The Project Gutenberg EBook of Pine Tree Ballads, by Holman F. Day
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Title: Pine Tree Ballads
Rhymed Stories of Unplaned Human Natur' up in Maine
Author: Holman F. Day
Release Date: August 11, 2017 [EBook #55342]
Language: English
Character set encoding: UTF-8
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PINE TREE BALLADS ***
Produced by David Widger from page images generously
provided by the Internet Archive
TO THE HONORABLE JOHN ANDREW PETERS, LL.D. FORMER CHIEF JUSTICE OF THE SUPREME JUDICIAL COURT OF MAINE I DEDICATE THIS VOLUME IN MEMORY OF MANY YEARS OF FRIENDSHIP AND IN SINCERE APPRECIATION OF THE JURIST AND WIT WHO HAS IN ALL DIGNITY EVER TURNED A SMILING FACE TOWARD HIS MAINE THAT HAS SMILED LOVINGLY BACK AT HIM
CONTENTS
WHEN THE ALLEGASH DRIVE GOES THROUGH
THE KNIGHT OF THE SPIKE-SOLE BOOTS
THE SONG OF THE MAN WHO DRIVES
ORADUDOLPH MOODY, REPRESENTATIVE-ELECT
TRIBUTE TO MR. ATKINS’S BASS VOICE
BALLADS OF “CAPERS AND ACTIONS”
|THESE are plain tales of picturesque character-phases in Maine Yankeedom from the Allegash to the ocean. These are the men whose hands are blistered by plow-handle and ax, or whose calloused palms are gouged by the trawls. Their heads are as hard as the stones piled around their acres. Their wit is as keen as the bush-scythes with which they trim their rough pastures. But their hearts are as soft as the feather beds in their spare-rooms.
The frontispiece to this volume is from a photograph of “Uncle Solon” Chase, the widely known sage of Chase’s Mills in Andros-coggin county.
In Greenback days he won national fame as “Them Steers” and his quaint sayings have traveled from the Atlantic to the Pacific. There is no man in Maine who better typifies the homespun humor, honesty, and intelligence of Yankeedom. The picture opposite page 126 is from a photograph of the late Ezra Stephens of Oxford county, famed years ago as “the P. T. Barnum of Maine.” He originated the dancing turkey, the wonderful bird that appears in the story of “Ozy B. Orr.”
In another picture is shown “Jemimy” at her old loom and beside her are the swifts and the spinning wheel. The pictures illustrating “Elkanah B. Atkinson” (a poem commemorating a real episode in the life of Barney McGonldrick of Cherry field Tavern) and “John W. Jones” are character studies that will appeal to those who are acquainted with Maine rural life.
The thanks of the author and of the publish-ers are due to The Saturday Evening Post of Philadelphia, The Youth’s Companion, Ainslee’s Magazine, and Everybody’s Magazine, for permission to include in this volume verses which originally appeared in their columns, copyrighted by them.
Hear the chorus in that tie-up, runch, ger-
runch, and runch and runch!
—There’s a row of honest critters! Does me
good to hear ’em munch.
When the barn is gettin’ dusky and the sun’s
behind the drifts,
—Touchin’ last the gable winder where the
dancin’ hay-dust sifts,
When the coaxin’ from the tie-up kind o’ hints
it’s five o’clock—
Wal, I’ve got a job that suits me—that’s the
chore of feedin’ stock.
We’ve got patches down to our house—honest
patches, though, and neat,
But we’d rather have the patches than to skinch
on what we eat.
Lots of work, and grub to back ye—that’s a
mighty wholesome creed.
—Critters fust, s’r, that’s my motto—give the
critters all they need. ‘
And the way we do at our house, marm and
me take what is left,
And—wal,—we ain’t goin’ hungry, as you’ll
notice by our heft.
Drat the man that’s calculatin’ when he meas-
ures out his hay,
Groanin’ ev’ry time he pitches ary forkful out
the bay;
Drat the man who feeds out ruff-scuff, wood
and wire from the swale,
’Cause he wants to press his herds’-grass, send
his clover off for sale.
Down to our house we wear patches, but it
ain’t nobody’s biz
Jest as long as them ‘ere critters git the best of
hay there is.
When the cobwebs on the rafters drip with
winter’s early dusk
And the rows of critters’ noses, damp with
breath as sweet as musk,
Toss and tease me from the tie-up—ain’t a job
that suits me more
Than the feedin’ of the cattle—that’s the reg’-
lar wind-up chore.
When I grain ’em or I meal ’em—wal, there’s
plenty in the bin,
And I give ’em quaker measure ev’ry time I
dip down in;
And the hay, wal, now I’ve cut it, and I own
it and it’s mine
And I jab that blamed old fork in, till you’d
think I’d bust a tine.
I ain’t doin’ it for praises—no one sees me but
the pup,
—And I get his apperbation, ‘cause he pounds
his tail, rup, rup!
No, I do it ‘cause I want to; ‘cause I couldn’t
sleep a wink,
If I thought them poor dumb critters lacked for
fodder or for drink.
And to have the scufflin’ barnful give a jolly
little blat
When you open up o’ mornin’s, ah, there’s com-
fort, friend, in that!
And you’ve prob’ly sometimes noticed, when
his cattle hate a man,
That it’s pretty sure his neighbors size him up
on that same plan.
But I’m solid in my tie-up; when I’ve finished
up that chore,
I enjoy it standin’ list’nin’ for a minit at the
door.
And the rustle of the fodder and the nuzzlin’
in the meal
And the runchin’s of their feedin’ make this
humble feller feel
That there ain’t no greater comfort than this
’ere—to understand
That a dozen faithful critters owe their com-
fort to my hand.
Oh, the dim old barn seems homelike, with its
overhanging mows,
With its warm and battened tie-up, full of well-
fed sheep and cows.
Then I shet the door behind me, drop the bar
and drive the pin
And, with Jeff a-waggin’ after, lug the foamin’
milk pails in.
That’s the style of things to our house—marm
and me we don’t pull up
Until ev’ry critter’s eatin’, from the cattle to
the pup.
Then the biskits and the spare-rib and plum
preserves taste good,
For we’re feelin’, me and mother, that we’re
actin’ ’bout’s we should.
Like as can be, after supper mother sews an-
other patch
And she says the duds look trampy, ’cause she
ain’t got goods to match.
Fust of all, though, comes the mealbins and
the hay-mows; after those
If there’s any extry dollars, wal, we’ll see about
new clothes.
But to-night, why, bless ye, mother, pull the
rug acrost the door;
—Warmth and food and peace and comfort—
let’s not pester God for more.
A sort of a double-breasted face had old John
W. Jones,
Reddened and roughened by sun and wind,
with angular high cheek-bones.
At the fair, one time, of the Social Guild he re-
ceived unique renown
By being elected unanimously the homeliest
man in town.
The maidens giggled, the women smiled, the
men laughed loud and long,
And old John W. leaned right back and ho-
hawed good and strong.
And never was jest too broad for him—for all
of the quip and chaff
That assailed his queer old mug through life
he had but a hearty laugh.
“Ho, ho”, he’d snort, “haw, haw”, he’d roar;
“that’s me, my friends, that’s me!
Now hain’t that the most skew-angled phiz
that ever ye chanced to see?”
And then he would tell us this little tale.
“’Twas one dark night”, said he,
“I was driving along in a piece of woods and
there wasn’t a ray to see,
And all to once my cart locked wheels with
another old chap’s cart;
We gee-ed and backed but we hung there fast,
and neither of us could start.
Then the stranger man he struck a match, to
see how he’d git away,
And I vum, he had the homeliest face I’ve seen
for many a day.
Wal, jest for a joke I grabbed his throat and
pulled my pipe-case out,
And the stranger reckoned I had a gun, and he
wrassled good and stout.
But I got him down on his back at last and
straddled acrost his chest,
And allowed to him that he’d better plan to
go to his last long rest.
He gasped and groaned he was poor and old
and hadn’t a blessed cent,
And almost blubbering asked to know what
under the sun I meant.
Said I, ‘I’ve sworn if I meet a man that’s
homelier ’n what I be,
I’ll kill him. I reckin I’ve got the man.’ Says
he, ‘Please let me see?’
So I loosened a bit while he struck a match;
he held it with trembling hand
While through the tears in his poor old eyes
my cross-piled face he scanned.
Then he dropped the match and he groaned
and said, ‘If truly ye think that I
Am ha’f as homely as what you be—please
shoot! I want to die.’”
And the story always would start the laugh
and Jones would drop his jaw,
And lean’way back and slap his leg and
laugh,
“Ho, haw—haw—haw-w-w!”
That was Jones,
—John W. Jones,
Queer, Gothic old structure of cob-piled bones;
His droll, red face
Had not a trace
Of comeliness or of special grace;
But I tell you, friends, that candor glowed
In those true old eyes—those deep old
eyes,
And love and faith and manhood showed
Without disguise—without disguise.
Though he certainly won a just renown
As the homeliest man we had in town.
He never had married—that old John Jones;
he’d grubbed on his little patch,
Supported his parents until they died, and then
he had lived “old bach”.
We had some suspicions we couldn’t prove:
for years had an unknown man
Distributed gifts to the poor in town on a sort
of a Santa Claus plan.
If a worthy old widow was needing wood—
some night would that wood be left,
There was garden truck placed in the barns of
those by mishap or drought bereft.
And once when the night was clear and bright
in the glorious month of June,
Poor broken-legged Johnson’s garden was
hoed in the light of the great white moon.
And often some farmer by sickness weighed,
and weary, discouraged and poor,
Would find a wad of worn old bills tucked
carefully under his door.
And the tracks in the sod of this man who trod
by night on his secret routes
Were suspiciously like the other tracks that
were left by John Jones’ boots.
And the wheel-marks wobbled extremely like
the trail of Jones’ old cart,
But whatever his mercies he hid them all in the
depths of his warm old heart.
For whenever the neighbors would pin him
down, he’d lift his faded hat,
“Now, say”, he’d laugh, “can a man be good
with a physog such as that?”
Then came the days—the black, dread days
when the small-pox swept our town,
With pest-house crowded from sill to eaves and
the nurses “taken down.”
And panic reigned and the best went wild and
even the doctors fled,
And scarce was there one to aid the sick or
bury the awful dead.
But there in that pest house day and night a
man with quiet tones
And steady heart kept still at work—and that
was old John Jones.
While ever his joke was, “What! Afraid?
Why, gracious me, I’m fine,
And if I weren’t, a few more dents won’t harm
this face of mine”.
But those who writhed and moaned in pain
within that loathsome place
Saw beauty not of man and earth upon that
gnarled old face.
And when he eased their pain-racked forms or
brought the cooling draught,
They wondered if this saint could be the man
at whom they’d laughed.
And thus he fought, unwearied, brave, until
the Terror passed,
—And then, poor old John W. Jones, he had
the small-pox last.
And worn by vigils, toil, and fast, the fate he
had defied
Descended on him, stern and fierce,—he died,
my friends, he died.
They held one service at the church for all the
village dead.
The pastor, when he came to Jones, he choked
a bit and said:
“If handsome is as handsome does—and now
I say to you
I verily—I honestly believe that saying true.
—If handsome is as handsome does, we had
right here in town
A man whose beauty fairly shone—from
Heaven itself brought down.
At first, perhaps, we failed to grasp the con-
tour of that face,
But now with God’s own light on it we see its
perfect grace.
And so I say our handsomest man”—the pas-
tor hushed his tones,
With streaming eyes looked up and said, “was
old John W. Jones
Such was Jones,
—John W. Jones,
Queer, Gothic old structure of cob-piled bones;
His quaint, red face
Had not a trace
Of comeliness or of special grace.
But I tell you, friends, we drop this shell,
Just over There—just over There!
Good thoughts, good deeds, good hearts will
tell
In moulding souls, serene and fair,
And Jones will stand with harp and crown,
The handsomest angel from our old town.
Slowly the toil-cramped, gnarled old fist
Wrought at the sheet with a rasping pen;
Halted with tremulous quirk and twist,
Staggered, and then went on again.
The wan sun peeped through the wee patched
pane
And checkered the floor where the pale
beams shone
In a quaint old kitchen up in Maine,
With an old man writing there alone.
And the pen wrought on and the head drooped
low
And a tear plashed down on the rusted pen,
As it traced a verse of the long ago
That his grief had brought to his heart
again.
Be kind to thy father for when thou wast
young,
Who loved thee so fondly as lied
He caught the first accents that fell from
thy tongue.
And joined in thy innocent glee.
Be kind to thy father for now he is old,
His locks intermingled with gray;
His footsteps are feeble, once fearless and
bold
Thy father is passing away.
Be kind to thy mother for lo, on her brow,
May traces of sorrow be seen.
Oh, well mayst thou cherish and comfort
her now,
For loving and kind has she been.
Remember thy mother, for thee she will
pray
As long as God giveth her breath
With accents of kindness; then cheer her
hard way
E’en thro’ the dark valley of death.”
Listlessly threshed in a careless court
The poor, plain tale of a home was told,
Furnishing food for the lawyers’ sport
And a jest at the fond and the foolish old.
The counsel said as he winked an eye,
“Deeded the farm to their only son;
And after’twas deeded they didn’t die
Quite as quick as they should have done.”
Drearily dragged the homely case,
Petty and mean in all its parts;
Quest thro’ the law for an old home place,
—Put never a word of two broken hearts.
Only a suit where the son and wife
Pledged themselves when they coaxed the
deed,
To comfort the close of the old folks’ life:
—Only another case where greed
Sneered at the toil of the long, hard years
Of martyrdom to the hoe and axe,
Writ in wrinkles and etched in tears
And told in the curve of the old bent backs,
—Bent in the strife with the rocky soil,
When the grinding work was never done,
With just one rift in the cloud of toil:
—‘Twas all for the sake of their only son.
Simply a tedious legal maze
With neighbors stirring the thing for sport,
too.
And loungers eyeing with listless gaze
This queer old couple dragged to court.
Meekly they would have granted greed
All that it sought for—all its spoil;
Little they valued a forfeit deed,
Nor selfishly reckoned their years of toil.
Heartsick they while the lawyers urged,
Mute when the law vouchsafed their prayer;
—Courts soothe not such grief as surged
In the hearts of the old folks trembling there.
What though the jury’s word restored
The walls and roof of the old home place?
Would it give them back the blessed hoard
Of trust that knew no son’s disgrace?
Would it give them back his boyhood smiles,
His boyhood love, their simple joy,
Would it heal the wounds of these afterwhiles,
And make him again their own dear boy?
Would it soothe the smart of the cruel words,
Of sullen looks and cold neglect?
