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The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play,
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.
A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, "If only Kitty could but get a whack at that —
We'd put up even money now, with Kitty at the bat."
But Flynn preceded Kitty, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat;
For there seemed but little chance of Kitty getting to the bat.
But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and they saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.
Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It pounded on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Kitty, mighty Kitty, was advancing to the bat.
There was ease in Kitty's manner as she stepped into her place;
There was pride in Kitty's bearing and a smile lit Kitty's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, she lightly doffed her hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt
'twas Kitty at the bat.
Ten thousand eyes were on her as she rubbed her hands with dirt.
Five thousand tongues applauded when she wiped them on her shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance flashed in Kitty's eye, a sneer curled Kitty's lip.
And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Kitty stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped —
"That ain't my style," said Kitty. "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 on the stand;
And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Kitty raised her hand.
With a smile of Christian charity great Kitty's visage shone;
She stilled the rising tumult; she bade the game go on;
She signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew;
But Kitty still ignored it, and the umpire said "Strike two!"
"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!"
But one scornful look from Kitty and the audience was awed.
They saw her face grow stern and cold, they saw her muscles strain,
And they knew that Kitty wouldn't let that ball go by again.
The sneer has fled from Kitty's lip, the teeth are clenched in hate;
She pounds with cruel violence her 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 Kitty's blow.
Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere all are laughing, and little children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville — mighty Kitty has struck out.
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