
 I could na loft him, I maun part, 
 
 The limmer stymied me! 
 
 I socht a kirk, a bonny kirk, 
 
 Wi' teind, an' glebe, an' a', 
 A bonny yaird to feed a stirk, 
 
 An' links to ca' the ba'! 
 Anither lad he cam' an' fleeched, 
 
 A convartit U. P., 
 An' a' in vain ma best I preached, 
 
 That limmer stymied me! 
 
 It 's ay the same in life an' gowf, 
 I 'm stymied late an' ear', 
 54
 
 
 This warld is but a weary howf, 
 
 I 'd fain be itherwhere; 
 But whan auld Deith wad hole ma corp, 
 
 As sure as deith ye '11 see 
 Some coof has played the moudiewarp, 
 
 Bin in, an' stymied me, 
 
 Somebody stymying me, 
 
 Somebody stymying me, 
 The grass may grow, the ba' may row; 
 
 Some limmer stymies me. 
 
 Andrew Lang. 
 
 The Bather 
 
 I saw him go down to the water to bathe; 
 He stood naked upon the bank. 
 
 His breast was like a white cloud in the heaven, that 
 
 catches the sun; 
 It swelled with the sharp joy of the air. 
 
 His legs rose with the spring and curve of young 
 
 birches; 
 The hollow of his back caught the blue shadows: 
 
 With his head thrown up to the lips of the wind; 
 And the curls of his forehead astir with the wind. 
 
 I would that I were a man, they are so beautiful; 
 
 Their bodies are like the bows of the Indians; 
 
 They have the spring and grace of bows of hickory. 
 
 The beauty of a man is so lithe and alive and 
 
 triumphant, 
 
 Swift as the flight of a swallow and sure as the 
 pounce of an eagle. 
 
 Bichard Hovey. 
 55
 
 Song of the Swimmers 
 
 O fair as love 
 
 In the "blue above 
 The silvery sun-clouds bleach, 
 
 In the blue below 
 
 The white-caps' snow 
 Turns gold along the beach; 
 
 Bright ripples run 
 
 Against the sun 
 Before the soothing breeze, 
 
 And dear the tone 
 
 O' the summer moan 
 By the smiling summer seas ! 
 
 If sweet the draught 
 
 From well-springs quaffed 
 To dry and thirsty throats, 
 
 Thrice cool and sweet 
 
 Are the waves that greet 
 The swimmer as he floats; 
 
 Though soft the mesh 
 
 Against the flesh 
 Of silken sash and sleeve, 
 
 Yet softer far 
 
 The garments are 
 That velvet waters weave: 
 
 For weary heads 
 
 On sleepless beds 
 A couch of ease they lie 
 
 No anodyne 
 
 Can match this wine 
 That sparkles to the sky; 
 56
 
 At trick and trade, 
 
 Gold lost or made, 
 Who lingers in his sweat, 
 
 When sea and star 
 
 Call from afar 
 To live and to forget? 
 
 The great gales blow, 
 
 And high and low 
 The sea their lilies wreathe, 
 
 And rollers lift 
 
 Their sheer spindrift 
 Where waters strive and seethe; 
 
 The lunging surge 
 
 The swimmers urge, 
 Compellers of the brine, 
 
 And stroke on stroke 
 
 Win through the smoke 
 O' the breakers' battle line. 
 
 The city ways 
 
 Make weary days, 
 And weary brains they make, 
 
 And city roads 
 
 Hold heavy loads, 
 And heavy hearts they break; 
 
 But light as air 
 
 Our bodies there 
 At Ocean's laughing lip, 
 
 When in the comb 
 
 Of bubbling foam 
 The merry swimmers dip. 
 
 Wallace Rice. 
 
 57
 
 A Golfer's Elegy 
 
 Beneath these rugged elms, that maple's shade, 
 Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, 
 
 Each in his last, eternal bunker laid, 
 The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 
 
 Oft to the harvest did their sickle yield, 
 
 Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke 
 
 Ah, but they had no mashies then to wield, 
 They never learned to use the Vardon stroke. 
 
 The poor old souls, they only lived to toil, 
 To sow and reap and die, at last, obscure; 
 
 They never with their niblicks tore the soil 
 How sad the golfless annals of the poor! 
 
 The pomp of power may once have thrilled the souls 
 Of unenlightened men to-day it sinks 
 
 Beneath the saving grace of eighteen holes! 
 The paths of glory lead but to the links. 
 
 Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 
 
 Some heart that would have quickened to the game; 
 Hands that the lovely baffy might have swayed, 
 
 To Colonel Bogey's everlasting shame. 
 
 Full many a hole was passed by them unseen, 
 Because no fluttering flag was hoisted there; 
 Full many a smooth and sacred putting-green 
 They tore up with the plow, and did n't care. 
 
 Some village Taylor that, with dauntless breast, 
 Could whang the flail or swing the heavy maul; 
 
 58
 
 Some mute, inglorious Travers here may rest, 
 Some Harriman who never lost a ball. 
 
 Far from the eager foursome's noble strife 
 They leveled bunkers and they piled the hay, 
 
 Content to go uncaddied all through life, 
 And never were two up with one to play! 
 
 No further seek their hardships to disclose, 
 Nor stand in wonder at their lack of worth; 
 
 Here in these bunkers let their dust repose 
 They did n't know St. Andrews was on earth. 
 
