Richmond Press, Inc.                          Richmond, VA                          1938

Explosive Baseballs

There was a small field near Carrington Street, years (and years and years) ago. In it a gang of little boys used to play baseball, not merely short-pants kids, but knee-high-to-a-duck kids, do you mind. Near this field there lived a lady--and she was an old meany, one of those persons who hate to see others enjoy themselves, especially if the same be boys. And when a ball would be knocked over her back fence, she would grab it and put it in her kitchen stove.

Now, reflect that these little diggers would play sometimes with a home-made bat, and the ball might be made of an old stocking balled up, or mayhap a ball of yarn covered with a piece of carpet; and if they should be able, by contributions from the proceeds of much gathering and selling to junk-shops of old rags and iron, to buy a ten-cent ball, or, oh joy! a twenty-five-cent "junior league" ball, why, that was the top of their ambition.

But, costly or cheap, the toss of a ball in the midst of an exciting game is serious and provoking--joy-killing, in fact.

So one day a scheme, deep and dark, was conceived in the mind of one of the little villains. They raised five cents and bought gunpowder--black powder was all that was made in those days. They took the cover off an old outworn ball, made a hasty shift, and put in the powder. And during the midst of a game, threw it over the fence.

Promptly the enemy rushed out into the yard, grabbed the ball, and went back into the kitchen. While the gang ran to the fence corners and awaited, with bated breath, the explosion.

Fortunately, it was delayed. It took some time for the fire to eat through the cover and wrapping; and, in the meanwhile, the lady had gone into the next room for a moment, when--BANG! and the joy of the boys was unbounded. It busted the firebox off the stove and the boys dared not play in the field for a long time. But, when they did, their ball was never thrown in the fire again.

This teaches us, as Balzac might say, not to be malicious.