And dull the taunts that pierced like swords
And slashed where the wielders little recked?
No; Justice gives the walls and roof,
—To palsied hands a cancelled deed,
Rebuking with a stern reproof
A son’s unfilial, shameless greed.
But love that made that old home warm,
And hope that made all labor sweet,
The glow of peace that shamed the storm
And melted on the pane the sleet;
And faith and truth and loving hearts
And tender trust in fellow men—
Ah, these, my friend, no lawyers’ arts
Can give again, can give again.
He always dodged ’round in a ragged old
coat,
With a tattered, blue comforter tied on his
throat.
His dusty old cart used to rattle and bang
As he yelled through the village, “Gid dap!”
and “Go ’lang!”
You’d think from his looks that he wa’n’t wuth
a cent;
—Was poorer than Pooduc, to judge how he
went.
But back in the country don’t reckon on style
To give ye a notion of anyone’s pile.
When he died and they figgered his pus’nal
estate,
He was mighty well-fixed—was old “Squeal-
in’ Jim” Waite.
But say, I’d advise ye to sort of look out
How ye say “Squealin’ Jim” when the’s
widders about.
They’re likely to light on ye, hot tar and pitch,
And give ye some points as to what, where and
which;
For if ever a critter was reckoned a saint
By the widders’round here, I’ll be dinged if he
ain’t.
For please understand that the widders call
him,
—Sheddin’ tears while they’re sayin’ it,—
“Thanksgivin’ Jim”.
He was little—why,
Wa’n’t scarce knee high
To a garden toad. But was mighty spry!
He was all of a whew
If he’d things to do!
’Twas a zip and a streak when Jim went
through.
But his voice was twice as big as him
And the boys all called him “Squealin’ Jim”.
He was always a-hurryin’ all through his life
And said there wa’n’t time for to hunt up a
wife.
So he kept bach’s hall and he worked like a
dog,
—Jest whooped right along at a trottin’ hoss
jog-
There’s a yarn that the fellers that knew him
will tell
If they want to set Jim out and set him out
well:
He was bound for the city on bus’ness one day
And whoosh! scooted down to the depot, they
say.
The depot-man says, “Hain’t no rush, Mr.
Waite,
For the train to the city is ten minutes late
Off flew Squealin’ Jim with his grip, on the
run,
And away down the track he went hoofin’ like
fun.
When he tore out of sight, couldn’t see him
for dust
And he squealed, “Train be jiggered! I’ll git
there, now, fust!”
—So nervous and active he jest wouldn’t wait
When they told him the train was a leetle dite
late.
Now that was Jim!
He was stubby and slim
But it took a spry critter to step up with him.
His height when he’d rise
Made ye laugh, but his eyes
Let ye know that his soul wasn’t much under-
size.
And some old widders we had in town
Insisted, reg’lar, he wore a crown.
As he whoopity-larruped along on his way,
There were people who’d turn up their noses
and say
That Squealin’ Jim Waite wasn’t right in his
head;
He was cranky as blazes, the old growlers said.
I can well understand that some things he
would do
Seemed loony as time to that stingy old crew.
For a fact, there was no one jest like him in
town,
He was most always actin’ the part of a clown;
He would say funny things in his queer,
squealin’ style,
And he talked so’s you’d hear him for more
than a mile.
But ev’ry Thanksgivin’ time Waite he would
start
And clatter through town in his rattlin’ old
cart,
And what do ye s’pose? He would whang
down the street,
Yank up at each widder’s; from under the seat
Would haul out a turkey of yaller-legged chick
And holler, “Here, mother, h’ist out with ye,
quick!”
Then he’d toss down a bouncer right into her
lap
And belt off like fury with, “G’long, there!
Gid dap!”
Didn’t wait for no thanks—couldn’t work ’em
on him,
—Couldn’t catch him to thank him—that
Thanksgivin’ Jim.
’Twas a queer idee
’Round town that he
Was off’n his balance and crazy’s could be.
They’d set and chaw
And stew and jaw,
And projick on what he did it for.
But prob’ly in Heaven old Squealin’ Jim
Found lots of crazy folks jest like him.
Cheerful crab was that old Posh,
—Warn’t afflicted much with dosh,
—Fact, he worked round sawin’ wood,
Earnin’ what few cents he could,
Got that name o’ Posh in fun;
Dad had named him Washington;
Children got to call him “Wash.”
Then at last ’twas jest “Old Posh.”
That’s the way you knew, a name
Sort of fits itself with fame:
If he’d growed some great big gun.
Would have called him Washington.
But “Old Posh” was just as good
For a poor chap sawin’ wood.
Critter never made no talk.
—Made his old saw screak and scrawk,
Earnt his dollar’n ten a day.
—Didn’t leave much time for play.
Had a wife and boys to keep,
Reelly had to skinch his sleep.
I’ve been out sir, late at night
Seen him at it good and tight.
Where he’d took it to be sawed
At a dollar’n ten a cord.
And I’d say. Ye’re at it late.”
Then he’d grunt himself up straight.
Slick his for’ead clear of sweat
And he’d say. “Wal, you jest bet!
Bankin’ hours don’t jibe in good
With this job cf sawin’ wood.
Still, when this ’ere don’t suit me
I kin go and climb a tree.”
That’s the crack he allus sent;
—I donno jest what he meant—
Likely’nough, sir, even he
Didn’t have no clear idee.
Still it seemed to fix the thing;
—He’d commence to saw and sing,
’S if at anytime he could
Git clean shet of sawin’ wood.
So he worked, s’r, all his life,
Kept his children and his wife;
Boys amount to more’n you’d suppose
—Got good jobs and wear good clothes.
If they’d turned out shiftless, gosh,
Never’d took the thing from Posh!
Posh, he died at seventy-one,
—Worked right up till set of sun.
Sawed his reg’lar cord that day,
Et his supper reg’lar way,
Told his wife warn’t feel in’ well:
Said he guessed he’d drowse a spell.
For he reckoned, so he said.
That he’d saw a while ’fore bed.
—Warn’t no need of workin’ so,
Boys was earnin’ well, ye know.
But he couldn’t seem to quit.
—At it stiddy, saw and split.
Set that night there in his chair,
—Got to dreamin’, and I swear,
Snores they sounded near’s they could
Like a feller sawin’ wood.
Last he gave a mighty “plock”
Same’s he’d strike a choppin’ block,
When he’d set his ax an’ say,
“Wal, I guess that’s all to-day.”
Doctor got there quick’s he could,
—Said he couldn’t do no good.
Shock, ye know! It left things slim
When a man has worked like him.
“Hav’ to rest, I guess, a while,”
Posh said, with a crooked smile,
—Shock had twisted round his face,
Alwus does in such a case.
“Hav’ to rest, I reckin, for
Feel too tuckered out to saw.”
Jest a little ’fore he died.
Smiled agin and kind of sighed,
“Guess it’s all that’s left,” said he,
“Reckin’ I’ll go climb a tree.”
Here’s ho for the masterful men o’ Maine,
—Grit and gumption, brawn and brain!
South they go and West they flow,
The men that do and the men that know.
And Fame and Honor, Power and Gain
Come to the call of the men o’ Maine.
But away up back on the rock-piled farms
Are the gnarled old dads with corded arms,
The dads that give these boys o’ Maine
Health and strength and grit and brain.
Now the masterful men who have gone their
ways
Need none of my humble words of praise.
So, here’s best I have for the dads, the ones
Who have slaved and saved to raise those sons.
Here’s hail and again for the Maine-bred lads,
Then a triple hail for the dear old Dads.
They are bowed and bent and wrinkled, and
their hands are browned and knurled
They would never pass as heroes in the busy,
careless world,
For they bear no sword or ribbon, and they
show no victor’s spoil,
Only such as they have wrested from the weeds
and rocky soil.
They have wrung reluctant dollars from the
land, and all their gain
Has been spent to nurture manhood in the
rugged State of Maine.
And they need no decorations, only loving
thanks from those
Who built upon the sacrifice that bought their
books and clothes.
I bring some homely laurel for those wrinkled,
sunburned brows
Of men whose hands are blistered by the
scythe-snaths and the plows,
—For men who wrestle Nature with their bare
and corded arms
In an everlasting struggle with these grudging
old Maine farms,
Who lay their lives and hopes and joys’neath
labor’s bitter rule
To coax from sullen Earth the price that keeps
their boys in school.
In manhood of America—’mongst brawn and
pluck and brain,
Set high these humble heroes of the upland
farms of Maine!
And with the cheers you lavish on the men
behind the guns
Crowd in one honest, sincere shout for those
behind the sons.
They labor here in stern old Maine and every
cent is ground
From out the earth by pluck and plod. In
youth they never found
That open sesame to wealth the cultured mind
employs,
Such as to-day their humble toil bestows upon
their boys.
Those crosses signed by toil-cramped hands in
probate courts in Maine
The wavering quirks and curliques no mortal
can explain,
Those speak with pathos all their own of days
of long ago
When “bound-out” children trudged to school
through miles of drifted snow;
When scattered weeks of schoolin’ in the win-
ter time were doled
To hungry little youngsters, ill-clad and numb
with cold.
Now you’ll find them, grown to manhood,
proud and eager to dilate
On the brightness of the children they have
paid to educate.
They have patiently worn patches that their
boys may wear good clothes;
As they’ve struggled on their acres only God,
the Father, knows
All the makeshifts and privations of these
rocky old Maine farms
Where the boys walk straight to comfort over
toiling dads and marms.
Yet those bent and weary parents ask no
praises from the world,
Their comfort is to push a son as high as their
old, knurled,
And aching muscles can reach up; and, when
they pass away,
To know that he will never work one half as
hard as they.
Such is the stuff our heroes are, and when you
cheer the guns
And those behind them, reckon in the men be-
hind the sons.
The zeal and valor of the land in battle’s crash
and blaze
And deeds of heroes seeking fame must win
due meed of praise,
And yet above them all I set the humble sacri-
fice
Of toiling men who cent by cent amass the
hard-won price
That buys the Future for a boy, bestows the
magic “Can,”
Lays Power in his eager grasp and sends him
forth A Man.
So, unto these bowed, weary men with earth-
stained, calloused palms,
Who daily tread the up-turned soil on rough
and rocky farms,
Who pile their hoard of dollars up, by sturdy
labor won,
Who pour those dollars freely out to educate
a son,
To all of these who seek no crown I bring my
wreath of bay
And set it on their sun-tanned brows and on
their locks of gray, ‘
And when their dreary, long campaign, their
bitter toil is done,
God grant that each may live again, new-born
in honored son.
Then three times three, I say again, for
Maine’s true heroes now,
Whose hands are blistered, gnarled, and worn
by scythe-snath and the plow,
Who vow themselves to poverty, accept its
bitter rule
To coax from sullen Earth the price that keeps
their sons in school.
Cheer if you will for those who kill—the men
behind the guns,
But cheer again for those who build—the men
behind the sons.
Elias Rich would kneel at night by the wooden
kitchen chair,
He would clutch the rungs and bow his head
and pray his bed-time prayer.
And his prayer was ever the same old plea,
repeated for two-score years:
“Oh, Lord Most High, please hear my cry
from this vale of sin and tears.
I hain’t no ’count and I hain’t done much that’s
worthy in Thy sight,
But I’ve done the best that I could, dear Lord,
accordin’ to my light.
I’ve done as much for my feller man as really,
Lord, I could,
Consid’rin’ my pay is a dollar a day and I’ve
earnt it choppin’ wood.
I’ve never hankered no great on earth for
more’n my food and roof,
And all of the meat that I’ve had to eat was
cut near horn or hoof;
But I thank Thee, Lord, that I’ve earnt my
way and I hain’t got ‘on the town,’
And when I die I know that I shall sartin wear
a crown.”
Whenever he mumbled his simple prayer in
the kitchen by his chair,
Aunt Rich would rattle the supper pans and
sniff with a scornful air.
She’d never “professed,” as the saying is, she
never had felt a “call,”
And she constantly prodded Elias with,
“’Tain’t prayer that counts, it’s sprawl.”
There are some who are born for the pats of
Life and some for the cuffs and whacks,
Elias fought the wolf of want as best he might
with his axe;
He even aided with scanty store some desolate
Tom or Jim,
But at last when his poor old arms gave out no
hands were reached to him.
Folks said that a man who was paralyzed re-
quired some special care,
And allowed that the poor farm was the place;
so they carried the old folks there.
’Twas a heavy cross for Elias’ wife but Elias
ne’er complained,
To all of her frettings he made reply: “When
our Heavenly Home is gained,
’Twill be the sweeter for troubles here and
though we’re on the town,
God keeps up There our mansion fair and He
has our golden crown.”
They were dreary years that Elias lived, one
half of his body dead,
He sat in his cold, bare, town-farm room and
patiently spelled and read
The promise his old black Bible gave, and then
he’d lift his eyes
And look right up through the dingy walls to
his mansion in the skies.
They mockingly called him “Heavenly
Crown” when he talked of his faith, but he
Smiled sweetly ever and meekly said, “I know
what I can see!”
When he died at last and the parson preached
above the stained, pine box,
He said, “Perhaps this simple faith was a bit
too orthodox;
Perhaps allowance should be made for the
metaphors divine
And yet, my friends, I’ll not presume to make
such province mine.
Though in that Book the highest thought can
find transcendent food,
’Tis primer, too, for the poor and plain, the
unlearned and the rude.
And so I say no man to-day should seek to tear
it down,
Nor flout the homely, honest soul that claims
its golden crown.”
Friends placed above Elias’ grave a plain,
white marble stone,
And months went by. Then all at once ’twas
seen that there had grown
Upon the polished marble slab a shading that,
’twas said,
Took on a shape extremely like Elias’ shaggy-
head.
Then soon above the shadowy brows a crown
was slowly limned,
And though Aunt Rich scrubbed zealously the
thing could not be dimmed.
She always scoffed Elias’ faith without rebuke
through life
But now, the neighbors all averred, Elias
braved his wife.
For though with brush and soap and sand she
scrubbed and rubbed by day,
The figure seemed to grow each night and
those there are who say .
That many a time when the moon was dim a
wraith with ghostly skill
Wrought there with spectral brush and limned
that picture deeper still.
And there it is unto this day and strangers
passing by
Turn in and stand above the mound to gaze
with awe-struck eye,
And wonder if Elias came from Heaven steal-
ing down
To mutely say in this quaint way that now he
wears his crown.
He played when summer sunsets glowed and
twilight deepened down,
His shrilling flute throbbed out and out in the
ears of the little town;
When the chores were done and his cattle fed
and the old horse munched his oats,
He took his flute to his racked old porch and
chirped his wavering notes.
