The Project Gutenberg EBook of Right off the Bat, by William F. Kirk
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
Title: Right off the Bat
Baseball Ballads
Author: William F. Kirk
Illustrator: H. B. Martin
Release Date: February 12, 2011 [EBook #35243]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RIGHT OFF THE BAT ***
Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
generously made available by The Internet Archive.)
RIGHT OFF
THE BAT
BASEBALL BALLADS
By
WILLIAM F. KIRK
ILLUSTRATIONS BY
H. B. MARTIN
G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
(These verses originally appeared in the New York Evening Journal, and are here
reprinted through the courtesy of the National News Association.)
COPYRIGHT, 1910-1911, BY
NATIONAL NEWS ASSOCIATION
COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY
G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY
Right Off The Bat
TO
JOHN J. McGRAW
THE SCHOOLMASTER
OF BASEBALL
| PAGE | |
| John Bourbon, Pitcher | 7 |
| Sunday Baseball | 9 |
| The Big League | 11 |
| The Ballad of the Minor Leaguer | 13 |
| Ballade of a Substitute | 15 |
| Casey on a Bat | 17 |
| The Pitcher’s Soliloquy | 19 |
| Blessed Be Baseball | 21 |
| Raymond’s Ride | 23 |
| Four Conversations | 25 |
| “Inside” Baseball | 27 |
| The Difference | 29 |
| Cricket and Baseball | 31 |
| The League of Long Ago | 33 |
| The Longest Hit on Record | 35 |
| The Umpire’s Home | 37 |
| “Yellow” | 39 |
| The Umpire | 41 |
| “Choosing Sides” | 43 |
| Ode to a Georgia Gent | 45 |
| Life and Baseball | 47 |
| What Happened to Hilo | 49 |
| [Pg 6]I Was with Clarke | 51 |
| “Home Folks” | 53 |
| The Outfielder’s Dream | 55 |
| The Law of Averages | 57 |
| A Converted Rooter | 59 |
| To the Lady Bugs | 61 |
| Polo in Arizona | 63 |
| The Laddies’ League | 65 |
| The $11,000 Beauty | 67 |
| The Lay of the New York Fan | 69 |
| The Old Rooter | 71 |
| “If” | 73 |
Right Off the Bat
| They tell me that Matty can pitch like a fiend, But many long years before Matty was weaned I was pitching to players, and good players, too, Mike Kelley and Rusie and all the old crew. Red Sockalexis, the Indian star, Breitenstein, Clancy, McGill and McGarr. Matty a pitcher? Well, yes, he may be, But where in the world is a pitcher like me? My name is John Bourbon, I’m old, and yet young; I cannot keep track of the victims I’ve stung. I’ve studied their weaknesses, humored their whims, Muddled their eyesight and weakened their limbs, Bloated their faces and dammed up their veins, Rusted their joints and beclouded their brains. Matty a pitcher? Well, yes, he may be, But where in the world is a pitcher like me? [Pg 8] I have pitched to the stars of our national game, I have pitched them to ruin and pitched them to shame. They laughed when they faced me, so proud of their strength, Not knowing, poor fools, I would get them at length. I have pitched men off pinnacles scaled in long years. I have pitched those they loved into oceans of tears. Matty a pitcher? Well, yes, he may be, But where in the world is a pitcher like me? |
| The East Side Slashers were playing the Terrors, Piling up hits, assists and errors; Far from their stuffy tenement homes That cluster thicker than honeycombs, They ran the bases like busy bees, Fanned by the Hudson’s cooling breeze. Mrs. Hamilton-Marshall-Gray, Coming from church, chanced to pass that way. She saw the frolicking urchins there, Their shrill cries splitting the Sabbath air. “Mercy!” she murmured, “this must stop!” Then promptly proceeded to call a cop; And the cop swooped down on the luckless boys, Stopping their frivolous Sunday joys. Mrs. Hamilton-Marshall-Gray Spoke to her coachman and drove away Through beautiful parks, o’er shady roads, Past splashing fountains and rich abodes. Reaching her home, she was heard to say “How awful to break the Sabbath day!” [Pg 10] The Slashers and Terrors, side by side, Started their stifling subway ride Down through the city, ever down To the warping walls of Tenement Town. Reaching their homes, the troublesome tots Crept away to their shabby cots And dreamed of the grass and the droning bees, The pure, cool air and the waving trees, And how they had played their baseball game Till the Beautiful Christian Lady came. |
| You want to play in the Big League, boy? I guess that you will some day, For you’ve shown the speed the managers need And the lightning brain (the managers’ creed), And the heart that will bid you stay. But when you go to the Big League, boy, And play on the Big League grounds, As the seasons roll you will pay the toll From your fresh young nerves and your clean young soul, Till your pulse less buoyantly bounds. And you’ll learn strange things in the Big League, boy, The cream of the good and bad; You will come to know, in that shifting show, The things that I learned in the long ago When I, too, was a careless lad. For I came to play in the Big League, boy, And I played my string to the end. To eyes divine where the white lights shine I mumbled toasts over bubbling wine— And finished minus a friend. [Pg 12] You want to play in the Big League, boy? I guess that you will, some day, And this is the prayer of an old-time player— None was stronger and none was gayer— God help you along your way. |
| He came here in the early Spring with all the tryout mob, Striving to bat like Wagner and to slide (spikes first) like Cobb. Some of the vets cried, “Bonehead!” Others remarked, “Poor zob!” Modest as Spring’s arbutus, calm as an April dawn, He asked for no advances though his ticker was in pawn; He learned the law from Jawn McGraw but never called him “Jawn.” He graced the bench until July, leading the simple life— He wouldn’t touch a cocktail once to please a schoolmate’s wife; The slightest hint of a “creme de mint” would cut him like a knife. The village smith that stood beneath the spreading chestnut tree Had nothing on this youngster in the dodging of a spree. Others could tipple if they would—not for Recruit McGee. [Pg 14] Thus did the minor leaguer seek for affluence and fame— Virtue’s its own reward at times, but oft it pulls up lame. Now he has went back to the place from which he once had came! |
