From the Omaha Daily Bee, December 1, 1912. By Girard Coburn Griswold. Old Bill Schipke, hunting cove, sat one day by the Smokehouse stove, A look of eagerness on his face, as his thoughts hied on to the coming race, And he sighed for the days on the diamond green, and he sighed for the spot that is fair and clean— For the long winter days, and the winter chill, had roused a feeling that naught could fill— But the touch of the ball as it hurtling spat, from the mighty swing of some warrior’s bat Into his glove, there, fast to cling, till propelled to Kane, from his arm’s sure swing. And he dreamed of the ninth, with the bases filled by the slashing hits of his comrades skilled— Of two men down, and naught to erase the opponents’ lead, but a hit, well placed. A hit from his bat, which, ‘twixt hands gripped tight, he cautiously swung from left to right, As with careful eye each pitch he scanned, for the one that was right for the scores to land. The first ball sped toward the plate, at which Bill swung at a terrific rate, Meeting the sphere with an awful crack— The chair gave way, and upon his back old Bill Schipke, hunting cove, ‘roused from his dream by the Smokehouse stove.