And far and wide on the evening breeze from
the old house on the hill,
Went trinkling off the thin, long strains, like
the cry of the whip-poor-will.
And the women paused with the supper things
and harkened at the door,
And to the questioning stranger said, “Why,
that’s old Figger-Four.”
He bobbed to his work in his little field and
tidied his lonesome home;
He’d the light of peace in his quiet face, though
his shape was that of a gnome.
One knee was angled, hooked and stiff, the
mark of a fever sore,
And the saucy wits of the countryside had
dubbed him “Figger-Four.”
Yet those who knew him never thought of the
twist in the poor, bent limb,
And only strangers had a smile for the name
bestowed on him.
For if ever a man was a neighbor true, that
man, my friend, was he,
And the name he bore of “Figger-Four” was
our symbol of constancy.
’Twas he who came to the stricken homes and
closed the dead men’s eyes;
’Twas he who watched by the poor men’s biers
with a care no money buys;
’Twas he who sat by the fretful sick, and ne’er
could rash complaint
Disturb the placid soul and smile of the gnarled
old village saint.
And all came straight from out his heart, for
when one spoke of pay,
He simply smiled a wistful smile and said:
“That ain’t my way.”
A glistening eye was prized by him above a
golden store;
An. earnest clasp of neighbor’s hand paid every
debt and more.
And when there was no call for him from Tom,
or Dick or Jim,
He took his lip-stained flute and played a good
old gospel hymn.
So, when the placid, sunset skies were banked
above the town,
To every home and every ear those notes came
softly down.
And truly, friend, it used to seem the good old
man would play,
As if, for lack of else to do, to pipe our cares
away.
And tongues were hushed and heads were bent,
and angry home dispute
Gave way to silence, then to smiles, when
“Figger-Four’s” old flute
Sent down its long-drawn, mild reproach from
off the little hill—
Expostulation in its notes, a pleading in its
thrill.
And somehow, though the hearts were hot and
tongues were stirring fray,
Those dripping tones came down like balm and
cooled the wrath away.
He’d lived his lesson in our gaze; he was not
one who talked;
His life was straight, although, alas, he bobbed
so when he walked!
And though we’ve lost our richest men, we
mourn far more, far more,
The man we loved and who loved us, poor bent
old “Figger-Four.”
Allus was rowin’ it, early and late,
—Niff against this one an’ niff against that!
With a voice like a whistle, too big for her
weight,
That was the make-up of Aunt Phebe Pratt.
She’d give it to Ichabod, hot-pitch-and-tar,
Yappin’ as soon as he came to the house;
Allus was hankerin’ after a jar,
Allus was ready to kick up a touse.
But Ichabod he was as calm as a lamb,
Never talked back to her, no, s’r, not he—
Reckin that some men would rip out a damn.
But he was the mildest that ever ye see.
He’d set an’ he’d whistle an’ whistle away,
Waitin’ all patient ontil she got through;
She’d scream, “Drat ye, answer!” but Ick
he would say,
“Mother, ye’re talkin’ a plenty for two.
Who-o-o, who-o-o,
Who-o-o, who-o-o!
Nothin’ to say, mother! List’nun to you.”
Phebe is dead an’ has gone to her rest;
Ichabod lives in the house all alone;
—Ick isn’t lonesome because, so ’tis guessed.
He still hears the echoes of Aunt Phebe’s tone.
’Tis reckoned his ears were so used to the clack,
He somehow er’ ruther still thinks she is there;
Kind of imagines that Phebe is back,
An’ still is a-goin’ it, whoopity-tear!
Or p’raps she has ’ranged it by long-distance
line,
From her latest location, Above or Below,
To keep up her reg’lar old yappin’ an’ whine,
For fear the old man will at last have a show.
For he sets there an’ whistles an’ whistles
away,
Whenever there’s nothin’ in ’special to do;
An’ once in a while he’ll look up an’ he’ll say,
“Mother, ye’re talkin’ a plenty for two.
Who-o-o, who-o-o,
Who-o-o, who-o-o!
Nothin’ to say, mother! List’nun to you.”
Though the banners greet his coming when our
hero journeys home,
Though the city, wreathed in colors, bears his
name on flag-wrapt dome;
Does he come for speech and music? Does he
come for gay parade,
And to see a moving pageant in its festal hues
arrayed?
No, a gray and rain-washed farmhouse, hid
beside a country lane
Is the goal of all his hurry, when our hero
comes to Maine.
And past spectacle and pageant, bannered street
and brave array
He is rushing, soul on fire, toward a dearer
scene than they;
And the hand that gives him welcome may be
calloused, may be brown,
But the fervor of its greeting can’t be matched
back there in town.
’Tis a plain old dad in drillin’ who will clasp
his hand; and then
He will shout, “Lord, ain’t we tickled! God
bless ye, how’ve ye be’n?
Why, massy me, ye rascal, how like fury ye
have growed!
If I’d met ye in the village, swan, I wouldn’t
scursely knowed,
Your face behind them whiskers; ’fore ye know
it boys are men!
Hey, mother, here’s your youngster! Land
o’ Goshen, how’ve ye be’n?”
And if, you home returning son,
Some tithe of honor you have won,
Sweeter than telling the world of men
Is telling the old folks “how you’ve be’n.”
Though of wealth and brains and beauty, festal
Maine has summoned all
And the banquet gleams in splendor in the
city’s spacious hall,
Does he envy them the viands spread beneath
their flag-wrapt dome?
No, never, as he sits there at the old folks’
board back home.
There are all the dear old good things made
by mother’s loving hands,
—Such things, so he discovers, only mother
understands;
There’s the old and treasured china, figured
blue with gilded rim,
Saved to honor great occasions—now the
whole is spread for him,
And the mother’s eyes are wistful; she’s as-
sailed by constant doubt
Lest, spite of all his fearful raids, he somehow
“won’t make out.”
But, though the wanderer strives to eat, his
heart keeps coming up,
And tears roll out of brimming eyes he lowers
o’er his cup,
And in the throat there swells a lump, not
grief,—and yet akin—
To see the old folks bowed so low, so snowy-
haired and thin.
And yet their happy faces glow, until they’re
young again,
And dad lights up his old crook pipe and says,
“Now how’ve ye be’n?
Set down and tell us how ye’ve fared and tell
us how ye’ve done,
You’ve sent us letters right along, but them
don’t talk it, son.
A minit with ye, face to face, beats hours with
a pen;
God bless ye, bub! Ye’re welcome back! Now
tell us how’ve ye be’n?”
Ah, happy he who brings success
Back here to Maine to cheer and bless
The folks who ask in tenderness,
—Taking you into their arms again,
“God bless ye, dearie, how’ve ye be’n?”
Uncle Peter Tascus Runnels has been feeble
some of late;
He has allus been a worker and he sartinly did
hate
To confess he couldn’t tussle with the spryest
any more,
—That he wasn’t fit for nothin’ but to fub
around an’ chore.
When he climbed the stable scaffold t’other day
he had a spell,
—Kind o’ heart-disease or somethin’—an’ I
heard he like to fell.
Guess the prospect sort o’ scared him; so, that
ev’nin’ after tea,
—After he had smoked a pipeful—pretty sol-
emn, then says he,
“Reckin, son, ye’ve noticed lately that your
dad is gittin’ old,
An’ your marm is nigh as feeble;—much as
ever she can scold!”
Uncle Tascus said so grinnin’; for the folks
around here know
That no better-natured woman ever lived than
old Aunt Jo.
“Now, my son,” said Uncle Tascus, “you’ve
been good to me an’ marm,
An’ you know we allus told ye, ye was sure to
have the farm.
An’ we like your wife Lucindy; there has
never been no touse
As is generly apt to happen with two famblys in
the house.
I can’t manage as I used to; mother’s gittin’
pretty slim,
An’ to hold our prop’ty longer is a whim, bub,
jest a whim!
So I’ll tell ye what I’m plannin’, an’ I know
that marm agrees,
We’ll sign off an’ make it over; then we’ll sort
o’ take our ease.
So, hitch up to-morrer mornin’—drive us down
to Lawyer True,
Me an’ marm will sign the papers, an’ we’ll
deed the place to you.”
Lawyer True looked kind o’ doubtful when
they told him what was on.
“I’ll admit,” said he, “that no one’s got a
better boy than John.
Now don’t think I’m interferin’ or am prophe-
syin’ harm,
When I warn ye not to do it; don’t ye deed
away your farm.
I have seen so many cases—heard ’em tried
most ev’ry term—
Where a deed has busted fam’lies, that, I swow,
it makes me squirm
If I’m asked to write a transfer to a relative
or son.
Tascus, please excuse my meddlin’, but—ye
hold it till ye’re done.”
Uncle Tascus, though, insisted. He was allus
rather sot.
He allowed he’d show the neighbors jest the
kind of son he’d got.
—Said he’d show ’em how a Runnels allus
stuck by kith an’ kin,
So the lawyer drew the papers—an’ they started
home agin,
Uncle Tascus held the webbin’s—he has allus
driv’ the hoss—
John he chuckled kind o’ nervous. Then said
he, “Wal, pa, I’m boss!
Now ye’ve never got to worry—I’m the one to
take the lead,
Things were gettin’ kind o’ logy—guess I’ll
have to put on speed.
An’ as now I head the fam’ly, an’ you’re sort
of on the shelf,
Guess I’ll”—John he took the webbin’s—
“guess I’d better drive, myself.”
Wal, s’r, Uncle Tascus pondered, pondered,
pondered all that day.
An’ that evenin’ still was pond’rin’, as he
rocked an’ smoked away.
John he set dus’ up t’ table, underneath the
hangin’ lamp,
Ciph’rin’ out that legal paper with its seal an’
rev’nue stamp.
Then he folded it an’ chuckled. “That’s all
right an’ tight,” he said,
“Lawyers tie things tighter’n Jehu. Dad, ye’d
better go to bed.
You an’ marm are gettin’ feeble; mustn’t have
ye up so late!
I’m the boss—” John sort o’ te-heed, “so I’ll
have to keep ye straight.
’Sides, I’ll need ye bright an’ early. In the
mornin’ hitch the mare,
Take that paper down t’ court-house. Have it
put on record there.”
Uncle Tascus took the writin’, pulled his specs
down on his nose,
Read it over very careful. Then says he, “My
son, I s’pose
You are jest as good’s they make ’em; I hain’t
got no fault to find,
You are thrifty, smart an’ stiddy; rather bluff,
but allus kind,
An’ I guess you’d prob’ly use us jest as well’s
ye really knew,
But I hain’t so awful sartin that I’m done an’
out an’ through!
—Tell ye, son, I’ve been a-thinkin’ since ye
took an’ driv’ that hoss,
—Since ye sort o’ throwed your shoulders an’
allowed that you was boss!
Hate to act so whiffle-minded, but my father
used to say,
‘Men would sometimes change opinions; mules
would stick the same old way.’”
Uncle Tascus tore the paper twice acrost, then
calmly threw
On the fire the shriv’lin’ pieces. Poof! They
vanished up the flue.
“There, bub, run to bed,” said Tascus, with
his sweet, old-fashioned smile.
“These old hands are sort of shaky, but I guess
I’ll drive a while.”
The mackerel bit as they crowded an’ fit to
grab at our ganglin’ bait,
We were flappin’ ’em in till the ’midship bin
held dus’ on a thousand weight;
When all of a sudden they shet right down an’
never a one would bite,
An’ the Old Man swore an’ he r’ared an’ tore
till the mains’l nigh turned white,
He’d pass as the heftiest swearin’ man that
ever I heard at sea,
An’ that is allowin’ a powerful lot, as sartinly
you will agree.
Whenever he cursed his arm shot up an’ his
fingers they wiggled about,
Till they seemed to us like a windmill’s fans
a-pumpin’ the cuss-words out.
He swore that day by the fodder hay of the
Great Jeehookibus whale,
By the Big Skedunk, an’ he bit a hunk from
the edge of an iron pail,
For he knowed the reason the fish had dodged,
an’ he swore us stiff an’ stark
As he durned the eyes an’ liver an’ lights of a
shag-eyed, skulkin’ shark.
Then we baited a line all good an’ fine an’ slung
’er over the side,
An’ the shark took holt with a dretful jolt, an’
he yanked an’ chanked an’ tried
To jerk it out, but we held him stout so he
couldn’t duck nor swim,
An’ we h’isted him over—that old sea-rover—
we’d business there with him.
A-yoopin’ for air he laid on deck, an’ the skip-
per he says, says he:
“You’re the wust, dog-gondest, mis’able hog
that swims the whole durn sea.
’Mongst gents as is gents it’s a standin’ rule to
leave each gent his own—
If ye note as ye pass he’s havin’ a cinch, stand
off an’ leave him alone.
But you’ve slobbered along where you don’t
belong, an’ you’ve gone an’ spiled the thing,
An’ now, by the pink-tailed Wah-hoo-fish,
you’ll take your dose, by jing!”
So, actin’ by orders, the cook fetched up our
biggest knife on board,
An’ he ripped that shark in his ’midship bulge;
then the Old Man he explored.
An’ after a while, with a nasty smile, he giv’ a
yank an’ twist,
“Hurroo!” yells he, an’ then we see the liver
clinched in his fist.
Still actin’ by orders, the cook fetched out his
needle an’ biggest twine—
With a herrin’-bone stitch sewed up that shark,
all right an’ tight an’ fine.
We throwed him back with a mighty smack,
an’ the look as he swum away
Was the most reproachfulest kind of a look
I’ve seen for many a day.
An’ the liver was throwed in the scuttle-butt,
to keep it all fresh an’ cool,
Then we up with our sheet an’ off we beat,
a-chasin’ that mackerel school.
We sailed all day in a criss-cross way, but the
school it skipped an’ skived,
It dodged an’ ducked, an’ backed an’ bucked,
an’ scooted an’ swum an’ dived.
An’ we couldn’t catch ’em, the best we’d do—
an’ oh, how the Old Man swore!
He went an’ he gargled his throat in ile, ’twas
peeled so raw an’ sore.
But at last, ’way off at the edge of the sea, we
suddenly chanced to spy
A tall back-fin come fannin’ in, ag’inst the sun-
set sky.
An’ the sea ahead of it shivered an’ gleamed
with a shiftin’ an’ silvery hue,
With here a splash an’ there a dash, an’ a rip-
ple shootin’ through.
An’ the Old Man jumped six feet from deck;
he hollered an’ says, says he:
“Here comes the biggest mackerel school since
the Lord set off the sea!
