The outlook wasn’t brilliant, for the Mudville Nine that day. The score stood 4 to 2, with but one inning more to play. So upon that stricken multitude, Grim melancholy sat. For there seemed but little chance, of Casey getting to the bat. It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon 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. They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain. And they knew that Casey wouldn’t let that ball go by again. The sneer is gone from Casey’s lip, his teeth are clenched in hate. He pounds with cruel violence, his bat upon the plate. He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew. But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said: strike two ! 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. That somewhere is right here, because Casey might’ve struck out.