And when the dust had lifted, and they saw what had occurred,

There was Blaikie safe on second and Flynn a-hugging third !

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.

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.

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 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 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.

Oh, somewhere in this favoured 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.

ERNEST LAWRENCE THAYER.

TO A MAID OF THIRTEEN.

How blithe you are, and tall,

And oh, so good to see!

How eager with the ball

And for its mastery!

You rise, a laughing joy,
Intent that all the day
No rougher youngling boy
A better game shall play.

At tennis how you run

The net is naught to leap!
On your flushed cheek the sun,
Your eyes brown-bright from sleep!

At golf how free your arm;

The waves know its caress.

Grief takes a quick alarm

At your sweet sprightliness!

Your crown the mightiest queen
Must envy, laughing maid:
Who would not be thirteen,
So tall, and unafraid?

ANONYMOUS.

THE DIVE.

ONE moment, poised above the flashing blue:
The next I'm slipping, sliding through

The water that caresses, yields, resists,
Wrapping my sight in cooling, grey-green mists.
Another moment-and I swirl, I rise,
Shaking the water from my blinded eyes,
And strike out strong, glad that I am alive,

To swim back to the grey old pile from which

I dive.

CORNELIA BROWNELL GOULD.

WHEN I GO OUT ON MY WHEEL.

WHEN I go out on my wheel, the world
Goes scurrying past, as the Hand unfurled
The leagues of hurrying brown or green;
And I see the little white houses between
The hedges and trees, and the air strikes hard
On my lifted face, and the odour of nard,
Of myrtle and roses, exalts like wine,
As I ride on my wheel and the world is mine.

When I go out on my wheel, the town

Fades away-fades away into stretches of brown;

And I hear the murmur of brooks that run Through the shady nooks till they greet the sun. And it's ho! oho! for the joy I feel

As I ride, as I glide, on my steed of steel; And the day and its moments are all divine, As I ride on my wheel and the world is mine.

When I go out on my wheel, I know
That back to the toil and the grind I must go;
But I do not mind as the moments fly,

For the world is fair and its child am I.

So it's ho! for the hedges that glide and glide, And it's ho! for the brooklets that hide and hide,

And it's ho! for the day with its smile benign, As I ride on my wheel and the world is mine!

Alfred James Waterhouse.