An’ right behind, if I hain’t blind, by the prong-
jawed dog-fish’s bark,
Is a finnin’ that mis’able hog of the sea, that
liverless, shag-eyed shark!”
But we out with our bait an’ down with our
hooks, an’ we fished an’ fished an’ fished,
While ’round in a circle, a-cuttin’ the sea, that
back-fin whished an’ slished;
An’ we noticed at last he was herdin’ the school
an’ drivin’ ’em on our bait,
An’ they bit an’ they bit an’ we pulled ’em in at
a reg’lar wholesale rate.
We pulled ’em in till the S’airey Ann was wal-
lerin’ with her load,
An’ we stopped at last’cause there wa’n’t no
room for the mackerel to be stowed.
Then up came a-finnin’ that liverless shark, an’
he showed his stitched-up side,
An’ the look in his eyes was such a look that
the Old Man fairly cried.
We rigged a tackle an’ lowered a noose an’
the shark stuck up his neck,
Then long an’ slow, with a heave yo-ho, we
h’isted him up on deck.
The skipper he blubbered an’ grabbed a fin an’
gave it a hearty shake;
Says he, “Old man, don’t lay it up an’ we’ll
have a drop to take.”
An’, actin’ by orders, the cook fetched up our
kag of good old rum;
The shark he had his drink poured first, an’ all
of us then took some.
Still actin’ by orders, the cook he took an’ he
picked them stitches out,
An’ we all turned to, an’ we lent a hand;
though of course we had some doubt
As to how he’d worn it an’ how’twas hitched,
an’ whuther’twas tight or slack,
But as best we could—as we understood—we
put that liver back.
Then we sewed him up, an’ we shook his fin
an’ we giv’ him another drink,
We h’isted him over the rail ag’in an’ he giv’
us a partin’ wink.
Then he swum away, an’ I dast to say, although
he was rather sore,
He felt that he’d started the trouble first, an’
we’d done our best an’ more.
’Cause a dozen times’fore the season closed
an’ the mackerel skipped to sea,
He herded a school an’ drove ’em in, as gen-
tlemanlike as could be.
We’d toss him a drink, an’ he’d tip a wink, as
sociable as ye please,
No kinder nor better-mannered shark has ever
swum the seas.
Now, the moral is, if you cut a friend before
that you know he’s friend,
An’ after he’s shown it, ye do your best his
feelin’s to nicely mend,
He’ll meet ye square, an’ he’ll call you quits,
providin’ he’s got a spark
Of proper feelin’—at least our crew can vouch
this for a shark.
May health and heartiness never fail
My friend the Whale—my friend the Whale!
There are days when the dog-fish are gnawin’
the bait,
And the mud-eels are saggin’ the trawl;
When the brim and the monk-fish and pucker-
mouthed skate
Are the yield from a three-mile haul;
—When the dory-bow ducks with the weight
that it lugs
Of the riffraff and sculch of the sea,
And sculpins come gogglin’ with wide-open
mugs,
And grinnin’ jocosely at me.
It’s h’ist and lug, and pull and tug—
Bow-pulley chuckerin’—chugity-chug!
And all that ye’re gittin’ won’t pay for the
weight
Of powder to blow ’em to Beelzebub’s
strait.
Then’s the chance to be grum if ye’re taken
that style
And are sort of inclined to the blues;
When luck is ag’in ye’tis whimper or smile,
Whichever’s your notion to choose.
Now I—I am sort of inclined to the grins,
So, after a loaf on the rail,
I whistle him up, my old friend of the fins—
The jolly Jeehookibus Whale!
—The great Jeehookibus, fan-fluke whale,
A genial chap with a swivel tail;
Ready for larks and primed for pranks,
—His jokes are the life of the whole
Grand Banks.
I’ve knowed him sence summer of’Seventy-
four,
When I “chanced” on a hand-liner trip;
I was out in my dory one day and I wore
Oiled petticuts strapped to my hip.
I was thinkin’ and smokin’ and fishin’ away,
As quiet as quiet could be,
When all of a whew there was dickens to pay
In the neighborhood handy to me.
With a whoosh like a rocket I shot in the air,
And it seemed like’twas blowin’ a gale;
As I h’isted sky-hootin’ I looked, sor, and there
Was the jolly Jeehookibus Whale.
The great Jeehookibus, fan-fluke whale
Was under me, swishin’ his swivel tail.
He stood on his head with his tail stuck
up,
And the game he was playin’ was ball-and-
cup.
I dropped, but he caught me and filliped me
quick
And juggled me neat as could be;
’Twas as pretty and clever a sleight-of-tail
trick
As ever ye saw on the sea.
At first I was skittish, as you can see why,
When I found myself up there on air,
But as soon as I noticed the quirk in his eye
I was over my bit of a scare.
’Twas a humorous look he was throwin’ to me
As there I continnered to sail,
While under me, finnin’ and grinnin’ in glee,
Was the jolly Jeehookibus Whale.
The great Jeehookibus, fan-fluke whale
He fanned and fanned with his big, broad
tail,
Till my petticuts filled and I floated there,
Like a thistle-balloon on the summer air.
’Twas the slickest performance, our doryman
swore,
That ever was seen on the Banks;
He lowered me back in my dory once more
And I giv’ him my heartiest thanks.
And I reckon he liked me and thought I was
game,
Because I wa’n’t yowlin’ in fear;
For over and over he’s done jest the same,
This many and many a year.
When dog-fish are gnawin’ and other men
swear
As they jerk at the sculch-loaded trawl,
I know I have some one to cuff away care,
If only I whistle a call.
Then up from his bed on the dulses he spins,
And I boost myself over the rail
For a sail on the tail of my friend of the fins—
The jolly Jeehookibus Whale.
—The great Jeehookibus, fan-fluke whale,
A jovial chap with a swivel tail;
Ready for larks and primed for pranks,
He drives away blues from the whole
Grand Banks.
May health and heartiness never fail
My friend the Whale—my friend the Whale!
We heard her a mile to west’ard—the liner that
cut us through—
As crushing the fog at a twenty-jog she drove
with her double screw.
We heard her a mile to west’ard as she bel-
lowed to clear her path,
The grum, grim grunt of her whistle, a levia-
than’s growl of wrath.
We could tell she was aimed to smash us, so
we clashed at our little bell,
But the sound was shredded by screaming wind
and we simply rung our knell.
And the feeble breath, that screamed at Death
through our horn, was beaten back,
And we knew that doom rode up the sea to-
ward the shell of our tossing smack.
Then out of the fog she thundered, the liner,
smashing to east;
Her green and her red glared overhead and her
bows were spouting yeast.
The eyes of her reddened hawse-holes, her
dripping and towering flanks,
Flashed with no gleam of mercy for her quarry
on the Banks.
She scornfully spurned us under, the while her
whistle brayed,
Nor heeded the crash of our little craft nor the
feeble chirp we made;
And as down we swept, her folk that slept—
they slumbered serenely still,
And even the lookout on the bridge scarce felt
the thud and thrill.
But they jangled her bells and halted; and the
sullen sea they swept
With the goggling gleam of the searchlight’s
beam. A dozen of us had crept
On the mass of the tangled wreckage she con-
temptuously had tossed
A mile astern in the chop and churn. The
others were drowned—were lost!
There was never a whine nor whimper, only
some muttered groans,
As the ocean buffeted martyrs who clung there
with shattered bones,
And those whose grip was broken as the surge
reeled creaming high,
Went out from the ken of the searchlight with
a hoarse but brave “Good-by.”
In the great white light no sign of fright stole
wrinkling o’er a face,
For the men of the Banks know How to die
when Davy trumps their ace.
And better than simply dying—they can cheer-
fully, bravely give
Life, heart, and head in a comrade’s stead if
they deem that he ought to live.
For there in the searchlight’s glory, the night
that they cut us down,
Old Injun Joe gave up his cask that another
might not drown.
Old Joe was a lone world-rover, the other had
babes on land;
No word was said, but Joe went down with a
wave of his dripping hand.
And ere the lifeboats reached us and gathered
our scattered few,
We saw that night what so long we’d known,
that a Glo’ster fishing crew,
Rude and rough and grimed and gruff, had
calmly shown again
That on sea or sod they can meet their God in
the way that beseemeth men!
Then over her sullen bulwarks, as she stamped
and chafed and rolled,
From the night and wreck to her dazzling deck
climbed we—and our tale was told.
And the dainty folk from her staterooms lis-
tened and gazed and said,
As they tiptoed across our dripping trail,
“How awful!”—then went to bed.
And our half-score left, of all bereft—com-
rades and gear and smack—
Sat hoping our wreck would tell no tales till
our scattered few came back.
And haughtily unrepentant, the liner, insolent
still,
Through foam and spume and fog and gloom
drove on to wreak her will.
Were only her zeal less eager, her lust for her
prey less keen,
She must have sensed that horrid chill that
shuddered from One Unseen.
But onward she plunged unheeding that there
in the vast, black sea,
As grim as Fate there lay in wait One mightier
than she.
A ghost in white before her—the fog its som-
bre pall—
And she crushed herself like dead-ripe fruit
against the iceberg’s wall.
Then up from her perfumed cabins came pour-
ing the rich and proud,
And I—poor Glo’ster fisher—I blushed for
that maddened crowd.
There were men in silken night-gear who
fought frail women back,
There were pampered fools who, fierce as
ghouls, left murder in their track;
There were shrieking men whose jeweled
hands dragged children from a boat
And rode away in the babies’ stead when the
life-craft went afloat.
’Tis not for boast that I tell the rest: we’re
not of the boasting kind—
We folks that sail from Glo’ster town; but you
know you’ll sometimes find
A man who sneers at a tattered coat or a sun-
burned fist or face,
And believes that only blood or purse can
honor the human race.
Forlorn and few, our battered crew had stared
at Death that night;
Perhaps we’d known him so long and well his
mien did not affright.
Perhaps we hide here in our hearts, below the
rags and tan,
The honest stuff, unplaned and rough, that
really makes the man.
For we bared our arms and we stormed the
press—of safety took no care;
We dragged those wretches from the boats—
then placed the women there.
No time had we for the courtly “Please!” If
a poltroon answered “No,”
We gave him the thing that a man reserves for
the coward’s case—a blow.
It isn’t a boast, I say again; but we stayed till
all had passed,
Then the ragged coats of those Glo’ster men
went over her lee rail last.
And three of the few of our scattered crew,
who had twice dared Fate that night,
Went down in the rush of the whirlpool’s tow
when the liner swooped from sight.
We ask no praise, we seek no heights above
our chosen place,
But the men of the Banks know how to die
when Davy trumps their ace.
And if need arise for a sacrifice we’ve shown,
and we’ll show again,
That on sea or sod we can meet our God in
the way that beseemeth men.
The mandate that summons them nobody
knows,
Nor whose is the mystical word
That bids the vast breast of the ocean unclose,
When the depths are so eerily stirred.
There are omens of ocean and portents of sky
That the eyes of the banksman may read;
The wind tells its menace by moan or a sigh
To any one giving it heed.
Yet, fathom the whorl of a cloud though he
may—
Interpret the purr of the sea—
No weatherwise fisherman truly may say
When the Drift of the Drowned shall be.
This alone we know:
Ere days of the autumn blow,
Up from the swaying ocean deeps appears the
grisly show.
And woe to the fated crew
Who behold it passing through—
Who gaze on the ghosts of the Gloucester fleets
on the Night of the White Review.
Whence issue these fleets for their grim ren-
dewous
And their hideous cruise, who may know?
Yet they traverse the Banks ere the winter
storms brew,
Their pennon the banner of woe.
We know that from Quero far west to the
Shoals.-
The prodigal bottom is spread
With bones and with timbers—“Went down
with all souls,”
Tells the story of Gloucester’s dead.
And up with those souls come those vessels
again
On that mystical eve in the fall;
Then out of the night to the terror of men
They sail with the fog for a pall.
And down the swimming deep,
As the fishers lie asleep,
These craft loom out of the great, black night,
and past the living sweep.
And woe to that fated crew
Who behold them passing through—
Who gaze on the ghosts of the Gloucester fleets
on the Night of the White Review.
Now here and now yonder some helmsman
sings hail
As the awful procession stalks past,
And the horrified crew tumbles up to the rail
To gaze on the marvel, aghast.
And then through that night, when the fishers
ride near,
There’s a hail and a husky halloo:
“Did you see”—and the voice has a quiver of
fear—
“Did you see the White Banksmen sail
through?”
There are those who may see them—and those
who may not,
Though they peer to the depths of the night;
Ah, ye who behold them, alas for the lot
That grants you such ominous sight.
It augurs death and dole—
That the Gloucester bells will toll—
Means another stone on Windmill Hill: “Went
down with every soul.”
For it’s woe to that fated creva
Who behold them passing through—
Who gaze on the ghosts of the Gloucester -fleets
on the Night of the White Review.
’Tis a mournful monition from those gone
before—
That phantom procession of Fate;
But’tis only the craven that flees to the shore,
For the fisher must work and must wait—
Must wait for the storm that shall carry him
down,
Must work with his dory and trawl;
There are women and babies in Gloucester town
Who are hungry. So God for us all 1
Though mystic and silent and pallid and weird
Those ominous Banksmen may roam,
Though Death trails above them, where’er they
are steered,
We’ll work for the babies at home.
The Banks will claim their toll,
And Fate makes up the roll
Of those with the humble epitaph: “Went
dozen with every soul.”
And it’s woe to that fated crew
Who behold them passing through—
Who gaze on the ghosts of the Gloucester fleets
on the Night of the White Review.
There once was a Quaker, Orasmus Nute,
With a physog as stiff as a cowhide boot,
And he skippered a ship from Georgetown, Maine,
In the’way-back days of the pirates’ reign.
And the story I tell it has to do
With Orasmus Nute and a black flag crew;
The tale of the upright course he went
In the face of a certain predicament.
For Orasmus Nute was a godly man
And he faithfully followed the Quaker plan
Of love for all and a peaceful life
And a horror of warfare and bloody strife.
While above the honors of seas and fleets
He prized his place on “the facing seats.”
Ah, Orasmus Nute,
Orasmus Nute,
He never disgraced his plain drab suit.
Now often he sailed for spice and teas
’Way off some place through the Barbary seas;
And once for a venture his good ship bore
Some unhung grindstones, a score or more.
Now, never in all of his trips till then
Had he spoken those godless pirate men.
But it chanced one day near a foreign shore
The sail of a strange craft toward him bore;
And as soon as the rig was clearly seen
The mate allowed’twas a black lateen.
Now a black lateen, as all men knew,
Was the badge of a bold, bad pirate crew.
