And a merry Independence Day to you, sir!

Dear readers,

May your weiners be piping hot, your buns be toasted and your ale cold on your palate. Let the summer sun warm the flesh, and let an ocean breeze be most cooling on your moustache.

Settle down next to a portable wireless and revel in our freedom to listen to chapter after chapter of base-ball whilst sating ourselves with vittles and victuals procured from local merchants.

Cheers the sight of bunting at each and every parade, and holler gaily with every passing demonstration by the marching Women's Auxiliary.

And when our Heroes in Flannel, the Boston Red Stockings, plate ace after ace against the hapless Seattles, hoist your pilsner and be proud for America!

Your friend and confidant, patriot and Rooter, chronicler with Mr. Stuffy McInnes all things Red Stockinged and heroic on the base-ball pitch,

Hurdy Chadwick
Westbrook, Maine

The Greenest Yannigan

Curses on the inexperience of youth! As I sat in my armchair, an afternoon tumbler of Duffy's at the ready to bring me along into extra chapters during yesterday's thrilling stalemate with the Seattles, I heard the most horrendous sound.

The radio man's voice became high-pitched and wheezy, as he recounted a disastrous turn of events from the yannigan between-sacker Nicholas "Funny Britches" Green. Seems the rook made a colossal muff, hurling the apple beyond the first sacker and into a stand of bugs and cranks.

"What gives?" yelled I, receiving nothing but the crackle of the wireless as a reply.

Lo and behold, Green's gaffe led on the very next striker to a Seattle tally, and the conclusion of the match. The Seattles stormed the pitch like long-suffering seamen finally reaching port, while our flannel-clad heroes in Red hung their heads and boarded their Pullman sleepers for the journey back east.

Blargh on you, Mr. Green! And assorted follies for the other chaps who made this traveling set of games such a dismal basket of base-ball.

A Downpour in the Cascades!

The clouts came early and often last evening as the Red Stockings and the Seattles squared off on the banks of Puget Sound. Before the attendees had settled into the stadium seating, The Argonaut blasted a mighty four-ply drive to put the Olde Towne Team on top by two aces. Capt. Varitek followed with a full circuit clout the very next chapter, adding another two Red Stockings across the pentagon.

Yannigan Jeffrey "Champ" Bailey Gen. Beckett pitched admirably, despite his penchant for offering the occasional batsmen a particularly fine pill to mash into the night sky.

This after-noon, the Red Stockings again face the Seattles, and will feature a batting order without The Colossus, who has appeared to trade his mighty ash for a cattail-and-reed this very season.

The Captain comes through

The news-print in recent weeks has been stuffed with unkind words about our cheery and resolute Capt. Varitek. His bat, the yellow scribes from the evening papers have said, more resembles flimsy wicker than the beefy clouting ash of his fellow team-mates. And his steely eyed countenance, once so awe-inspiring to yannigans near and far, seemed to be reduced to a muted, longing gaze from behind his catcher's screen.

Even the Good Captain's body seems to be ripe for mutiny: It was said that he backstopped a recent match with the use of only one eye, his other swollen due to some undiagnosed malady. A full nine chapters slapping his mitten and snaring each hurled pill with just half his God-given vision? A more difficult course few have endured since the days of old, when captains did battle with high-seas serpents endowed with forked tails and saucer-like eyes.

But alas, last night Capt. Varitek reminded Rooters from Boston to Barstow that he carries the clouting ash, swatting a four-ply drive with authority and reminding the Seattles' corporate brass to rue the day they swapped ball-players and lost the Good Captain from the Cascades.

Full Circuit Clout sends a Huzzah to our Capt. Varitek, a hero whose leggings are stretched around thighs made so formidable by carrying the weight of the Bostons on his back for so many seasons. Lead the charge, Captain!

Return of the Native

A low, hungry feeling came over me this morning as I considered the plain truth of the previous evening. Another fine hurling performance by “Knuckles” Wakefield answered by his club-mates with listless swatting. Another late-chapter failure by the bull pen. Another defeat for the Bostons in a faraway ball-park.

But the time for gloomily chewing on our moustaches is over, as the Nine are set to begin another contest on the unfriendly Pacific coast. and to-night, we have a special card up our sleeve: Our starting Hurler is no stranger to the environs of Seattle.

He is a lad from the land of loggers, raised among the mists of Puget Sound and the timber-scented currents that blow down from the Cascades. Mounting the mound this evening should feel to “Nothin’ Doin’” Lester as much like a “home” match as any at Fenway Park, and his twirling should perform accordingly. Lead on, Lester, to a sorely needed road triumph.