| I’ve been here nearly a season now, Watching the regulars, day after day; I wish some wizard would tell me how To break right into the game and stay. It isn’t as if I were some thick jay, Like a lot of those clumsy “Class B” flivvers, But I’m glued to the bench so hard that, say— The seat of my pants is full of slivers. McGill is a terrible lobbygow, But he’s drawing a regular shortstop’s pay; He romps around like a crippled cow And shows the speed of a two-ton dray. Night after night I kneel and pray For a chance to work with the real high livers, But I guess I’ll sub till my hair turns gray— The seat of my pants is full of slivers. [Pg 16] Clancy ought to be steering a plow Back on the farm near old Green Bay; He’s playing third, with his slanting brow; And Dugan ought to be pitching hay. The bulls they’ve made since the first of May Would give a McGraw one million shivers, But it’s “stay on the bench!” for Kid O’Shay, The seat of my pants is full of slivers. “ENVY” Manager, pardon this mournful bray, But my pride is hurt and my conscience quivers; Give me one chance in the thick of the fray— The seat of my pants is full of slivers. |
| It looked extremely rocky for the Boston team that day, The score was one to nothing, with one inning left to play. Casey, who played in centre field, had shown an hour too late— He hadn’t any alibi when staggering through the gate. So when he tore his necktie off and stepped upon his hat The manager looked grim and said, “It’s Casey on a bat.” “Well,” said the Boston manager, “with joy I ought to scream— Here’s Casey with a dandy load, the best man on the team. He told me he was sober, but he couldn’t quite get by When he stepped upon his derby and was yanking off his tie. Of all the hard luck in the world! The mean, ungrateful rat! A blooming championship at stake and Casey on a bat.” [Pg 18] Two Boston batters in the ninth were speedily retired, “Here, Casey!” cried the manager, speaking as one inspired, “Go in and bat for Grogan! There’s a man on second base, And if you hit the way you can we’ll win the pennant race.” This is no knock on buttermilk, or anything like that, But the winning hit was made that day by Casey on a bat. |
| A pitcher known in the days gone by As a star of the first degree Was making the dirt and gravel fly In the shade of an old oak tree. His spade was long and his arm was strong, And the ditch that he dug was wide; He paused at the sound of the dinner gong— And this is the sermon he sighed: “Young man, you are climbing the ladder now— Your arm is as firm as steel; The wreath of laurel is on your brow And the pride of a prince you feel. Do you think you will play when your hair turns gray? I thought my prowess would last, But you can’t strike out the men of to-day With the curves you threw in the past!” [Pg 20] In the merciless baseball game of life We may shine for a fleeting hour, But the strongest frame comes to shun the strife And loses its youthful power. So strive to lay, while it comes your way, A fence for Adversity’s blast. You can’t strike out the men of to-day With the curves you threw in the past. |
| The game was on! The cheers and roars Rang Eastward to Long Island’s shores; “Come on, you Matty—show your class!” “Oh, you Red Murray! Scorch the grass!” “Heads up, Big Injun!” “Scoop ’em, Bridwell!” “Devore stole home! And sure he slid well!” These and a thousand other roars Rang Eastward to Long Island’s shores. And folks of various sorts were there From East Side yeggs to ladies fair; Here a tragedian, there a joker, Here a banker and there a broker. Young dry goods clerks with booze clerks mingled, And all sat in with nerves that tingled. [Pg 22] One white-haired woman sat alone, Proud as a queen upon her throne. One dear old lady, calm, sedate, Age, very likely, eighty-eight. “Isn’t she sweet?” the women said; “Look at that lovely silvery head!” As in the sun she serenely basked A rooter sitting beside her asked: “How did you come to get away?” “My grandson,” she answered, “died to-day!” |
| Listen, dear rooters, and you shall hear Of the ride of a modern Paul Revere. The Paul Revere of “seventy-five” Rode like a fiend and won in a drive. The Paul Revere whose praises I sing Is Arthur Raymond, the spitball king. No plunging charger, no Arab steed, Loans to Raymond its wondrous speed, No dainty thoroughbred, sleek of side, Plays a part in our Raymond’s ride. Just a lumbering wagon, creaking and shaking Serves for the wonderful ride he’s taking. And it hustles him over hollow and hill, Drawn by a good old horse named WILL. [Pg 24] It bumps like blazes and swerves like sin When it nears a bar or passes an inn; It jerks like the tail of a crazy kite When a brewery looms on the left or right. When it nears The Coop or The Rooters’ Rest It bucks as a mustang bucks out West. But, calmly refusing to get a jag on, Raymond clings to that water wagon. * * * To Revere’s great feat you may point with pride, But Raymond is riding a greater ride.[1] |
| “I used to have ’em buffaloed when I was with Duluth, Out in that dinky pine tree league, and here’s the honest truth: This Mathewson ain’t better. Say, the benders that I slung Had all the sluggers swinging till they’d almost bust a lung. I’ll get ’em just the same right here—McGraw knows I can’t lose.” Said the Pitcher to the Barboy up at Paddy Donahue’s. “I lost a tough game yesterday, but that don’t make me sad; Believe me, I had everything—they walloped all I had. I didn’t get no swell support; my catcher crossed me twice And all the infield acted like a wagon full of ice. They all support this Mathewson. When I go in we lose!” Said the Pitcher to the Barboy up at Paddy Donahue’s. [Pg 26] “I’ve been here just two months to-day, and things are looking black; I lost a tough one yesterday, and now I’ve got the sack. Say, everyone’s against me, kid. My curve is breaking great, But four guys slammed it yesterday clear to the left field gate. Now I’m released—you hear me? Released with run-down shoes!” Said the Pitcher to the Barboy up at Paddy Donahue’s. * * * “Get out of here, you rummy! I can’t hand you no more booze!” Said the Barboy to the Pitcher up at Paddy Donahue’s. |
(The warden of one of the State penitentiaries has begun a system of Saturday half holidays for the convicts, a baseball game on the prison grounds being the main feature.)