So the mate he crammed to its rusty neck
A grim “Long Tom” on the quarter deck,
Then leaned on its muzzle a bit to pray
And waited to hear what the skipper would say.
For Orasmus Nute,
Orasmus Nute
Had stepped below for to change his suit.
He asked as he came on deck again,
“Does thee really think those are pirate men?”
“Yea, verily,” answered the Quaker mate,
“And they come at a most unseemly gait.”
Orasmus Nute looked over the rail
At the bulging sweep of the huge black sail;
Said he, “We are keeping our own straight
path,
And I’m sorry to harm those men of wrath
Yet, brother, perchance we are justified
In letting Thomas rebuke their pride.
We’ll simply give ’em a dash of fright.
So be sure, my friend, thee have aimed just
right.”
He squinted his eye along the rust,
“Now shoot,” said he, “if thee thinks thee
must.”
Ker-boomo! the old Long Thomas roared,
And the big lateen flopped overboard.
And Orasmus Nute,
Orasmus Nute,
Seemed puzzled to find that he could shoot.
“Now what are those sinful men about?”
He asked, as he heard a hoarse, long shout.
And the Quaker mate he answered, “Lo!
They’ve out with their oars, and here they
row!”
“Now, what in the name of William Penn,”
Cried Orasmus Nute, “can ail those men?
Perchance they are after our load of stones,
Will thee roll them up here, Brother Jones?
We’ll save them all of the work we can—
As a Quaker should for his fellow man.”
So as soon as the fierce, black pirate drew
Up’longside, that Quaker crew
Rolled those grindstones down pell-mell,
And every stone smashed through the shell
Of the pirate zebec, and down it went,
And all of the rascals to doom were sent,
While Orasmus Nute leaned over the side,
“No thanks, thee’rt welcome, my friends,” he
cried.
It chanced one wretch from the sunken craft
Made a clutch at a rope that was trailing aft,
And up he was swarming with frantic hope,
When Orasmus cried, “Does thee want that
rope? ”
So he cut it away with one swift hack
With a smile for the pirate as he dropped back.
And the Quaker skipper surveyed the sea
“God loveth the generous man,” quoth he.
Then Orasmus Nute,
Orasmus Nute
Went down and resumed his Quaker suit.
Dory here an’ Dora there,
They keep a man a-guessin’;
An’ here’s a prayer for a full-bin fare,
—Then home for the parson’s blessin’!
Ruddy an’ round as the skipper’s phiz, out of
the sea he rolls,
—The fisherman’s sun, an’ the day’s begun for
the men on the Grand Bank shoals.
With pipe alight an’ snack stowed tight under
a bulgin’ vest,
I’ll over with dory an’ in with the trawls for
the wind is fair sou’ west.
—The wind is fair sou’ west,
The fish-slick stripes the crest
Of every curlin’, swingin’ an’ swirlin’, billowin’
ocean-guest,
That sweeps to the wind’ard rail
An’ under the bulgin’ sail
Seems wavin’ its welcome with clots of foam
that are tossed by the roguish gale.
Dory here an’ Dora there,
‘Way over yon at Glo’stcr;
Those clots of foam seem letters from
home
To pledge I haven’t lost her.
Friskily kickin’, the dories dance, churnin’ the
foamin’ lee,
With a duck an’ a dive an’ a skip an’ skive—
the bronchos of the sea.
Sheerin’ an’ veerin’ with painter a-flirt, like a
frolicsome filly’s tail,
—Now a sweep on the heavin’ deep, close to
the saggin’ rail,
—Close to the saggin’ rail,
Jump! If you cringe or fail,
You’re doin’ a turn in the wake astern in the
role of a grampus whale.
As she poises herself to spring,
—Nimble an’ mischievous thing,
There’s only the flash of a second of time to
capture her on the wing.
Dory here an’ Dora there!
Sure, they drive me frantic.
For one she swims on the ocean of whims,
An’ one on the broad Atlantic.
Sowin’ the bait from the trawl-heaped tubs, I
pull at my old T. D.
An’ I dream of a pearl of a Glo’ster girl, who’s
waitin’ at home for me;
Statin’ she’s waitin’ is not to say she’s prom-
ised as yet her hand,
For she’s wild as my dory—she keeps me in
worry;—they’re hard to understand.
—They’re hard to understand,
But I’ve got the question planned,
Please God, I’ll know if it’s weal or woe as
soon as I get to land.
For a man who can catch the swing,
Of a dory—mischievous thing—
Has certainly grit to capture a chit of a maid
about to spring.
Dory here an’ Dora there!
They keep a man a-guessin’,
An’ here’s a prayer for a full-bin fare,
Then home for the parson’s blessin’.
Pluck, pluck,
Pluck, pluck!
Stubbin’ acrost the clam-flat muck!
Ev’ry time I lift my huck,
—Hearin’ the heel of my old boot suck,
It seems to me that a word plops out,
And I’ve listened so often there ain’t no
doubt
It’s pluck, pluck, pluck.
And pluck and the job they jest agree
—Dig clams, my lad, for a while and see!
It’s a stiddy kind of bus’ness an’ it ain’t for
shiny boots,
But still—ye know,’tain’t bad!
It ain’t an occurpation for the millionaire ga-
loots,
But’tain’t so mighty wuss, my lad.
It’s a stiddy kind of bus’ness where there ain’t
no room for doubt
As to what’ull be the profit and where ye’re
cornin’ out.
For there ain’t no books and ledgers, and no
botherin’ with deals,
No dodgin’ law and lawyers and no stock con-
trivin’ steals.
Simply take a leaky dory and a basket and a
hoe,
And you’re fixed for doin’ bus’ness—ev’ry fel-
ler has a show.
When the old Atlantic ocean pulls away his
swashin’ tide
Why, the bank is there ‘before you and the
doors are opened wide;
The flats are there etarnal and you never find
the sign
Sayin’, “Bank has shet up business—pres’-
dent’s skipped acrost the line.”
Shuck away yer co’t and weskit, grab the clam-
hoe’s muddy haft,
And endorsed by grit and muscle you’ll get
cash on ev’ry draft.
For yer check-book’s there, the clam flat; and
yer pen, sir, is the hoe,
And accounts are balanced daily by the ocean’s
ebb and flow.
Then the climbin’, crawlin’ water rubs the dig-
gin’ marks away,
And the clams are jest as plenty when you
come another day.
And the sleep that follers labor kind of smooths’-
us, as the tide
Smooths the nickin’s on the clam-flats where
our busy hoes have pried.
So the nights are nights of comfort and I
mostly can forget
That the days are days of diggin’,—cold and
muddy, lame and wet.
For Fd rather have a backache than a rattled,
burnin’ brain,
And I guess I’m fair contented with the clam
flats here in Maine.
For I’m thinkin’ worried critters in the rushin’,
pushin’ jams
Likely’nough ain’t nigh so happy as we fellers
diggin’ clams.
Dan’l and Dunk and the yaller dog were the
owners and crew of the Pollywog,
A hand-line smack that cuffed the seas’twixt
’Tinicus Head and Point Quahaug.
Dunk owned half and Dan owned half, and the
yaller dog was also joint,
They fished and ate and swapped their bait and
always agreed on every point.
—Dunk to Dan and Dan to Dunk,—
Whenever he chawed would pass the
hunk;
Never a “hitch” more friendly than
That of the dog and Dunk and Dan.
They labored steady and labored square, fairly
dividing every fare,
And never could anything break their bonds,
each to the other would often swear.
But alas, one day in a joking way they fell on
the topic of years and age,
And tackled the subject of boughten teeth, and
spirited argument they did wage.
For Dan insisted that sets of teeth were glued
to the sides of the wearers’ jaws,
—Never had seen ’em, he frankly owned, but
he knew ’twas so, “wal, jest because.”
While Dunk, with notions fully as firm, clawed
at his frosty whisker fringe,
And allowed that he knew that sets of teeth
were hitched together with spring and
hinge.
So, still perverse, they argued on—the quarrel,
you see, was their very first;
’Twas as though they had taken a sip of brine;
the more they quaffed, the worse their
thirst.
They argued early and argued late and the dog
surveyed them with wistful look
For, the more they talked the worse they
balked, and forgot to fish or eat or cook.
Dan at Dunk and Dunk at Dan,
—On contention ran and ran,
And rancor spread its sullen fog
‘Twixt Dunk and Dan and the yaller
dog.
At last old Dunk uprose and cried, “Say old
hoss-mack’ril, blast yer hide,
I’m sick of clack and fuss and gab; it’s time, I
reckin, that we divide.
An’ seein’ as how I’ve spoke the fust, I’ll take
the starn-end here for mine.”
With chalk he zoned the dingy deck and roared,
“Git for’rard acrost that line!”
He lighted his pipe and twirled the wheel and
calmly then he crossed his knees.
“Go for’rard,” said he, “this end is mine an’
I’ll steer jest where I gol-durn please.”
For’rard went Dan with never a word, never
protested, never demurred,
But as soon as he reached the cat-head bolt the
sound of hammer on steel was heard.
Splash! went the anchor, and there they swung,
fast to the bottom on Doghead shoal;
“The bow-end’s mine,” yelled Dan to Dunk,
“now steer if ye want to, blast yer soul!”
Dunk to Dan, and Dan to Dunk—
Swore they’d sit there till she sunk.
Neither to compromise would incline,
And the dog stood straddling the mid-
dle line.
I’ll frankly own I cannot state how long en-
dured that sullen wait,
I only know they never returned and no one
ever has learned their fate.
Perhaps a gale with a lashing tail, champing
and roaring and frothing wild,
Clawed them tinder, as there they rode, or a
hooting liner over them piled.
But known it is that for days and weeks the
schooner swayed and sogged and tossed,
Straining her rusty cable-chains, before all
trace of her was lost.
No one knows how they met their death, but
certain it is that Dunk and Dan,
Each decided he’d rather die than surrender a
point to the other man.
Perhaps, at the end of a month or so, Dunk de-
cided he’d sink his half,
Or Dan touched match and burned his end,
then went to death with a scornful laugh.
However it was, this much is sure, that out
from the Grand Banks’ sombre fog,
Never came back the Pollywog smack, or
Dunk or Dan or the yaller dog.
She’s ashore in Gloucester harbor, with a
weary, lear y list,
An’ the mud is creepin’, creepin’ to her rail;
She’s sound in ev’ry timber—is the Mary of
the Mist,
But the broom is at her mast-head as a sign
that she’s for sale.
Yet no one wants to try her,
She cannot find a buyer—
The Hoodoo is upon her, an’ here I give the
tale.
(The story has a warnin’ that’s as plain as
plain can be,
An’ ’tis: Never go to triflin’ with the secrets
of the sea.)
Peter Perkinson, a P. I. from Prince Edward
Island, signed
With Foster’s folks of Gloucester for a
“chancin’ trip,” hand-lined;
An’ when we counted noses as we rounded
Giant’s Grist
We found the chap among us on the Mary of
the Mist.
An’ we sized him for a “conjer” ere we’d
fairly got to sea;
The wind was whiffin’ crooked, jest as mean as
mean could be;
“P. I.” is colloquial term for Prince Edward
Islander.
Then the skipper spied the P. I. fubbin’ secret
at the mast,
An’ at once he got suspicious an’ he overhauled
him fast.
The chap had made some markin’s an’ he’d
driven in a nail—
Oh, we understood him perfect—he was raisin’
up a gale.
The skipper gave him tophet, but the damage
then was done—
The gale came up a-roarin’ with the settin’ of
the sun.
Then we wallered to the west’ard an’ we wal-
lered to the east,
An’ we seemed the core an’ bowels of a gob of
wind an’ yeast.
We smashed our way to suth’ard, an’ we clawed
an’ ratched to west,
There was scarcely time for eatin’; there was
never chance for rest,
With the liners slammin’ past us through the
fog an’ spume an’ rain,
An’ the Mary dodgin’ passers like a puppy in a
lane.
The third day found us flappin’ with a mighty
ragged wash,
The lee rail runnin’ under an’ the trawl tubs all
a-swash,
An’ at last the plummet told us we were backin’
to’ards the shoals,
Yet we couldn’t ratch an’ leave ’em with our
canvas rags an’ holes.
T ack—tack—tack—
Still a-slippin’ back;
‘Twas a time for meditatin’ on the prospects
for our souls.
Then up spoke Isaac Innis, with a starin’,
glarin’ glance,
An’ he says: “My friends, I’m lookin’
where I look!
I hain’t a saint in no way, an’ I’ll give a man a
chance,
But I think I see a Jonah if I hain’t a lot
mistook.
I reckon ye discern him,
Now over goes he, durn him,
Unless he squares the Hoodoo that he’s
brought, by hook or crook.”
(We stood there, grim an’ solemn, an’ we
bent our gaze upon
The stranger “conjer” sailor, that P. I.—
Perkinson.)
He never flinched nor quivered, though we’d
reckoned that he would,
He simply turned an’ faced us, an’ he says: “I
meant ye good.
I asked a breeze from suth’ard, but it slipped
an’ got away;
Still, you needn’t worry, shipmates! When I
owe a debt I’ll pay.”
He reeved a coil of hawser that the Mary car-
ried spare,
An’ fastened on a gang-hook an’ baited it with
care.
Then he took a magic vial an’ he sprinkled on
the bait
A charm that Splithoof gave him, it is safe to
calkerlate.
He hitched a dagon-sinker an’ he let the line
run free,
An’ overboard he fired it, kersplasho, in the
sea,
We didn’t get the language of the secret spells
he said,
But we gathered he was fishin’ on the deepest
ocean bed.
We heard him as he muttered an’ it seemed
that he could tell
What kind of fish was bitin’, with an eyesight
straight from hell.
“Ah, brim,” he sort o’ chanted as he gave the
line a twig—
An’ must pay his lawful tribute to the awful
Wah-hooh-wow.
We saw Its neck a-curvin’ an’ we heard Its red
tongue lick
As It drooled an’ swoofed the drippin’s, and
then, as one might pick
A ripe an’ juicy cherry, It grabbed that “con-
jer” man
An’ sank with coils a-flashin’ in the light from
old Cape Ann,
An’ we—we towed with dories till we got to
Gloucester shore—
An’ you’ll never get a Banksman on the Mary
any more.
No—no—no!
Not a man will go,
For her towage fee hain’t settled till the Wah-
hooh-wow takes four.
She’s ashore in Gloucester harbor with a
weary, leary list,
An’ the mud is creepin’, creepin’ to her rail;
She’s sound in ev’ry timber—is the Mary of
the Mist,
But the broom is at her mast-head as a sign
that she’s for sale.