 Samuel Ellsworth Riser. 
 
 Cricket Triolets 
 
 I ran for a catch, 
 
 With the sun in my eyes, Sir; 
 Being sure at a "snatch," 
 I ran for a catch; . . . 
 Now I wear a black patch, 
 
 And a nose such a size, Sir! 
 I ran for a catch, 
 
 With the sun in my eyes, Sir. 
 
 I stepped in to drive, 
 
 And the umpire said "Out, Sir!" 
 Being last to arrive, 
 I stepped in to drive, 
 For we wanted but five, 
 
 And had made them, no doubt, Sir; 
 But I stepped in to drive, 
 
 And the umpire said "Out, Sir!" 
 
 Coulson Kernahan. 
 59
 
 The Angler 
 
 Oh! the gallant fisher's life, 
 
 It is the best of any: 
 'T is full of pleasure, void of strife, 
 And 't is beloved by many: 
 
 Other joys 
 
 Are but toys; 
 
 Only this 
 
 Lawful is! 
 
 For our skill 
 
 Breeds no ill 
 But content and pleasure. . . . 
 
 When we please to walk abroad 
 
 For our recreation; 
 In the fields is our abode, 
 Full of delectation; 
 Where, in a brook, 
 With a hook, 
 Or a lake, 
 Fish we take; 
 There we sit, 
 For a bit, 
 Till we fish entangle. 
 
 We have gentles in a horn, 
 
 We have paste and worms too; 
 We can watch both night and morn, 
 Suffer rain and storms too ; 
 None do here 
 Use to swear; 
 Oaths do fray 
 Fish away; 
 We sit still 
 60
 
 And watch our quill: 
 Fishers must not wrangle. 
 
 If the sun's excessive heat 
 
 Makes our bodies swelter, 
 To an osier hedge we get 
 For a friendly shelter; 
 Where in a dyke, 
 Perch or pike, 
 Roach or dace, 
 We do chase, 
 Bleak or gudgeon 
 Without grudging; 
 We are still contented. 
 
 Or we sometimes pass an hour 
 
 Under a green willow, 
 That defends us from a shower, 
 Making earth our pillow; 
 Where we may 
 Think and pray, 
 Before death 
 Stops our breath: 
 Other joys 
 Are but toys, 
 And to be lamented. 
 
 John ChalkhiU. 
 
 To a Baseball 
 You 're going into play? An instant more 
 
 And yours the eyes of thousands. There 's for you 
 Huge plaudits welcoming the needed score, 
 Deep disapprovals at misplays they view, 
 And, best of all, the eager silence there 
 When, swift from bat or hand, you hang in air. 
 61 
 
 S
 
 Golfing by the Fire 
 
 Ere yet the evening lights are lit, 
 
 When you beside the fender sit, 
 
 And all the dusking house is still, 
 
 Then give to Memory her will, 
 
 And with her buoyant backward go 
 To those dead days, a radiant span, 
 Shaped for the merriment of man, 
 
 Before the links were sown with snow! 
 
 How could a golfer's thews but thrive 
 
 From day-long brassie-stroke and drive? 
 
 Two hundred yards an added score! 
 
 Ah, how the smitten ball did soar! 
 
 And then, and then, was ever seen 
 Of skill a subtler showing made, 
 Since golfer at St. Andrew's played? 
 
 "Dead" by the hole upon the green! 
 
 Thus o'er and o'er your prowess some 
 
 Portentous hazard will o'er come; 
 
 From desperate, deep-sunken "lies" 
 
 As though by magic you will rise; 
 
 And when at last you count the score, 
 Although you foozle at the start, 
 How you will thrill with pride at heart 
 
 To always be one up or more! 
 
 Clinton Scollard. 
 
 62
 
 Acknowledgment 
 
 The thanks of the compilers are due to Miss Ethel le 
 Boy de Koven for courteous permission to use "Basket 
 Ball at Bryn Mawr"; to Mr. Franklin P. Adams for 
 "A Ballade of Lawn Tennis"; to Mr. Horace Spencer 
 Fiske for "The Cry of the High Hurdlers" and "Upon 
 the Diamond"; to Messrs. Small, Maynard & Company 
 for the late Richard Hovey's "The Bather"; to Mr. 
 Francis Bowler Keene for "Golf's Cardinal Virtues" 
 and "To a Gold Ball Before the Match"; to Mr. 
 Samuel Ellsworth Kiser for "A Golfer's Elegy"; to 
 Mr. Louis Albert Lamb for "Beth-El"; to Mr. William 
 Lindsey for "The Hundred Yard Dash" and "The 
 Hammer Throw"; to Mr. Ernest McGaffey for 
 "Mark" and "A 'Rise' "; to Mr. Arthur Stan wood 
 Pier for "The Lawn-Tennis Player"; to Mr. Charles 
 Edward Russell for "In a Single Gig"; to Mr. Clinton 
 Scollard for "Golfing by the Fire"; and to Mr. John 
 Jarvis Holden for many favors.
 
 The Little Book Series 
 
 Edited and Compiled 
 
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 Wallace and Frances Rice 
 
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 Sports 
 
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 Cheer 
 
 Lullabies 
 
 Laughter 
 
 Limericks 
 
 School-Days 
 
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