THE LAW OF AVERAGES

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.

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.