Yet no one wants to try her,
She cannot find a buyer—
The Hoodoo is upon her, an’ I’ve given you the
tale.
(The story has a Warnin’ that’s as plain as
plain can be,
An’ ’tis: Never go to triflin’ with the secrets
of the sea.)
His nose was like a liver hung against a Hub-
bard squash,
—That nose of Jason Ellison, the skipper of
the “Hanks.”
His nose was like a liver and the color wouldn’t
wash,
But the men that “chanced” on trips with him,
they always got the dosh,.
For there wa’n’t another skipper who could
touch him on the Banks.
Whether biz was tight or slack,
—When Jase came sailin’ back
A gang was always coaxin’ for a berth upon
his smack.
Not another Gloucester skipper
Had sech easy job to ship a
Topper-notcher fishin’ crew, with ev’ry man a
crack.
For, you see, he was a wizard;—he did won-
ders with that nose,
He could sniff and tell the weather-sign of ev’ry
gust that rose;
You could figure from its color’twas a most
uncommon snoot,
And whenever he predicted no one ventured to
dispute.
His eye could nail a fish-slick off a league or so
away,
—He could look around a corner, so his fel-
lows used to say;
But the thing’twas most uncommon—where
our whole dependence hung,
Was his long and round and peak-ed champion
taster of a tongue.
’Twas always out and chasin’ round the edges
of his lip;
When a nasty time was brewin’
It was always out and doin’
Like as though it felt responsible for helpin’
handle ship.
It had tasted ev’ry bottom soil from Quero to
the Cow,
It knew the taste and savor, the place and where
and how.
—Darkest night or wildest hurricane that ever
ramped or blew,
We never lost our bearin’s, for old Jason always
knew.
We would take some mutton taller and we’d
fill the hollowed head
Of the plummet, smooth and even, then a man
would throw the lead.
And we’d pass her back to Jason and he’d turn
the plummet up,
Taste the scrimp of soil that stuck there on the
taller in the cup,
And he’d tell us where we headed, though the
night be black’s a coal,
For he knew the taste of bottoms from the Cow
to Quero Shoal.
—Told us easy, off the reel,
What was underneath our keel,
—Didn’t need the sun or quadrant with old
Jason at the wheel;
He was only once mistaken in the memory of
men,
—And we’ve always kept insistin’ that he
wa’n’t mistaken then.
The storm came down upon us from the nor’-
nor’east by east,
—’Twas an equinoctial pealer,
A reg’lar ring-tail squealer,
The sky was hasty puddin’ and the sea beneath
was yeast.
When the Hanks went tossin’ up’ards it really
seemed we flew,
And the sky seemed splittin’ open for to let
our vessel through;
When we wallowed down wher-rooshin’ in the
gulf that gawped beneath,
We’d’a’ left our hearts behind us if we hadn’t
clinched our teeth.
We’d really seem to feel
Old Hankses’ battered keel
Go bumpin’ on the bottom when she made her
downward reel.
But the more she blew and blew,
Old Jason cheered his crew,
—His whiskers whipping snappin’ as the wind
went screamin’ through.
So we hung to brace and riggin’ and we let her
roar and roll,
While each man pinned to Ellison the safety of
his soul.
Then at last we knew’twas night-time by the
thick’nin’ overhead,
And Jason licked his taster and he yelled:
“Now throw the lead!”
An’ we—we blinked to watch him from the
darkness where we clung,
And waited for the verdict, of that long and
peak-ed tongue.
He tasted—then he waited, and he smacked his
lips a spell,
He tasted—tasted—tasted, then he gave an
awful yell:
“My God, ye critters, pray!”
—He slung the lead away,—
And howled: “The world is endin’! It’s the
final Judgment Day!
That plummet, there, has brought us up a hand-
ful of the loam
From the Widder Abbott’s garden on the Neck
ro’d, back at home.
A tidal wave has lifted us—the Hanks has run
away!
—It has tossed’er over Glo’ster,
And we sartin sure have lost’er,
’Less ye pray, ye sin-struck critters,’less ye
pray, pray, pray!”
Each clung to rope and stanchion, each hung to
stay and brace,
Each prayed up at the heavens while the spin-
drift lashed his face;
We prayed and prayed till mornin’
Till the early, yaller dawnin’
Lit up the sea around us, and it also lit our
case;
Then we found an explanation
Of the sing’lar situation
That was figgered in the darkness of the night
by Uncle Jase.
For we noticed there was settin’ up against the
le’ward rail
Some lavender and other yarbs, a-growin’ in a
pail.
—They’d been brought aboard by Jase
Who had worn a meechin’ face,
For his sparkin’ of the widder was the gossip
of the place.
He knowed a flower-garden looked peecooliar
on the Hanks,
But he wanted some momentum of the widder
on the Banks.
Now, the plummet bein’ handled in the dark-
ness of that night
Somehow cuffed that dirt in passin’—as ye
might say, took a bite.
And Jason knew the flavor of that scrimp of
garden loam,
—There wa’n’t a soil to fool him’twixt Quero
Shoal and home.
By the flavor and the feel
He could tell us off the reel,
The name of any bottom that was underneath
our keel.
He was only once mistaken in the memory of
men,
And his crew will keep insistin’ that he wa’n’t
mistaken then.
There had been no social doings since the drive
had passed the flume,
And the section from Seboomook to the
Chutes was rather blue;
So the folks at Rapo-genus, where there’s rum
enough and room,
Arranged a Christmas function and invited
Murphy’s crew.
The folks at Rapo-genus hired Ezra Hewson’s
hall,
And posted up the notice for “Our Yearly
Christmas Ball.”
Now Murphy’s crew was willing and they
walked the fifteen miles,
And arrived at Rapo-genus wearing most be-
nignant smiles.
The genial floor director waited near the outer
door,
And pleasantly suggested they remove the
boots they wore.
He said that Rapo-genus wished to make of
this affair
An elegant occasion, “reshershay and day-
bonair;”
So it seemed the town’s opinion, after many
long disputes,
That’twas time to change the custom and ex-
clude the spike-sole boots.
He owned’twas rather drastic and would cause
a social jar
’Twixt Upper Ambejejus and the Twin Deps-
connequah,
“But ’tis settled,” so he told them, “that nary
lady likes
To do these fancy dances with a gent what’s
wearin’ spikes.
So I asks ye very kindly, but I asks ye one and
all,
To leave your brogan calkers on the outside of
this hall.”
“This ’ere is sort o’ sudden,” said the boss of
Murphy’s crew,
“Jest excuse us for a minute, but we don’t
know what to do.
We’ve attended social functions at the Upper
Churchill Chutes,
An’ the smartest set they had there was
a-wearin’ spike-sole boots.
Excuse us for the mention, but we feel com-
pelled to say,
’Tisn’t fair to shift a fashion all a sudden, this
’ere way;
An’ the local delegation, when it came with the
in-vite,
Omitted partunt leathers in its mention of to-
night.
So I guess ye’ll have to take us with these
spikes upon our soles,
We can’t appear in stockin’s,’cause the most of
us have holes.”
But the genial floor director guarded still the
outer door
And declared that “gents with spikers weren’t
allowed upon the floor.”
He said’twas very awkward that special guests
should thus
Be kept in outer darkness, and he didn’t want a
fuss.
But so long as Rapogenusites had issued their
decree
He hadn’t any option, “as a gent with sense
could see.”
So he passed his ultimatum, “Ye must shed
them spike-sole boots!
For we hain’t the sort of humstrums that ye’ll
find at Churchill Chutes.”
Then up spoke Smoky Finnegan, the boss of
Murphy’s crew,
Said he, “The push at Churchill sha’n’t be
slurred by such as you.
We’re gents that’s very gentle an’ we never
make a fuss,
But in slurrin’ folks at Churchill ye are also
slurrin’ us.
We have interduced the fashions up at Church-
ill quite a while,
An’ no Rapo-genus half-breeds have the right
to trig our style.
If ye’ve dropped the vogue of spikers at the
present Christmas ball
We will start the fashion over, good and solid,
that is all!
So, mister, please excuse us, but ye’ll open up
your sluice,
Or God have mercy on ye if I turn these gents
here loose!”
Then the genial floor director shouted back
within the room,
“Ho, men of Rapo-genus, here is trouble at
the boom!”
But even as he shouted, with a rush and crush
and roar,
Like a bursting jam of timber Murphy’s angels
stormed the door.
Then against them rose the sawyers of the
Rapo-genus mill,
Who rallied for the conflict with a most in-
trepid will,
But by new decree of fashion they were wear-
ing boughten suits
And even all the boomsmen had put off their
spike-sole boots.
So that gallant crew of Murphy’s simply trod
upon their feet,
And backward, howling, cursing, they com-
pelled them to retreat.
The air was full of slivers as the spikers chewed
the floor,
And the man whose feet were punctured didn’t
battle any more.
“Now, fellers, boom the outfit,” shouted Fin-
negan, the boss,
His choppers formed a cordon and they swept
the room across;
The people who were standing at the walls in
double ranks,
Were pulled and thrown to center at the order,
“Clear the banks!”
Then they herded Rapo-genus in the middle of
the room,
And slung themselves around it like a human
pocket-boom.
All the matrons and the maidens were as
frightened as could be
When Finnegan commanded, “Now collect the
boomage fee!”
At a corner of the cordon they arranged a sort-
ing-gap
And one by one the women were escorted from
the trap,
And without a word of protest, as they drifted
slowly through,
They paid their tolls in kisses to the men of
Murphy’s crew.
And at last when all the women had been sorted
from the crowd,
The men were “second-raters,” so the boss of
Murphy’s vowed.
“We will raft them down as pulp-stuff!” and
he yelled to close about,
“Now, my hearties, start the windlass,” or-
dered he, “we’ll warp ’em out!”
Through the doorway, down the stairway, grim
and struggling, thronged the press,
—All the brawn of Rapo-genus fighting hard
without success,
They were herded down the middle of the
Rapo-genus street,
—If they tried to buck the center they were
bradded on the feet;
They were yarded at the river; Murphy’s pea-
vies smashed the ice,
Though the men of Rapo-genus couldn’t smash
that human vise
That held them, jammed them, forced them!
When the water touched their toes,
Then at last they fought like demons for to
save their boughten clothes.
But as fierce were Murphy’s hearties, and their
spikers helped them win,
For they kicked and spurred their victims and
they dragged them shrieking in.
Then with water to their shoulders there they
kept them in the wet
While they gave them points on breeding and
the rules of etiquette.
And at midnight’twas decided by a universal
vote
That the strict demands of fashion do not call
for vest or coat;
That’twixt Upper Ambejejus and the Twin
Depsconnequah
Shirts of red and checkered flannel are the
smartest form, by far.
And that gents may chew tobacco was declared
in all ways fit
If they only use discretion as to when and
where they spit.
And above all future cavil, sneer or jeer or vain
disputes,
High was set this social edict: “Gents may
wear their spike-sole boots.”
Then the men of Rapo-genus and the men of
Murphy’s crew
They dissolved their joint convention—they
were near dissolving, too!
And to counteract the action of the water on
the skin
They applied some balmy lotion to the proper
parts within.
Then they danced till ruddy morning, and their
drying garments steamed,
And awful was the shrinkage of those seven-
dollar suits!
And the feet of Murphy’s woodsmen gashed
and slashed and clashed and seamed,
Till a steady rain of slivers rained behind
those bradded boots.
—And all disputes of etiquette were buried once
for all,
At that Christmas social function, the Rapo-
genus Ball.
We’re spurred with the spikes in our soles;
There is water a-swash in our boots;
Our hands are hard-calloused by peavies and
poles,
And we’re drenched with the spume of the
chutes.
We gather our herds at the head
Where the axes have toppled them loose,
And down from the hills where the rivers are
fed
We harry the hemlock and spruce.
We hurroop them with the peavies from their
sullen beds of snow;
With the pickpole for a goadstick, down the
brimming streams we go;
They are hitching, they are halting, and they
lurk and hide and dodge,
They sneak for skulking eddies, they bunt the
bank and lodge.
And we almost can imagine that they hear the
yell of saws
And the grunting of the grinders of the paper-
mills because
They loiter in the shallows and they cob-pile at
the falls,
And they buck like ugly cattle where the broad
deadwater crawls.
But we wallow in and welt ’em with the water
to our waist,
For the driving pitch is dropping and the
Drouth is gasping “Haste!”
Here a dam and there a jam, that is grabbed
by grinning rocks,
Gnawed by the teeth of the ravening ledge that
slavers at our flocks;
Twenty a month for daring Death; for fighting
from dawn to dark—
Twenty and grub and a place to sleep in God’s
great public park;
We roofless go, with the cook’s bateau to fol-
low our hungry crew—
A billion of spruce and hell turned loose when
the Allegash drive goes through.
My lad with the spurs at his heel
Has a cattle-ranch bronco to bust;
A thousand of Texans to wheedle and wheel
To market through smother and dust.
But I with the peavy and pole
Am driving the herds of the pine,
Grant to my brother what suits his soul,
But no bellowing brutes in mine.
He would wince to wade and wallow—and I
hate a horse or steer!
But we stand the kings of herders—he for
There and I for Here.
Though he rides with Death behind him when
he rounds the wild stampede,
I will chop the jamming king-log and I’ll match
him, deed for deed.
And for me the greenwood savor and the lash
across my face
Of the spitting spume that belches from the
back-wash of the race;
The glory of the tumult where the tumbling
torrent rolls
With a half a hundred drivers riding through
with lunging poles.
Here’s huzza for reckless chances! Here’s
hurrah for those who ride
Through the jaws of boiling sluices, yeasty
white from side to side!
Our brawny fists are calloused and we’re mostly
holes and hair,
But if grit were golden bullion we’d have coin
to spend, and spare!
Here some rips and there the lips of a whirl-
pool’s bellowing mouth,
Death we clinch and Time we fight, for be-
hind us gasps the Drouth.
Twenty a month, bateau for a home, and only
a peep at town,
For our money is gone in a brace of nights
after the drive is down;
But with peavies and poles and care-free souls
our ragged and roofless crew
Swarms gayly along with whoop and song
when the Allegash drive does through.
They had told me to’ware of the “Hulling
Machine,”
But a tenderfoot is a fool!
Though the man that’s new to a birch canoe
Believes that he knows, as a rule.
They had told me to carry a mile above
Where the broad deadwater slips
Into fret and shoal to tumble and roll
In the welter of Schoodic rips;
But knowing it all, as a green man does,
And lazy, as green men are,
I hated to pack on my aching back
My duffle and gear so far.