| You talk of “inside” baseball and of managerial plans, Of signs and mental flashes that are Greek to all the fans; You tell of wondrous brainwork, such as Evers used to use When he wasn’t in his shoe store, selling patent leather shoes. I’ve seen some “inside” baseball in the various big league towns, And seen some “inside” pitching by the Mathewsons and Browns, But the finest “inside” baseball I have seen in many a day Is inside the dear old prison, where they like to have me stay. [Pg 28] The Yeggmen lead the league just now—that team is full of tricks; They beat the Con Men yesterday by seventeen to six. The Lifers have an outside chance to win the prison flag; The Counterfeiters still have hopes, although they seldom brag. The pitcher for the Grafters, namely, Alderman McGee, Has bet his good behavior that they’ll finish one, two, three. Yes, the finest “inside” baseball I have seen in many a day Is inside the dear old prison, where they like to have me stay. The game we had last Saturday was sure a corking sight; The Yeggmen beat the Grafters, but the Grafters made them fight. McGee, the Grafters’ pitcher, had to hide his head in shame— He tried to bribe the warden, who was umpiring the game. If Saturday’s a pleasant day for outside games like ball The Con Men play the Lifers, and we’ll be there, one and all. For the finest “inside” baseball I have seen in many a day Is inside the dear old prison, where they like to have me stay. |
| “It’s just this way,” said Danny O’Shay, As he whittled a stick and the hours away, “A player can booze for a year or two, The same as me or the same as you. You meet a ball-gamer now and then Who can guzzle more than the most of men. But sooner or later he has to go The way I was chased from the big league show. “The difference, kid,” said Danny O’Shay, “Between the hard and the easy way, As far as ball players goes, at least, Is a difference big as the West and East. I played ten years before I was spurned, And this is the lesson your uncle learned: The boozer THINKS he is splitting the wood, The man that is sober KNOWS he’s good. [Pg 30] “You see,” continued Danny O’Shay, “A dog and a man must have his day. I played like a demon for seven years, ’Till I switched to whiskey and quit my beers. I laughed at the friends that steered me right, But here’s the difference, black and white: The boozer THINKS he is splitting the wood, The man that is sober KNOWS he’s good.” |
| The cricket game was over and the sun was sinking low, The players in their blazers plodded homeward in a row. They stopped within the clubhouse for a final cup of tea, When up spake Captain Edgerton to Bowler Basil Fee: “Jolly well tried, old chap! You lost as the greatest can; But whether you win or whether you lose You’re always a gentleman. Have a Scotch and soda, old fellow— It will drive off the blooming blues; Keep up your stride, you jolly well tried, And a man can’t always lose.” The baseball game was over and the home team had been skinned, [Pg 32]The players slunk across the field while sundry knockers grinned; They hurried to the clubhouse for a bath and change of garb, When up spake Manager McDuff, and each word was a barb: “Fine lot of high-priced athletes! Most of you ain’t alive! I could pick a team from the Soldiers’ Home And beat you four out of five. Be out here at ten to-morrow— That goes the way that it lays; Any mixed-ale sport that doesn’t report Will squat on the bench ten days!” |
| They’ve got me sitting on the bench—I knew it had to come— Kid Casey subbed for me at third the day I broke my thumb; My thumb got better fast enough, but when I wanted back, “The Kid is stinging them a mile,” says good old Captain Mack. “The Kid is running bases like a Murray or a Cobb, The Kid does this, the Kid does that, the Kid is on the job.” And so I’m sitting on the bench, my spirits sort o’ low, And playing memory ball games in the League of Long Ago. I’m pulling for Kid Casey, and I hope he makes a mint, I help him every way I can, from cussword down to hint; [Pg 34]He knows that I am for him, too—’twas only yesterday He says to me, “Old leaguer, you’ve got ten more years to play.” But I know that he knows better, and I know just what I’m worth— A man can’t last forever in the swiftest game on earth. And so I’m sitting on the bench, my spirits sort o’ low, And playing memory ball games in the League of Long Ago. I played with Old Buck Ewing just before Buck blew the game, I played with Jimmy Ryan in the days of Anson’s fame. Then I was just a fresh young kid, and they were getting old, But not one slur they gave me when I broke into the fold. That’s why I like Kid Casey, and I’ll plug like sin for him, I told Mack only yesterday my eyes were getting dim. And so I’m sitting on the bench, my spirits sort o’ low, And playing memory ball games in the League of Long Ago. |
| I’ve heard of hits by Wagner, hits that scaled the left field fence, I’ve read about full many a clout tremendous and immense; I know about that old time wheeze where Ryan hit a ball That lit upon a steamer due in London late that Fall. But the longest hit on record was a hit by Dan O’Shay When the Bankers played the Brokers just five years ago to-day. Dan played left field or right field, I can’t remember which, But when it came to batting—well, Dan had the batter’s itch. His fellow brokers often said—perhaps they did but joke— They spent their all repairing baseball fences Danny broke. But the longest hit Dan ever made, as I set out to say, Was made against the Bankers just five years ago to-day. [Pg 36] A banker named O’Connor waited out in centre field When Dan O’Shay came to the plate, his nerves all calm and steeled. Dan hit the ball an awful soak, O’Connor clenched his teeth, And after quite a fearsome sprint, the ball he got beneath. Just as he caught the pellet two detectives hove in sight; He put the ball inside his shirt and told the gang “GOOD NIGHT!” He ran to far-off Labrador, the land of ice and snow, And everywhere O’Connor went the ball was sure to go. From there he went to Canada, from there he made Bengal, Then journeyed he to Mandalay, accompanied by that ball. And then he tried Australia, seeking diamonds in the dirt, But all the time he kept that ball he’d hidden in his shirt. He didn’t like Australia, so he trekked to many a land, From Greenland’s icy mountains clear to India’s coral strand. He sweltered in strange deserts, onward, onward, day by day, But always kept that baseball hit so hard by Dan O’Shay. If you ever go to Sing Sing, which I hope you never will, You’ll find O’Connor in a cell with that same horsehide pill. * * * Yes, the longest hit on record was a hit by Dan O’Shay, When the Bankers played the Brokers, just five years ago to-day. |
