Where sunburned ball-tossers earn their weekly wage, at the Polo Grounds, Manhattan, there was a new spectacle last week. The team was away. Some one had come and lined the field with white tape from deep outfield to home plate, where excited people stood waving rags, towels and handkerchiefs. If you watched closely, you would suddenly see flights of shadows whiz in from the outfield. They were spidery little animals with pinpoint noses, whittled bodies, pipestem legs.
The American Woman's Association had wanted money for a clubhouse, and busy Misses Anne Morgan and...
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