So, as down the rapids there stretched a strip
With a most encouraging sheen,
I settled the blade of my paddle and made
For the head of the “Hulling Machine.”
It wasn’t because I hadn’t been warned
That I rode full tilt at Death—
It was simply the plan of an indolent man
To save his back and his breath.
For I reckoned I’d slice for the left-hand shore
When the roar of the falls drew near,
And I braced my knees and took my ease—
There was nothing to do but steer.
(There are many savage cataracts, slavering
for prey,
‘Twixt Abol-jackamcgus and the lower Brass-
u-a,
But of all the yowling demons that are wicked
and accurst,
The demon of the Hulling Place is ugliest and
worst.)
Now the strip in that river like burnished steel
Looked comfortable and slow,
But my birch canoe went shooting through
Like an arrow out of a bow.
And the way was hedged by ledges that
grinned
As they shredded the yeasty tide
And hissed and laughed at my racing craft
As it drove on its headlong ride.
I sagged on the paddle and drove it deep,
But it snapped like a pudding-stick,
Then I staked my soul on my steel-shod pole,
And the pole smashed just as quick.
There was nothing to do but to clutch the
thwarts
And crouch in that birchen shell,
And grit my teeth as I viewed beneath
The boil of that watery hell.
I may have cursed—I don’t know now—
I may have prayed or wept,
But I yelled halloo to Connor’s crew
As past their camp I swept.
I yelled halloo and I waved adieu
With a braggart’s shamming mien,
Then over the edge of the foaming ledge
I dropped in the “Hulling Machine.”
(A driver hates a coward as he hates diluted
rye;
Stiff upper-lip for living, stiff backbone when
you die!
They cheered me whcn I passed them; they
followed me with cheers,
That, as bracers for a dying man, are better far
than tears.)
The “Hulling Place” spits a spin of spume
Steaming from brink to brink,
And it seemed that my soul was cuffed in a
bowl
Where a giant was mixing his drink.
And ’twas only by luck or freak or fate,
Or because I’m reserved to be hung,
That I found myself on a boulder shelf
Where I flattened and gasped and clung.
To left the devilment roared and boiled,
To right it boiled and roared;
On either side the furious tide
Denied all hope of ford.
So I clutched at the face of the dripping ledge
And crouched from the lashing rain,
While the thunderous sound of the tumult
ground
Its iron into my brain.
I stared at the sun as he blinked above
Through whorls of the rolling mists,
And I said good-by and prepared to die
As the current wrenched my wrists.
But just as I loosened my dragging clutch,
Out of the spume and fogs
A chap drove through—one o’ Connor’s crew—
Riding two hemlock logs.
He was holding his pick-pole couched at Death
As though it were lance in rest,
And his spike-sole boots, as firm as roots,
In the splintered bark were pressed.
If this be sacrilege, pardon me, pray;
But a robe such as angels wear
Seemed his old red shirt with its smears of dirt,
And a halo his mop of hair;
And never a knight in a tournament
Rode lists with a jauntier mien
Than he of the drive who came alive
Through the hell of the “Hulling Ma-
chine.”
He dragged me aboard with a giant swing,
And he guided the rushing raft
Serenely cool to the foam-flecked pool
Where the dimpling shallows laughed.
And he drawled as he poled to the nearest
shore,
While I stuttered my gratitude:
“I jest came through to show that crew
I’m a match for a sportsman dude.”
There are only two who have raced those falls
And by lucky chance were spared:
Myself dragged there in a fool’s despair
And he, the man who dared!
I make no boast, as you’ll understand,
And there’s never a boast from him;
And even his name is lost to fame—
I simply know’twas “Jim.”
If Jim was a fool, as I hear you say
With a sneer beneath your breath,
So were knights of old who in tourneys bold
Lunged blithesomely down at Death.
And if I who was snatched from the jaws of
hell
Am to name a knight to you,
Here’s the Knight of the Firs, of the Spike-
S’ole Spurs,
That man from Connor’s crew!
A hundred miles through the wilds of Maine
You soon may ride on a railroad train.
Some Yankee hustlers have planned the scheme
To take the place of the tote-road team.
They have the charter, the grit and cash
To stretch their tracks to the Allegash.
Along the length of the forest route
The woodland creatures will hear the hoot
Of the bullgine’s whistle, where up to now
The big bull moose has called his cow.
And old Katahdin’s long fin-back
Will echo loud with the clickity-clack
Of wheels that merrily clatter and clash
Through the sylvan wastes toward the Allegash.
Sing hey! for the route to Churchill Lake,
But oh, for the chap who twists the brake.
His buckskin gloves will save the wear
On his good stout palms, you know, but where
Will he find relief when his throat is lame
With the wrench of a yard-long Indian name?
’Tis something, friend, of a lingual trick
To say “Seboois” and “Wassataquoick,”
“Lunksoos,” is tame and “Nesourdneheunk,”
But what do you say to a verbal chunk
To chew at once of the size of this:
“Pok-um-kes-wango-mok-kessis”?
I don’t believe’twould phase a man
To bellow out “Lah-kah-hegan
His windpipe scarcely would get a crook
By spouting forth, “Pong-kwahemook,”
And even “Pata-quon-gamis”
Is easy. But just look at this:
Ah, where is he who wouldn’t run
From “Ap-mo-jenen-ma-ganun”?
E’en “Umbazookskus” scratches some,
But doesn’t this just strike you dumb?
“Nahma-juns-kwon-ahgamoc”?
Just think of having that to sock
Athwart the palpitating air
Straight at a frightened passengaire.
Hot bearings can be swabbed with oil,
And busted culverts yield to toil,
One can replace a broken rail
But larynxes are not on sale.
So, while it’s hey for Churchill Lake
It’s oh, for the chap who twists the brake.
The wangan camp! *
The wangan camp!
Did ye ever go a-shoppin’ in the wangan
camp?
You can get some plug tobacker or a lovely
corn-cob pipe,
* The wangan is the woods store that most of the
Maine lumber camps maintain.
Or a pair o’ fuzzy trowsers that was picked
before they’s ripe.
They fit ye like your body had a dreadful
lookin’ twist;
There is shirts that’s red and yaller and with
plaids as big’s your fist;
There are larrigans and shoe-packs for all
makes and shapes of men,
As yaller as the standers of a Cochin China
hen,
The goods is rather shop-worn and purraps a
leetle damp,
—But you take ’em or you leave ’em—either
suits the wangan camp.
The wangan camp!
The wangan camp!
There is never any mark-downs at the
wangan camp.
The folks that knit the stockin’s that they sell
to us, why say—
They’d git as rich as Moses on a half of what
we pay.
I haven’t seen the papers, but I jedge this
Bower war
Is a-raisin’ Ned with prices—they are wust I
ever saw.
I was figg’rin’ t’other ev’nin’ what I’d bought,
—by Jim, I’ll bet
That a few more pairs o’larrigans will fetch me
out in debt.
For I’ve knowed a stiddy worker to go out as
poor’s a tramp
’Cause he traded som’at reg’lar at the com-
p’ny’s wangan camp.
The wangan camp!
The wangan camp!
They tuck it to you solid at the wangan
camp.
Now just for a moment I’ll let the machine,
Grind lyrical praise of the base nicotine.
—An ode of a sort of a commonplace stripe
Addressed to plebeian cut-plug and the pipe.
Oh, answer me now, gentle friends of the line,
Who have sought the blest haunts of the
spruce and the pine,
Have you found in the woods that a fragrant
cigar
Tastes worse than an elm-root slopped over
with tar?
Queer thing, that, my friend, but it’s none the
less true,
—This quirk of tobacco—I’ll leave it to you!
But there’s savor in wreaths from the brier and
cob,
In the depths of the forest afar from the mob;
And an incense that’s sweet to ecstatic degree
Curls up from the bowl of the ancient T. D.
While choicest Perfectos smell ranker than
punk
In the shade of the hemlocks of Sourdnahunk.
Ah, here do the tables most wondrously turn!
The city olfactories sniff if you burn
Aught else than the finest Havana in rolls;
Folks turn up their noses at cut-plug in bowls;
You may roam where you like with the base
cigarette
But you can’t smoke your pipe in the house,
now you bet.
For curtains and pictures and hangings and
lace
All flutter rebukingly there in your face;
And wife and the daughters and neighbors all
cough
And wish that the pipe-smoking man would
break off.
But ah, gentle fisher, the woods shout to thee,
With fervent request that you bring the T. D.
For the reek that the flavored tobacco roll pours
Belongs back in town and not here out-of-
doors.
Leave there city manners, creased trousers,
your “job,”
Bring here to the woods your tobacco and cob,
The hemlocks above you will tenderly sigh
As the incense from pipe bowls drifts past to
the sky.
Ah, human magician, the secret is yours!
Would you work mystic charms in the world
out-of-doors?
Take you the alembic of chastened brown bowl.
Touch fire—and visions will comfort your soul,
As you gaze out at Life through the wreaths
from a junk
Of good plug tobacco at Sourdnahunk.
Men who plough the sea, spend they may—and
free!
But nowhere is there prodigal among those
careless Jacks,
Who will toss the hard-won spoil of a year of
lusty toil,
Like the Prodigals of Pick-pole and the Ish-
maels of the Axe.
You could hear him when he started from the
Rapogenus Chutes,
You could hear the cronching-cranching of his
swashing, spike-sole boots,
You could even hear the colors in the flannel
shirt he wore,
And the forest fairly shivered at the way
O’Connor swore.
’Twas averred that in the city, full a hundred
miles away,
They felt a little tremor when O’Connor drew
his pay.
Though he drew it miles away,
When O’Connor drew his pay,
The people in the city felt the shock of it that
day.
And they said in deepest gloom,
“The drive is in the boom,
And O’Connor’s drawn his wages; clear the
track and give him room.”
He rode two giant spruces thro’ the smother of
the Chutes,
He rode them, standing straddled, shod and
spurred in spike-sole boots;
And just for exhibition, when he struck Che-
suncook Rip
He rolled the logs and ran them with never
miss or slip.
For a dozen miles thro* rapids did he balance
on one log,
And he shot the Big Seboomook at a mighty
lively jog.
He reached Megantic Landing where he nim-
bly leaped ashore,
And he bought some liquid fire at the Bemis
wangan store.
For, O’Connor’d drawn his pay,
He was then upon his way
For a little relaxation and a day or two of play.
The drive was in the boom,
Safely past Seboois flume,
And all O’Connor wanted was rum enough—
and room.
O’Connor owned the steamboat from Megantic
to the Cove:
Whatever there was stavable, he forthwith
calmly stove.
He larruped crew and captain when they
wouldn’t let him steer,
Sat down upon the smoke-stack—smoked out
the engineer.
Of course he was arrested when the steamer
got to shore;
A justice fined O’Connor and he paid the fine
—and more!
He had drawn his season’s pay,
He had cash to throw away,
He had cash to burn! O’Connor’d spurn for
clemency to pray.
The drive was safely down,
He was on his way to town;
He was doing up the section and proposed to
do it brown.
O’Connor owned the railroad, as O’Connor’d
owned the craft.
Pie cronched from rear to engine, and he
chaffed and quaffed and laughed.
He smashed the plate-glass windows, for he
didn’t like the styles.
He smashed and promptly settled for a dozen
stove-pipe tiles;
They took him into limbo right and left along
the line,
He pulled his roll and willingly kept peeling off
his fine.
With his portly wad of pay
He paved his genial way,
He’d had no chance to spend it on the far-off
Brass-u-a.
But now the drive was in,
As he’d neither kith nor kin,
There seemed no special reason why he
shouldn’t throw his tin.
O’Connor reached the city and he reached it
with a jar,
He had piled up all the cushions in the center
of the car.
—Had set them all on fire, and around the blaz-
ing pile
He was dancing “dingle breakdowns” in a
very jovial style.
And before they got him cornered they had
rung in three alarms,
And it took the whole department to tie his
legs and arms.
He had spent his last lone copper, but they sold
his spike-sole boots
For enough to pay his freightage back to Rapo-
genus Chutes.
They put him in a crate,
And they shipped him back by freight,
To commence his year of chopping up in Town-
ship Number Eight.
And earnestly he swore,
When they dumped him on the shore,
He had never spent his wages quite so pleas-
urably before.
Men who plough the sea, spend they may—and
free!
But nowhere is there prodigal among those
careless Jacks,
Who will toss the hard-won spoil of a year of
lusty toil,
Like the Prodigals of Pick-pole and the Ish-
maels of the Axe.
Here’s a plain and straight story of Ozy B.
Orr—
A ballad unvarnished, but practical, for
It tells how the critter he wouldn’t lie down
When a Hoodoo had reckoned to do him up
brown.
It shows how a Yankee alights on his feet
When folks looking on have concluded he’s
beat
Now Ozy had money and owned a good farm
And matters were working all right to a charm.
When he “went on” some papers to help his
son Bill
Who was all tangled up in a dowel-stock mill.
Now Bill was a quitter, and therefore one day
Those notes became due and his dad had to pay.
So he slapped on a mortgage and then buckled
down
To pay up the int’rest and keep off the town.
Oh, that mortgage, it clung like a sheep-tick in
wool,
And the more she sagged back, harder Ozy
would pull;
But a mortgage can tucker the likeliest man,
And Ozy he found himself flat on hard pan.
He dumped in his stock and his grain and his
hay,
He scrimped and he skived and endeavored to
pay;
He sold off his hay and his grain and his stock
Till the ricky-tick-tack of the auctioneer’s knock
Kept up such a rapping on Ozy’s old farm
That the auctioneer nigh had a kink in his
arm—
And it happened at last,’long o’ Thanksgiving
time,
Old Ozy was stripped to his very last dime.
And he said to his helpmeet: “Poor mummy,
I van
I guess them ’ere critters have got all they can.
For they’ve sued off the stock till the barns
are all bare,
’Cept the old turkey-gobbler, a-peckin’ out
there;
They’d’a’ lifted him, too, for those lawyers are
rough,
But they reckoned that gobbler was rather too
tough.
So they’ve left us our dinner for Thanksgivin’
Day;
Just remember that, mummy, to-night when
you pray.
Now chirk up your appetite, for, with God’s
grace,
We’ll eat all at once all the stock on the place.”
But Ozy he was a cheerful man,
A goodly man, a godly man—
He didn’t repine at Heaven’s plan, but he took
things as they came;
And cheerfully soon he whistled his tune
That he always whistled— ’twas Old Zip
Coon,
And he whistled it all the afternoon with never
a word of blame.