| Where does an umpire live? You ask me that? Come, I will take you to an umpire’s flat. Ah! Here we are! ’Tis five flights up, behind; Umpires are used to hiding—they don’t mind. This is the entrance. It’s a bachelor’s den, For umpires aren’t often married men. The owner’s not at home, but come with me; I know him well and have an extra key. This is the library; note well the books, Dingy and dismal, like the umpire’s looks. “Lives of the Martyrs,” “The Deserted Home,” “Dante’s Inferno,” “Rise and Fall of Rome.” “Paradise Lost,” “The Sinking of the Maine,” “Ballad of Reading Gaol,” and “Souls in Pain.” “The Death of Joan of Arc,” “The Convict’s Woe,” And all the works of Edgar Allen Poe. [Pg 38] This is the dining room, all done in black, With rugs of drab and tapestries of sack Notice the mottoes on the gloomy walls: “Drink to the countless strikes that I called balls,” “A toast to all the close ones that I miss,” “A curse upon the man who loves to hiss!” Where does an umpire live? You ask me that? Well, I have shown you through an umpire’s flat. |
| He wasn’t a strong looking fellow, And roughnecks played ball in those days; The ballgamers christened him “Yellow” Because of his mild, timid ways. Red Flynn slapped his face to a whisper One day when he missed a fly ball, And his jaw almost broke when he got a swell soak From the fist of Outfielder McCall. I used to feel sorry for “Yellow,” The gang made his life one long moan. He wasn’t a strong looking fellow, They ought to have let him alone. I’ve found, in my baseball excursions, From Maine to the parks way out West, That the players who win and draw down the tin, Are the players who throw out the chest. But courage is courage, I reckon; It’s hard to explain, but it’s true; [Pg 40]And sometimes a fellow that people call yellow Turns out to be brave and true blue. One day when a hit meant a pennant Our “Yellow” came up to the bat; Did he quit in the pinch? Did he falter and flinch? Sure he did. He struck out like a rat! |
| He was tall and rugged and coated with tan, He asked no odds and he feared no man. When he shouted “Strike!” or yelped “Ball Two!” You can wager it went, and went clear through. Seldom he argued, and never he fined The player who cursed or the player who whined, But he ran the game from beginning to end, Knew no mercy and feared no friend. Six years in the league he remained the same, Sneering at kickers and bossing the game, Snapping at roughnecks who made foolish howls, Slapping them, sometimes, fair on the jowls; Taking no talk, always making good, He ran the game as an umpire should, Till every paper and every fan Allowed that Flynn was a fearless man. [Pg 42] Flynn weighed two hundred, ringside weight, His sweet little wife weighed a hundred and eight; But when he finished the daily game And home to his small apartment came It was “Mike, you’re late!” and “Stay in the flat!” “Mike, do this!” and “Mike, do that!” ’Twas surely a shame, and almost a sin, The way that she bullied the fearless Flynn. * * * Kipling knew nothing concerning the Flynns When he wrote about “bearing the yoke.” A woman is only a woman, perhaps, But an umpire’s only a joke. |
| Baseball, they say, has changed a heap; I guess it has, in spots, And yet I liked it better when we played it on the lots. There were no signs for “hit and run,” no dazzling “fadeaways”; We had no high-priced managers to tell us fancy plays. No, we were just a lot of kids, with tanned and freckled hides; There were no concrete grand stands when we played at “choosing sides.” I saw a ball game yesterday, and o’er a brass band’s blare The cheers of thirty thousand fans were soaring through the air. [Pg 44]The turnstiles had been clicking for three solid golden hours, Recording wealth and profit for the big league baseball powers. How soon we lose our play days! How swiftly childhood glides! There were no clicking turnstiles when we played at “choosing sides.” The captains used to toss a bat, and then, hand over hand— But why repeat a story every boy must understand? Then came the careful picking—“I’ll take Reddy.” “Give me Flynn.” “I’ll choose you, Skinny Murphy.” “I’ll take you, Pat McGinn.” They picked the live ones first, of course, and finished with the snides; Feelings were often ruffled when we played at “choosing sides.” Dear reader, you’ll remember, if you peek into the past, The little four-eyed fellow that was always chosen last. The little weak-kneed urchin that the captain would ignore Until he found by counting, that he needed one man more. He couldn’t bat, he couldn’t field, and yet that shrimp to-day Is making laws in Congress, while his captain drives a dray. |
| A shudder ran around Forbes Field When Tyrus Cobb stole home. The brain of Honus Wagner reeled When Tyrus Cobb stole home. Manager Clarke his temples clasped, The Pirate rooters simply gasped— Their tenderest feelings had been rasped When Tyrus Cobb stole home. The Pirate pitcher’s heart stood still When Tyrus Cobb stole home. Gibson, the catcher, had a chill When Tyrus Cobb stole home. Large gobs of smoke began to crawl Across the ball yard, like a pall, And gloom was brooding over all When Tyrus Cobb stole home. [Pg 46] The rooters from Detroit went mad When Tyrus Cobb stole home. A very pleasant time was had When Tyrus Cobb stole home. Small wonder that they shouted so; In Hughey Jennings’s town, we know, The burglar list is sure to grow Since Tyrus Cobb stole home. |
