The Cross Timbers (10 page)

In the game itself the ball was pitched rather than thrown and the batter was allowed to have three strikes. He did not have to run, even though he hit the ball the first, or even the second time, that it was pitched to him, if he thought he could do better on
his second or third, and final, swing at it. Then he
must
run for first base. If a fielder threw the ball between the runner and the base or “crossed him out,” he was out of the game. He was also out if the ball was caught by a player of the other side; any batter who struck at a ball and missed it was out if it was caught by the catcher. Usually when three men were out the opposing team “came to bat.” “Town ball” was great fun, especially when there were four or five players on each side and the teams were evenly matched.

Other games played with a ball were “Antony-over,” “draw-base,” and “work-up,” sometimes called “scrub.” “Antony-over,” sometimes called “anti-over,” could be played by any number of players but we seldom had over six or eight at most. They were divided into opposing teams, as in most other games. The two groups lined up on opposite sides of the house or barn. The lad holding the ball called, “Antony” to warn the group on the other side of the building that the ball was coming. They responded by calling, “over” to indicate that they were ready. It should have been easy to catch the ball, but if there were three or four players reaching for it and getting in each others way it often hit the ground. In that case, the same warning was given and the ball was thrown back over the roof.

When a player caught the ball, he streaked around the building, followed by his comrades, and threw the ball at one of the biggest and best players of his opponents as they fled for the opposite side of the barn or house. Any player he hit had to change sides and become a member of his former opponent's team. The game ended when all players had been brought over to one group. We played “Antony-over” using the house as a
base only when there was no one inside. Grownups took a very dim view of half a dozen or so kids racing around the outside of the house yelling and laughing, and demanded that we choose some other structure for our game, preferably as far away as possible.

In “draw-base” players were chosen as in most other ball games. Two parallel lines then were drawn on the ground some fifty yards apart. These were “safety lines,” behind which the teams stood. A player on one side would throw the ball at the opposing group. If someone caught it he could call any player of the other team over to his own. If the ball was not caught but hit someone the person hit had to run for the line of the opposition. If he reached it safely he became a member of that group. If someone on his own side picked up the ball and hit the runner with it, he had to come back to his own team again.

In “work-up” or “scrub” positions of first batter, second and third batters, pitcher, catcher, right fielder, center and left fielders were assigned by lot. The game was played as in “town ball” but there was usually only one base. If a batter reached it safely he returned to his position, but if put out he started at the bottom as left fielder and every boy in the hierarchy of players then moved up one notch. It was fun and not as complicated as it sounds; but we seldom played it, for there were other games we liked better.

One of these more preferred games was “stink-base,” in which two teams were chosen as in “town ball.” Two large circles were drawn about seventy-five yards apart. The members of a team were safe as long as they were inside one of these circles. About ten feet from the edge of the part of the circle nearest to the
enemy a line was drawn on the ground called the “dare mark.” If the opposing teams faced north and south, about forty yards east or west of each circle was a rock or chunk of wood called “the stink.” The chief object of each team was to send one of its fleetest runners over to touch its opponents' dare mark. When on such a mission he was immune from attack by the opposition until the mark was touched.

When he stopped within a foot of the forbidden line he asked, “Is that your dare mark?”

“Yep,” was the answer.

“Doesn't look like much.”

“Dare you to touch it though.”

The visitor would stick one foot over the dare mark, being careful not to touch it, and make marks on the ground beyond it with the heel or toe of his shoe, while the opponents watched with bated breath, ready to pursue him if he touched the sacred line. The clever caller would then seek to distract the attention of his opponents, “Look,” he would cry excitedly, as he pointed his finger toward the house, “you've got company comin'.”

If his opponents involuntarily turned their heads, he dragged his foot across the dare mark and fled for his home base. If caught he was put on his enemy's “stink,” where he had to stay until rescued by one of his own men running out and touching him before being touched himself by a runner from the opposition. If he reached home base safely he and his comrades then had to guard their own dare mark from being touched by the swiftest runner of the other team.

The game was varied by one runner calling to his opponents that he was going around their base. This was often done if his
side had a man or two on “the stink,” for in sending out their fleetest men to capture the runner going around the base, those who stayed at home might not be able to prevent the rescue of their prisoners on “the stink.”

There were many other outdoor games in which fleetness of foot was the most desirable quality of every player, including such simple games as “last-one-on-wood-is-a-bear,” and “black man,” sometimes called “wolf-over-the-river.” In the latter two the captains chose their teams as in “town ball,” determining who had first choice by the “wet-or-dry method.” Two lines then were drawn about seventy or eighty yards apart. These were the safety lines, behind which the opposing teams were lined up. The captain of one team led his comrades forward as he called, “What do you do when you see the black man a-comin'?” The answer was, “Run like a turkey.”

The objective of the first black man's team was to catch members of the second group as they spread out and ran to get behind their opponents' line. When one was caught his captor had to pat him on the back three times and call out, “One, two, three.” The captive was out of that game and became a member of the team of his former opponents. The game ended when all of one side had been caught and what had been two teams had been merged into one. The winner was of course the original team that had caught all players of the opposition.

Although we played other “running games” as “sheepy-sheepy-go” and simple “dare-base” with the “stink” omitted, probably the most common of all such games was “hide-and-seek,” often called “hide-and-go-seek,” “I spy,” and even “whoop-and-hide” by one old lady of our community whose
seven kids were notoriously noisy. Like most other games mentioned, it had slight variations among different families of children. This was doubtless due to the fact that most of the people of the Cross Timbers had settled there not many years before and had come from other states or from different regions of Texas. Naturally they brought with them customs, idioms, superstitions, songs, and methods of work and play of the old homeland as part of their cultural baggage.

