idea. He'd seen Murnans in town at the
midwinter festival, their status-consciousness forgotten in mutual
quaffs of fonio-beer or barley-brandy, betting together at horse-races
and wheels-of-fortune. "My friends," the Amishman addressed the Murnans
gathered in his barn, inspecting Wutzchen, "let's play a game of ball."

Kazunzumi looked interested. As the local Chief of State, the Sarki's
approval guaranteed the enthusiasm of all the lesser ranks.

Aaron explained the game he had in mind. It wasn't baseball, an
"English" sport foreign to Amishmen, who can get through their teens
without having heard of either Comiskey Park or the World Series. Their
game, _Mosch Balle_, fits a barnyard better.

In lieu of the regulation softball used in the game of Corner Ball,
Martha had stitched together a sort of large beanbag. The playing-field
Aaron set up with the help of his visitors was a square some twelve
yards on a side, fence-rails being propped up to mark its boundaries and
fresh straw forked onto it six inches deep as footing.

Aaron's eight-man team was chosen from the working-stiffs. The opposing
eight were the Brass. To start the game, four of the proletarians stood
at the corners of the square; and two men of Kazunzumi's team waited
warily within.

Aaron commenced to explain the game. To say that the object of _Mosch
Balle_ is for a member of the outer, offensive, team to strike an inner,
defensive man with the ball is inadequate; such an explanation is as
lacking as to explain baseball as the pitcher's effort to throw a ball
so well that it's hittable, and so very well that it yet goes unhit.
Both games have their finer points.

"Now," Aaron told his guests on the field, "we four on the corners will
toss the ball back and forth amongst ourselves, shouting _Hah_,_Oh_,_Tay_,
with each pitch. Whoever has the ball on _Tay_ has to fling it at one of
the two men inside the square. If he misses, he's Out; and one of the
other men on our team takes his place. If he hits his target-man, the
target's Out, and will be replaced by another man from the Sarki's team.
The team with the last man left on the straw wins the first half. _Des
iss der Weeg wie mir's diehne_, O.K.?"

"_Afuwo!_" the Sarki yelled, a woman's call, grinning, crouched to
spring aside. "Hah!" Aaron shouted, and tossed the ball to Waziri's
older brother, Dauda. "Oh!" Dauda yelled, and threw the ball to the
shoemaker. "Tay!" the cobbler exulted, and slamme