| Winter howled around the corners of the old-time grocery store, Where the baseball star was sitting, giving out his baseball lore. Every day he told the neighbors in his little Western town How he hit the curves of Matty and the shoots of Miner Brown. “No, I ain’t signed up this season,” he would tell the gaping throng, “And I won’t sign boys, believe me, till the check looks good and strong. John T. Brush knows where to find me, and he knows I’ll play the game When I get a good fat contract”—but the contract never came. “Maybe I’ll go South to Texas,” said a gawky young recruit, “If the contract that they send me names a salary that will suit. Why, they’re crazy for new talent; all the papers tell me so, [Pg 48]And your little Uncle Dudley isn’t out to skip the dough. I can play that third sack, fellows, just as well as Devlin can, And I won’t take half a paycheck, when I’m every inch a man. When I get my kind of contract, I’ll jump out and grab the fame, Not till then will I get busy”—but the contract never came. Life is but a game of baseball, with its players everywhere; Some are sulking in their wigwams, some are out to do and dare. Some are working, working, working, turning labor into fun; Others talk of future conquests, and depart with nothing done. Far beyond the clouds and sunlight dwells a magnate wondrous kind, With a million, million contracts always waiting to be signed. Yours, my friend, the task of trying; yours alone the bitter blame, If you tell, when life is ebbing, how the contract never came. |
| Horatio Hilo was a bird, He used to romp from first to third On any kind of single. He played the sun-field like a master, You never saw a fielder faster, And oh, how he could bingle! Horatio Hilo played out West, Where man develops to his best, And Eastern scouts all watched him; They trailed him through the month of June, They said, “Him for the big league soon,” And finally they cotched him. Horatio joined a big league team, Thus gratifying boyhood’s dream, And got the rooters rooting; He was the captain of the crew At spearing flies and ground balls, too; He never thought of booting. [Pg 50] One night when Jack Frost whispered zero, A man named Fletcher met our hero And offered him a salary So large and thick and fat and round That it would reach from near the ground Clear to the upper gallery. Horatio listened, felt the clutch, And subsequently got in Dutch, His former chieftain fired him. The chieftain watched his bowed down head, And, asked for explanation, said Horatio tired him. “All right!” Horatio said, “you betcher I’ll go and get some coin from Fletcher,” But he was snubbed that morning. So, baseball players, if you’re wise, And think you’d like to Fletcherize, Hark to the Gypsy’s warning! |
| “I was with Clarke,” the pitcher said To the Pittsburg millionaire. The rich man bowed his silvery head To the pitcher standing there. “Enough, good man! Give me your mitt! Walk right in, I implore. Fred Clarke or any friend of his Finds here an open door.” “I was with Clarke,” the pitcher said. “Never mind,” the rich man cried. “Right over there is a Morris chair— Come, sit you by my side. And so you pitched for Clarke. Well, well! Try a flagon of this wine, For any friend of Frederick Clarke Is sure a friend of mine.” [Pg 52] “I was with Clarke,” the twirler said. “So you told me,” said his host. “Fill up your glass, and let me pass The best cigar I boast.” “As I was saying,” the pitcher cried, Taking a puff and sip, “As I was saying, I was with Clarke On one Spring training trip!” Then from his cozy seat arose That Pittsburg millionaire. He grabbed the stranger by the nose And yanked him from his chair. And then he closed the truthful eyes And split the lower lip Of the man who was with Frederick Clarke On one Spring training trip. |
| “Stranger, give me a chaw of terbaccer,” Came from the lanky Georgia “cracker.” “Know Ty Cobb? Wal, you bet we do! Desperate youngster, tough clear through! This is his home, but we ain’t too proud. We hope he’ll stay with that Dee-troit crowd. From all we hear, he spends his nights Roamin’ the streets and havin’ fights. And when he’s playin’, from what folks say, He spikes a baserunner every day. Stranger, we’re all his father’s friends, But them wild young blades all strikes bad ends!” “Is this where Mathewson lives?” I asked Of a peaceful person, who calmly basked Up on the side of a sunny hill O’erlooking the town of Factoryville. “He was born here, stranger,” the native said. “What is the matter? Is he dead? [Pg 54]I wouldn’t be sorry, to tell the truth, For there is a mighty swelled up youth! They tell me, those that follows them things, Matty is one of baseball’s kings. That’s a knock for him and his folks, I say, ’Cause baseball is crooked, anyway!” Then I went to the home of John McGraw, And hearkened well to the natives’ jaw. They mentioned John in a manner grim, And told of all that they had on him. And I went to the home of François Chance, Hearing them give their idol the lance. And to many another home I went, Finding this truth to be evident: He who wins fame by moving away To a big league town will be wise to stay! |
| Wild was the night, yet a wilder night Hung ’round the fielder’s pillow, For he dreamt that night of his wondrous might With the ash, also known as the willow. A few fond cockroaches lingered near, From the mouldy moulding pouring; They knew, by the sounds that smote the ear, That the hard hitting demon was snoring. They knew by the way he floundered there, By the murmurs hastily spoken, That he dreamed a bit of his home run hit The day that the fence was broken. They knew that he dreamed of his record grand, His wonderful batting and fielding, That he always hit safe when Ty Cobb fanned, That he had the pitchers yielding. [Pg 56] Wild was the night in the farming town, Wild as the wildest battle, Then the father’s voice rang out, “Come down And feed them gol dern cattle!” The cockroaches back to the moulding crept, The sleeper rose from the clover; And into his boots he deftly leapt— The outfielder’s dream was over. |
| The Winter League is here again, and in his native town The hero of a thousand games has quietly settled down. * * * |