Hide-and-seek, as we played it, required the choice of a base, which might be a large tree or the wall near one corner of a barn. The original “seeker” might be chosen by drawing straws or by one of the numerous counting-out rhymes. Our favorite was this one with the counter pointing his finger at a different player, including himself, with each word.

Monkey, monkey, bottle o' beer

How many monkeys have we here.

One, two, three

Out goes
he.

The one designated as
he
stepped aside and the rhyme was repeated until all players were out but one, who became “it.”

He put his face against the tree or wall at the corner of the barn designated, closed his eyes, and began to count slowly. At 100 he called loudly, “A bushel o' wheat and a bushel o' rye, all that ain't hid holler I.”

Usually everyone had found a hiding place behind a corn crib or a clump of bushes, or by lying flat on the ground behind a rail fence or cellar. If some slowpoke was not yet hidden he yelled “I.” The counter then continued to 120 and then called again,
“A bushel o' wheat and a bushel o' clover, all that ain't hid can't hide over. All eyes open!”

He then set out in search of the hidden players. When one was found a race for the base followed. If the counter reached it first he slapped it three times with his hand and called, “One, two, three for John.” If the hidden one got there first it was
he
that patted the base three times as he called, “One, two, three for
me.”
This rule of slapping the base three times no doubt was to avoid disputes as to which one won the race if it happened to be very close.

The counter continued his search until all players had won the race or had been caught. The game was then resumed with the first player caught as “it.” The game was great fun and children of all ages, including both boys and girls, played it. There were minor variations, as in most other games. Some families of kids who called the game “I spy” called, “I spy Billy, one, two, three,” but it was still fundamentally “hide-and-seek.”

Many other games were played, including “corn-cob-battle,” in which sides were chosen and every player was armed with corn cobs. Any player struck with a cob was “dead” and out of the battle. Another game, no doubt of English origin, was called “How-many-miles-to-Miley Bright?” In this a safety line was drawn some two hundred yards from the starting point. All players, but two or three, started for the line but soon met a traveler and asked, “How many miles to Miley Bright?”

“Three score and ten.”

“Can we get there by candlelight?”

“If your legs are long and your heels are light.”

As the group moved on, the lone traveler called a warning, “Look out for witches on the way!”

A little farther on, one or two “witches” hidden in the bushes beside the road suddenly dashed out and tried to catch the fleeing pilgrims before they reached the safety line. The game was then resumed with the first two caught playing the part of witches.

Other games were “what's-your-trade,” no doubt the ancestor of “What's My Line?,” and less strenuous ones, such as pitching horseshoes, or tossing marbles at a line. The latter, called “lagging-marbles,” was often played for “keeps,” meaning that the pitcher whose marble was closer to the line kept both of them. I seldom played marbles for keeps, partly because it seemed to be gambling, and also because one could go broke very quickly.

Although we always liked to play outside with other boys, George and I were often forced to play alone and in bad weather we had to stay inside. Yet, I cannot recall that we were ever bored. On rainy days we might play checkers on a board made by ourselves on the wooden lid of a candy bucket, using lima beans and buttons or grains of corn for checker men. We also popped corn and roasted peanuts and sometimes played “ranching.” We had two or three rag rugs on the floor and one of these became the ranch. Big white grains of popcorn were sheep, peanuts or pecans were cattle, and marbles were horses. We bought and sold livestock, traded cattle for sheep or vice versa, and swapped a horse for more cows, pausing sometimes to “kill a beef” or a couple of sheep.

We played “hull gull” with pecans, peanuts, or grains of
popcorn, setting a limit of ten as the number that could be used in each play. For example, if peanuts were to be used the first player could take any number of not more than ten concealed in his cupped hands, shake them in front of his opponent, and say, “hull gull”; the response was “hand full.”

“How many?” asked the first player. If the guess made by the second player was correct he won the peanuts. If it was wrong he must give the first player as many peanuts as the difference between his guess and the correct number.

One day George and I found an ad in the
Farm and Fireside
of “One game dominoes, one game authors, six hidden-name cards, all for ten cents.” It seemed such a bargain that we pooled our financial resources and mailed our dime to the company. In a week or so the package came. The games consisted of two large sheets of paper; one was black on one side with the dominoes printed on it in white ink. A leaflet instructed us to paste the sheet on thick cardboard and cut out the dominoes with scissors or a sharp knife. The other sheet was white with the names of authors enclosed in small squares. They had no “stickem” on them, but we mixed a paste of flour and water and carefully pasted the domino sheet to a large piece of cardboard. Once it was fixed firmly to the cardboard base and was fully dry came the ticklish job of cutting out the dominoes. When that was completed we had a good set of dominoes, which we used for a year or more. The game of authors we felt was not worth the trouble.

Our playmates changed from time to time as farms were sold or renters moved away and new farmers took their places. The Clarks, like the poor, we “had with us always” but, while they
sometimes played “town ball” or some other game with us, they were far from being our favorite comrades.

Almost from the time we moved to the Cross Timbers farm the Brileys, already mentioned, were among our closest friends. When they came to see us on Sunday and spent the day we had a great deal of fun playing marbles or ball with their boys, Walter and Oscar. Sometimes we did not play games but roamed about the farm seeking wild berries. George was a year or so older than Walter and frequently played tricks on him and Oscar, in which I might be either an accessory or a fellow victim.

On one occasion the four of us were in the orchard eating peaches when we were joined by Bill and Ben Clark. In the nearby garden grew a couple of rows of winter onions called “shallots.” George and I had discovered that by pinching off the tip of one of these onion blades and bruising an inch of that end we could make noises faintly resembling music by blowing through the hollow tube and striking the wilted end with a finger.