| Spike Mulligan, the shortstop brave, who led the league in hitting, And drew one thousand bones a month for tending to his knitting, Is working in the corner store, slaving to beat the band, And drawing fifteen seeds a month for selling sugared sand. O’Halloran, the pitcher, who was certainly a hummer, And got a prince’s ransom for the work he did last Summer, Is keeping books this Winter for a shop that deals in buckets, And getting for the same each month as much as twenty ducats. McGonnigal, the fielder fleet, who hit like mad all season, And got a monthly envelope that seemed beyond all reason, Is driving team in Grangerville, and adding to his hoard By drawing down a salary of five a week and board. [Pg 58]McGinn, the famous backstop, who could throw so well to bases, And who received last season fifty-seven hundred aces, Is throwing cordwood on a sled, far from the rooters’ gaze, And getting eighteen dollars cash for every thirty days. * * * The Winter League is here again, and in his native town The hero of a thousand games has quietly settled down. |
| Say, on the level, fellows, just a year ago to-day I wouldn’t give a nickel for to watch them Yankees play; The Joints was good enough for me, and since I was a kid I hustled to the Polo Grounds and seen each stunt they did. Yankees? Well, say, I couldn’t see the Yankees with a glass; I’d always say their style of play was very much high grass. Yes, it was all the Polo Grounds—I never missed a game; I’d go if I was blind and deaf and paralyzed and lame. When Matty pitched I’d lose my head and outlung all the boys— The ushers put me out once, when I made too blame much noise. When Farrell’s club was here instead, I used to go to Coney, Because I always figgered that the Yanks was only phony. [Pg 60] But, say! I’ve changed my mind a lot, and that’s no showgirl’s dream; If Farrell hadn’t been all white, the Joints would be no team. They didn’t have no home at all after the fire that time, But Farrell says, “Use my grounds, boys; I hope it helps you climb.” A guy that does a thing like that, without no hot-air mush, Can have my fifty cents a day, the same as John T. Brush! |
| Lady Bug, Lady Bug, don’t you fly home— Stay till the ninth ere deciding to roam; Don’t you despair when the outlook seems blue, Be a game Lady Bug—see the game through! “Why does that man wear those things on his shins?” “How can we tell, when it’s over, who wins?” “Which is the umpire? Tell me, George, please, And what do they mean when they call him a cheese?” “Isn’t that Matty, that little boy there? What—that’s the bat boy? Well, I do declare!” “Why do they throw to that man on first base?” “Hasn’t that Indian got a fine face?” “What do they mean when they yell at each other?” “Don’t you think Wiltse looks just like my brother?” [Pg 62]“Can’t I keep score just as well without paper?” “See Mister Latham, the way he can caper!” “Isn’t this grand? I could come here at noon!” “Well, I declare! Is it over so soon?” Lady Bug, Lady Bug, feathers and fuss, Ask all the questions you want to of us. Maybe we’ll kid you, but, please, don’t you care; Baseball is better because you are there. |
| “How are you, pal?” said Phoenix Phil, when he saw me late last night; “I’m back from the polo game,” said I, “let’s go and get a bite.” “These polo games are funny enough,” said my Arizona friend, “With all their swell society folks and style without no end; But a polo game worth hiking sixty thousand miles to see Was a game we played on the desert once,” said Phoenix Phil to me. “An English guy with an extra eye,” said my Arizona friend, “Had taught us the game of polo, from beginning clean to end. The Prescott Kid on Old Katydid was the star we banked on most, For the Kid was cool as a pickle and fast as a midnight ghost. Old Katydid, Kid’s pet bronco, was smarter than ‘K. & E.,’ Which is saying a lot for a bucking horse,” said Phoenix Phil to me. [Pg 64] “Well, the English guy with the extra eye picked a team of his English pals, And we played a game of polo for the Phoenix boys and gals. But the game ain’t more than started when the Prescott Kid gets gay And into the thick of the playing he bucks with his outlaw gray. Them English was game as pebbles, but they broke and then they hid, Which wouldn’t surprise you much, pal, if you saw Old Katydid. * * * “Polo here in the East is fine, where hosses has pedigree, But Old Katydid was the break-up Kid,” said Phoenix Phil to me. |
| The Grown-up Fan, a wealthy man, sat in his grandstand seat, Gray hair and worry for his head, gout for his puffy feet. Watching the New York Giants beat the Cincinnati team, He closed his eyes an instant and he dreamed a lightning dream. The horsehide spheres changed suddenly to battered ten-cent balls, And spotless uniforms of white became blue overalls. Gone were the high-priced athletes with the letters on their breasts; A lot of urchins showed instead, minus their coats and vests— No blue-clad umpire ran the game with frown and raucous yell— The kids just ran the game themselves, and ran it mighty well. “One Old Cat” and a slivered bat and shanks that scorned fatigue Were quite the whole equipment in the famous Laddies’ League. [Pg 66] “It’s funny,” said the Grown-up Fan, his vagrant vision o’er, “But baseball of this high-class type is something of a bore. Maybe it’s all too flawless as they run the game to-day— It doesn’t grip me, somehow, like the games we used to play.” The Grown-up Fan, a worn old man, began his homeward climb With memories of the Laddies’ League that bars us all in time. |
| Of course, McGraw is always wrong—he never picks a winner. That’s why the Giant’s backers never have the price for dinner. His record as a manager is one long trail of blunders— He always kept the dead ones and he always canned the wonders. For three long years, with hoots and jeers, the rooters cried: “You boob! Why don’t you fire this Marquard?” But McGraw stood pat on “Rube.” McGraw has often kept young chaps when rooters shouted “Sell them!” He never tells the rooters why, and doesn’t have to tell them. He doesn’t like a lobster, and, believe me, Alexander, He wasn’t on a dead one when he kept that big left-hander. You’ve no idea how many fans called John McGraw a boob For letting other youngsters go and standing pat on “Rube.” [Pg 68] Rich merchants criticised McGraw in terms that were unkind— Merchants with lazy shipping clerks and men that robbed them blind. But Mac just smiled and held his peace. He should have said: “Don’t whine! Mismanage your own business, boys, and let me manage mine!” When Matty’s cunning goes at last—all arms in time must tire— He’ll leave a great successor in the boy Mac wouldn’t fire. |
| Yes, the baseball season’s over and the geese are flying South; Giants count their winnings gaily, Yanks are frothing at the mouth. Glancing o’er the season’s records, looking at the layout now, Nothing seems to bring deep furrows to my pale and thoughtful brow. True, we didn’t win the pennant as we did in days of yore For the Yankees couldn’t stop ’em and the Giants couldn’t score, But the New York fans must chuckle (you can get this at a glance) When they think of the Athletics and of Peerless Leader Chance. Oh, the Cubs of other seasons, how they made us writhe and curse! How they made us leave the ball yard moving slowly, a la hearse. [Pg 70]Oh you Sheckard, oh you Schulte, oh you great Three Fingered Brown, Oh you little shortstop Tinker, idol of Chicago town! We have followed all your doings, we have seen you going back, And to-night we’re burning incense at the shrine of Connie Mack. From the Battery to Harlem, rooters do a noisy dance When they think of the Athletics and of Peerless Leader Chance. Where Lake Michigan is seething as the seasons hasten on, Near the home of beef and bustle, near the home of Bathhouse John, Gloom has settled, fans feel nettled, nerves are right on edge like knives, Fathers spank their little children, husbands beat their trusting wives. But the rooters of Manhattan have no tales of woe to tell As they read their Sunday papers in the homes they love so well. Yes, they simply have to chuckle (you can get this at a glance) When they think of the Athletics and of Peerless Leader Chance. |
| I saw them open yesterday, the Giants and their foemen, I saw them field and hit and run, the fast men and the slow men; The sky was just as blue above, the sod as green beneath As when the old-time Giants used to frisk around the heath. But Billy Gilbert wasn’t there, Old Second Baseman Billy, Who used to pluck ’em from the air And drive the bleachers silly. I saw them open yesterday, I heard the turnstile clicking; I heard the popcorn venders’ cry and heard the tickers ticking. The field was smooth as desert land, the multitude was shouting, And to the heavens rose the sound of clouting, clouting, clouting. But Michael Donlin wasn’t there, The Mike they used to cheer for. “Come on, Mike, clout!” was all the shout We used to have an ear for. [Pg 72] The Giants opened yesterday, an April day and sunny; They played before a New York crowd of fashion, fun and money. Grandstanders cheered, the young fans jeered; the crowd was standing, swaying, It made me sigh for days gone by, when first I saw them playing. But Dan McGann has gone away And Dahlen with his science; Mertes and Seymour couldn’t stay— The Giants opened yesterday But not the old-time Giants. |
(Wireless Apologies to Rudyard Kipling)
| If John McGraw can hold his health and cunning, If Matty’s whip retains its fibre fine, If Raymond doesn’t keep the lager running From Harlem to Tom Sharkey’s down the line; If Ames can shake the hoodoo that has gripped him And bend them over as our Leon can, If Larry Doyle will fire the boots that tripped him, And field to suit the most exacting fan; If Harold Chase can keep his boys together, The veterans and the youngsters side by side, If Vaughn and Ford and Quinn can safely weather The season’s storms and keep a winning stride; If Chase remains the friskiest of friskers Around the bag he plays so wondrous well; If Edward Everett Bell will trim his whiskers, New York may win two pennants—who can tell? |
THE GAMBLERS
A dramatic story of American Life. By CHARLES KLEIN and ARTHUR HORNBLOW, authors of “The Lion and the Mouse,” “The Third Degree,” “John Marsh’s Millions,” etc. 12mo, Cloth. Illustrations from scenes in the great play. $1.50.
THE EASIEST WAY
A Vivid Story of Metropolitan Life. By EUGENE WALTER and ARTHUR HORNBLOW. 12mo, Cloth. Illustrated. $1.50.
THE ROGUE’S HEIRESS
A novel. By TOM GALLON. 12mo, Cloth. Illustrated. $1.50
THE THIRTEENTH MAN
A novel. By MRS. COULSON KERNAHAN. 12mo, Cloth. $1.50.
THE WIFE DECIDES
A romance of American Life. By SYDNEY WHARTON. 12mo, Cloth. Illustrations by J. C. CHASE and J. KNOWLES HARE, Jr. $1.50.
THE GUILTY MAN
A novel. By FRANCOIS COPPÉE. English Version by RUTH HELEN DAVIS. 12mo, Cloth. Illustrations by CLARENCE ROWE. $1.50.
JOHN MARSH’S MILLIONS
A novel. By CHARLES KLEIN and ARTHUR HORNBLOW. 12mo, Cloth. Illustrated. $1.50.
THE THIRD DEGREE
By CHARLES KLEIN and ARTHUR HORNBLOW. 12mo, Cloth bound. Illustrated. $1.50.
THE LION AND THE MOUSE
By CHARLES KLEIN and ARTHUR HORNBLOW. 12mo, Cloth bound. Illustrated. $1.50.
A HISTORY OF THE FRENCH ACADEMY
By D. MACLAREN ROBERTSON. 8vo, Cloth bound. Illustrated. Net, $3.00. Postage, 15 cents.
THE MAYOR OF NEW YORK
A romance of days to come. By L.P. GRATACAP. A story of Heroism and Devotion. Illustrated. 12mo, Cloth bound. $1.50.
THE COUNTRY BOY
By HOMER DAVENPORT. (The story of his own early life.) With over sixty illustrations by this world-famous cartoonist. Cloth bound. Net, $1.25.
THE SPENDTHRIFT
Novelized from the Popular Play by EDWARD MARSHALL. 12mo, Cloth bound. With six illustrations from scenes in the play. $1.50.
NEW FACES
A volume of 8 stories. By MYRA KELLY. 12mo, Cloth. Beautifully illustrated. $1.50.
THE OLD FLUTE PLAYER
By EDWARD MARSHALL and CHARLES T. DAZEY. The story, in competition with nearly 2,000 others, awarded the first prize at the Actors’ Fund Fair. Cloth bound. Illustrated. $1.50.
THE HOUSE ON STILTS
A novel. By R. H. HAZARD. 12mo, Cloth. Illustrated. $1.50.
BUCKY O’CONNOR
A novel. By WM. M. RAINE, author of “Wyoming,” etc. 12mo, Cloth. Illustrated. $1.50.
IF DAVID KNEW
By FRANCES AYMAR MATHEWS. Author of “My Lady Peggy Goes to Town,” etc. 12mo, Cloth bound. Illustrated. $1.50.
THE DOUBLE CROSS
A Romance of Mystery and Adventure in Mexico of To-Day. By GILSON WILLETS. 12mo. Illustrated. $1.50.
THE PEACOCK OF JEWELS
A detective story. By FERGUS HUME. 12mo, Cloth. $1.25.
TINSEL AND GOLD
A new novel by DION CLAYTON CALTHROP. Author of “Everybody’s Secret.” 12mo, Cloth. Illustrated. $1.5
BELLES, BEAUX AND BRAINS OF THE 60’S
By T. C. DE LEON. Octavo, Cloth bound. With one hundred and fifty half-tone portraits. Net, $3.00.
JOHN HOLDEN, UNIONIST
A Romance of the Days of Destruction and Reconstruction. By T. C. DE LEON. 12mo, Cloth. Illustrated. $1.50.
CRAG-NEST
A Romance of Sheridan’s Ride. By T. C. DE LEON. Illustrated. 12mo, Cloth. $1.25.
SAMANTHA ON CHILDREN’S RIGHTS
By MARIETTA HOLLEY. 8vo. Cloth bound. Illustrations by Chas. Grunwald. $1.50.
THE WRITING ON THE WALL
A novel founded on Olga Nethersole’s Play. By EDWARD MARSHALL. 12mo, Cloth bound. Illustrations by Clarence Rowe. $1.50.
RIDGWAY OF MONTANA
By WM. MacLEOD RAINE, author of “Wyoming.” 12mo. Cloth bound. Illustrated. $1.50.
REDCLOUD OF THE LAKES
By FREDERICK R. BURTON, author of “Strongheart.” 12mo, Cloth. Illustrated. $1.50.
THE THOROUGHBRED
A novel. By EDITH MACVANE. 12mo, Cloth bound. Illustrated. $1.50.
THE WARRENS OF VIRGINIA
By GEORGE CARY EGGLESTON. 12mo, Cloth bound. Illustrated. $1.50.
STRONGHEART
Novelized from WM. C. DeMILLE’S popular play, by F. R. BURTON. 12mo, Cloth. Illustrated. $1.50.
CATHERINE’S SHEAVES
By MRS. GEORGE SHELDON DOWNS. Illustrated. 12mo, Cloth. $1.25.
STEP BY STEP
By MRS. GEORGE SHELDON DOWNS. Illustrated. 12mo, Cloth. $1.50.
GERTRUDE ELLIOT’S CRUCIBLE
By MRS. GEORGE SHELDON DOWNS, author of “Katherine’s Sheaves,” “Step by Step,” etc. 12mo, Cloth bound. Illustrated. $1.50.
THE LAND OF FROZEN SUNS
A novel. By B. W. SINCLAIR, author of “Raw Gold,” etc. 12mo, Cloth. Illustrated. $1.50.
THE HAPPY FAMILY
By B. M. BOWER, author of “Chip of the Flying U,” etc. 12mo, Cloth. Illustrated. $1.25.
THE LONESOME TRAIL
By B. M. BOWER. 12mo, Cloth. Colored illustrations. $1.25.
THE LONG SHADOW
By B. M. BOWER. 12mo, Cloth. Illustrated. $1.25.
THE LURE OF THE DIM TRAILS
By B. M. BOWER. 12mo, Cloth. Illustrations by RUSSELL. $1.50.
CHIP OF THE FLYING U
By B. M. BOWER. Popular edition. 12mo. Illustrated. 50 cents.
HER PRAIRIE KNIGHT
By B. M. BOWER. 12mo, Cloth. Illustrated. Popular edition, 50 cents.
RANGE DWELLERS
By B. M. BOWER. 12mo, Cloth. Illustrated. Popular edition, 50 cents.
BY RIGHT OF CONQUEST
A powerful romantic novel. By ARTHUR HORNBLOW, author of Novel “The Lion and the Mouse,” “The End of the Game,” “The Profligate,” etc. 12mo, Cloth bound. Illustrated. $1.50.
THE CITY OF SPLENDID NIGHT
A novel. By JOHN W. HARDING, author of “Paid in Full,” etc. 12mo, Cloth bound. Illustrated. $1.50.
TRUE DETECTIVE STORIES
By A. L. DRUMMOND. 12mo, Cloth. Illustrated. $1.50.
ARTEMUS WARD
Complete Comic Writings, 12mo, Cloth. $2.00.
JOSH BILLINGS
Complete Comic Writings. 12mo, Cloth. Illustrated. $2.00.
DEVOTA
By AUGUSTA EVANS WILSON. Illustrated (Third large printing.) $1.50.
Footnote:
[1] This is only a spring poem.
End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Right off the Bat, by William F. Kirk
*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RIGHT OFF THE BAT ***
***** This file should be named 35243-h.htm or 35243-h.zip *****
This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
https://www.gutenberg.org/3/5/2/4/35243/
Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
generously made available by The Internet Archive.)
Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions
will be renamed.
Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no
one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation
(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without
permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules,
set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to
copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to
protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project
Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you
charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you
do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the
rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose
such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and
research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do
practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is
subject to the trademark license, especially commercial
redistribution.
*** START: FULL LICENSE ***
THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project
Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project
Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at
https://gutenberg.org/license).
Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works
1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy
all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.
If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the
terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or
entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.
1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement
and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works. See paragraph 1.E below.
1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation"
or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the
collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an
individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are
located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from
copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative
works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg
are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project
Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by
freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of
this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with
the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by
keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project
Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.
1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in
a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check
the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement
before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or
creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project
Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning
the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United
States.
1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate
access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently
whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the
phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project
Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed,
copied or distributed:
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived
from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is
posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied
and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees
or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work
with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the
work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1
through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the
Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or
1.E.9.
1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional
terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked
to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the
permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.
1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.
1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg-tm License.
1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any
word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or
distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than
"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version
posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org),
you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a
copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon
request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other
form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided
that
- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is
owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he
has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the
Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments
must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you
prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax
returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and
sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the
address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to
the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."
- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License. You must require such a user to return or
destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium
and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of
Project Gutenberg-tm works.
- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any
money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days
of receipt of the work.
- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.
1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set
forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from
both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael
Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the
Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.
1.F.
1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm
collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain
"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual
property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a
computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by
your equipment.
1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right
of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.
1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with
your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with
the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a
refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity
providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to
receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy
is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further
opportunities to fix the problem.
1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO
WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages.
If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the
law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be
interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by
the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any
provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.
1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance
with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production,
promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works,
harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees,
that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do
or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm
work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any
Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.
Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm
Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers
including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists
because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from
people in all walks of life.
Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations.
To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4
and the Foundation web page at https://www.pglaf.org.
Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at
https://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent
permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.
The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S.
Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered
throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at
809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email
business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact
information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official
page at https://pglaf.org
For additional contact information:
Dr. Gregory B. Newby
Chief Executive and Director
gbnewby@pglaf.org
Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation
Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide
spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.
The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To
SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any
particular state visit https://pglaf.org
While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.
International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including including checks, online payments and credit card
donations. To donate, please visit: https://pglaf.org/donate
Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.
Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm
concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared
with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project
Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.
Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.
unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily
keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.
Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:
https://www.gutenberg.org
This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.