While all unaware of his owner’s care,
The gobbler pecked in the sunshine there,
With a tip-toe, tip-toe Nancy air, and ruffled
like dancing dame;
Till it seemed to Ozy, whistling still
To the ripity-rap of the turkey’s bill,
That the prim old gobbler was keeping time
To the sweep and the swing of the wordless
rhyme:
Pickety-peck,
With arching neck,
The turkey strutted with bow and beck.
And a Yankee notion was thereby born
To Ozy Orr ere another morn.
A practical fellow was Ozy B. Orr,
As keen an old Yankee as ever you saw
A bit of a platform he made out of tin,
With a chance for a kerosene lantern within;
He took his old fiddle and rosined the bow
And took the old turkey—and there was his
show!
You don’t understand? Well, I’ll own up to
you
The crowds that he gathered were mystified,
too.
For he advertised there on his banner unfurled
“A Jig-dancing Turkey—Sole one in the
World.”
And the more the folks saw it, the more and
the more
They flocked with their dimes, and jammed
at the door;
For it really did seem that precocious old bird
At sound of the fiddle was wondrously stirred.
In stateliest fashion the dance would commence,
Then faster and faster, with fervor intense,
Until, at the end, with a shriek of the strings
And a furious gobble and whirlwind of wings,
The turkey would side-step and two-step and
spin,
Then larrup with ardor that echoing tin.
And widely renowned, and regarded with awe,
Was the “Great Dancing Turkey of Ozy B.
Orr.”
And the mortgage was paid by the old gobbler’s
legs—
Now Ozy is heading up money in kegs.
He would calmly tuck beneath his chin
The bulge of his cracked old violin,
He sawed while the turkey whacked the tin,
the people they paid and came;
For swift and soon to the lilting tune,
When he fiddled the measure of Old Zip
Coon,
The gobbler would whirl in a rigadoon—or
something about the same!
While under the tin, tucked snugly in,
Was the worthless Bill, that brand of Sin;
And’twas Bill that made the turkey spin with
the tip of the lantern flame;
For, as ever and ever the tin grew hot
The turkey made haste for to leave that spot,
Till it seemed that the gobbler was keeping time
To the sweep and the swing of the fiddle’s
rhyme.
Pickety-peck,
With snapping neck,
The gobbler gamboled with bow and beck!
Does a notion pay? It doth—it doth!
Just reckon what O. B. Orr is “wuth.”
They have always called him “Scratchy,” Ezry
“Scratch” and “Uncle Scratch,”
Since the time he cut that ding-do in a certain
wrasslin’ match;
’Twas a pesky scaly caper; he deserved to get
the name
—If he lives to be a hundred he will carry it
the same.
He had vummed that he could wallop any feller
in the place,
He allowed that as a wrassler he could sort of
set the pace,
And he bragged so much about it that at last
we came to think.
If he’d lived in time o’ Samson—could have
downed Sam quick’s a wink.
And there wasn’t nary feller in the town nor
round about
Who had grit or grab or gumption to take holt
and shake him out.
And he set around the gros’ry keepin’ up his
steady clack
That there never was a feller who could put
him on his back.
So it went till Penley Peaslee’s oldest boy came
home from school
—And I tell you that’s a shaver that ain’t any-
body’s fool—!
He ain’t tall nor big nor husky and he isn’t
very stout,
But he’s nimble as a cricket and as spry as all
git out!
Well, he heard old Ezry braggin’ and at last
as cool’s could be
Boy says, “Uncle, shed your weskit; I will
take your stump,” says he.
Guess’twas jest about a minute’fore old Ezry
got his breath,
Then says he, “Scat on ye, youngster! I
should squat ye ha’f to death.
What ye think ye know’bout wrasslin’?
S’pose I’m go’n’ to fool with boys?”
But the crowd commenced to hoot him and they
made sech pesky noise
That at last they got him swearing and he
shed his coat and vest
And commenced to stretch his muscles and to
pound against his breast.
“S’pose I’ve got to if ye say so,” says he scorn-
ful as ye please,
“But I’ll throw that little shaver, one hand
tied and on my knees.
I can slat him galley-endways and not use one-
ha’f my strength.
What ye want bub? Take your ch’ice now;
side holts, back holts, or arm’s length?
Collar’n elbow if ye say so. Name yer pizen!
Take your pick!”
“Suit yourself,” the youngster answered;
“long’s ye git to business quick.”
As I’ve said the boy wam’t heavy;—he was
spry, though, quicker’n scat,
And he had old Ezry spinnin’ ’fore he knew
where he was at;
Hooked him solid, give a twister, doubled up
the old gent’s back
And Ez tumbled like a chimbly—smooth and
solid and ker-whack!
Well, he lay there stunned and breathless with
his mouth jam-full o’ dirt
And his both hands full o’ gingham, for he had
the youngster’s shirt.
When the crowd commenced to holler as he
staid there on the ground
Grocer Weaver’s old black tom-cat came on tip-
toe sniffin’ round.
He was just a-gettin’ ready for to gnaw off
Ezry’s nose
When the old man got his senses and he sud-
denly arose.
Then he grabbed that old black tom-cat good
and solid by the tail
And commenced to welt the youngster just as
hard as he could whale.
Ev’ry time he reached and raked him on that
bare white back of his—
Ow! them claws they grabbed in dretful and
they hurt him—ah, gee whiz!
There were howls and yowls and spittin’s; it
was rip and slit and tear,
And the air was full of tom-cat and of flyin’
skin and hair.
Final clip that Ezry hit him it was such a
tarnal clout
That the cat he stuck on solid till they pried
his toe-nails out.
So they’ve always called him “Scratchy” Ezry
“Scratch” and “Uncle Scratch.”
Since the time he cut that ding-do in a certain
wrasslin’ match;
’Twas a pesky scaly caper; he deserved to get
the name,
—If he lives to be a hundred he will carry it
the same.
Grouty and gruff,
Profane and rough,
Old’Lish Henderson slammed through life;
Swore at his workers,
—Both honest and shirkers,
Threatened his children and raved at his wife.
Yes,’Lish was a waspish and churlish old man,
Who was certainly built on a porcupine plan,
In all of the section there couldn’t be found
A neighbor whom Henderson hadn’t “stood ‘round.”
And the men that he hired surveyed him with
awe
And cowered whenever he flourished his jaw.
Till it came to the time that he hired John Gile,
A brawny six-footer from Prince Edward’s
Isle.
He wanted a teamster, old Henderson did,
And a number of candidates offered a bid,
But his puffy red face and the glare in his eyes,
And his thunderous tones and his ominous size
And the wealth of his language embarrassed
them so
Their fright made them foolish;—he told them
to go.
And then, gaunt and shambling, with good-
natured smile,
Came bashfully forward the giant John Gile.
“Have ye ever driv’ oxen?” old Henderson
roared.
Gile said he could tell the brad-end of a goad.
Then Henderson grinned at the crowd stand-
ing’round
And he dropped to his hands and his knees on
the ground.
“Here, fellow,” he bellowed, “you take that
’ere gad,
Just imagine I’m oxen; now drive me, my
lad.
Just give me some samples of handlin’ the stick,
I can tell if I want ye and tell ye blame quick.”
Gile fingered the goad hesitatingly, then
As he saw Uncle’Lish grinning up at the men
Who were eyeing the trial, said, “Mister, I
swan,
‘Tain’t fair on a feller—this teamin’ a man.”
“I’m oxen—I’m oxen,” old Henderson cried,
“Git onto your job or git out an’ go hide.”
Then Gile held the goad-stick in uncertain pose
And gingerly swished it near Uncle’Lish’s
nose.
“Wo hysh,” he said gently; “gee up, there,
old Bright!
Wo hysh—wo, wo, hysh,”—but with mischiev-
ous light
In his beady old eyes Uncle’Lish never stirred
And the language he used was the worst ever
heard.
“Why, drat ye,” he roared “hain’t ye got no
more sprawl
Than a five year old girl? Why, ye might as
well call
Your team ‘Mister Oxen,’ and say to ’em,
‘please!’”
And then Uncle’Lish settled down on his
knees.
And he snapped, “Hain’t ye grit enough, man,
to say scat?
Ye’ll never git anywhere, drivin’ like that.
I’ll tell ye right now that the oxen I own
Hain’t driven like kittens; they don’t go alone,
There’s pepper-sass in ’em—they’re r’arin’ an’
hot, .
An’ I—I’m the r’arin’est ox in the lot.”
Then Uncle’Lish Henderson lowered his head
And bellowed and snorted. John Gile calmly
said,
“Of course—oh, of course in a case such as
that—”
He threw out his quid and he threw down his
hat,
Jumped up, cracked his heels, danced around
Uncle’Lish
And yelled like a maniac, “Blast ye, wo hysh!”
Ere Uncle’Lish Henderson knew what was
what
His teeth fairly chattered, he got such a swat
From that vicious ash stick—though that
wasn’t as bad
As when the man gave him two inches of brad,
—Just jabbed it with all of his two-handed
might,
“Wo, haw, there,” he shouted, “gee up there,
old Bright!”
Well, Uncle’Lish gee-ed—there’s no doubt
about that—
Went into the air and he squalled like a cat,
Made a swing and a swoop at that man in a
style
That would show he proposed to annihilate
Gile.
But Gile clinched the goad-stick and hit him a
whack
On the bridge of his nose—sent him staggering
back,
And he reeled and he gasped and he sunk on
his knee,
“Dad-rat ye,” yelled Gile, “don’t ye try to
hook me!
Gee up, there—go’long there; wo haw an’ wo
hysh!”
And again did he bury that brad in old’Lish,
Then he lammed and he basted him, steady and
hard,
He chased and he bradded him all’round the
yard,
Till’Lish fairly screamed, as he dodged like a
fox,
“For heaven’s sake, stranger, let’s play I hain’t
ox.”
Gile bashfully stammered, “Why,’course ye
are not!
But ye’ll have to excuse me—I sort o’ forgot!”
With a twisted smile
‘Lish looked at Gile,
Then he lifted one hand from the place where
he smarted;
And he held it out,
—Gripped good and stout,
“Ye’re hired,” said he; “I reckin I’m
started!”
His mouth is pooched and solemn and he’ll
never squeeze a smile,
He’s yeller ’em saffron bitters’cause he’s col-
ored so by bile;
No organ in his system seems to run the way
it should,
—He never has a hearty shake or says a word
of good.
He’ll soften, though, a crumb or so if money’s
to be lent
And some poor strugglin’ devil comes to time
with ten per cent.
He is flingin’ and is dingin’ first at this and
then at that,
And to ev’ry reputation gives a cuff or kick or
slat;
Pretty lately he was spewin’ sland’rous gossip
he had heard,
And our minister was passin’. Wal, the elder
he was stirred
And he says, “Ah, Brother Bowler, if you’d
lived in Jesus’ time
When they brought to him the woman whom
they’d taken in her crime,
That story in the Scriptures would have took
a diff’rent tone,
For I s’picion if you’d been there you’d’a’ up
and thrown the stone.
Yes, I reckon that the woman would have sartin
been a goner,
For you’d thrown the rock—and that hain’t
all! You’d’a’ thrown one with a corner!”
Wal, ye’d think a dig of that sort would have
shamed him ha’f to death,
But, Land o’ Goshen, neighbor,—hain’t no mor-
tifyin’ Seth!
—Jest a waste of breath
To jab at Uncle Seth,
He’s holler where the soul should be—hain’t
got no human peth.
He’s deef to ev’ry cry of want and don’t know
what is meant,
But—bet he’ll hear for ha’f a mile the whisper,
“Ten per cent!”
It took a lot of practicin’ to work his hearin’
down
To where he’s never bothered by the troubles in
our town.
He never hears the sorrows of some woman
who is left
With orphans and a morgidge’bout a thousand
times her heft.
He hain’t the one that worries when she says
she cannot pay,
The morgidge holds her anchored—the farm
can’t git away.
Upon the shattered door-steps of his racked
old tenements
He crowds the wolf of hunger when he goes
to git his rents.
But he never hears the wailin’ of the troubled
folks within,
He simply wants his money and’tis tenant, trot
or tin!
He never hears entreaties of his neighbors in
the lurch
Unless there’s good endorsers. He never hears
the church,
He never hears the knockin’ of a fist upon his
door
Unless he knows the thuddin’ means his ten
per cent—or more.
(His auditory organs sense no waves from
wails of sorrow
But they hear the faintest zephyr from the man
who wants to borrow.)
Now, with ears in that condition, when they’re
extry dulled by death,
On the Resurrection mornin’ I’ll have fears for
Uncle Seth.
When Gab’rel toots his trump
And risen spirits jump,
And up before the Throne of Light forthwith
proceed to hump,
I reckin Seth will slumber on, not knowin’ what
is meant
’Cause Gab’rel won’t take’special pains to hol-
ler, “Ten per cent!”
He could tell ye what he’d done,
—He was eloquent, my son,
In puttin’ all his doin’s into mighty lively talk.
But I’ve follered him around,
And, by gosh, I never found
That he ever lifted hard enough to
Bust
His
Fork!
Pie was always full o’ brag
‘Bout how he could lift a jag
That would double up a hossfork and make
the horses balk.
But I never see’d no signs
That he ever bent the tines
Or ever bruk’ the handle of his
Old
Pitch
Fork!
Old Sam Green!
What? Mean?
I reckin that a meaner man was skercely ever
seen.
People said he’d skin a fly for sake of hide an’
grease;
He wouldn’t grin—it stretched the skin, an’
he begredged the crease.
Sort o’ squirmed when asked to set—didn’t
want the chance!
We wondered why; we found at last’twas
jest to save his pants.
Never used to shave himself, never combed his
hair;
Used to sort o’ hate to wash, account o’ wear
and tear.
Never beau-ed the wimmen’round, never spent
a cent,
’Cept the time he bought a girl an ounce of
pepperment.
Alius kind o’ groaned o’ that; said the dratted
dunce
Set an’ chawnked an’ chawnked an’ chawnked
an’ et it all to once.
Said he learned a lesson then to last him all
through life;
Said’twould take a millionaire to feed a hearty
wife.
So he planned an’ worked an’ saved an’ grubbed
his little patch,
Allowed he’d ruther plug along, jest like he
was, “old bach.”
Sam, though, shifted later on—the pesky mean
old goat—
He struck a find; she’d had a shock that par-
alyzed her throat! .
Still, she worked most dretful spry—didn’t
need no spurs—
Only “out” that woman had was that ’ere
throat of hers. 1
Married her? you bet he did! Straight—right
off the reel!
Reckoned that she couldn’t eat a reel, good
hearty meal.
Figgered he’d git lots of work an’ only feed her
slim;
Wife, though, wopsed it t’other way an’ got
the laugh on him!
I reckin that a madder man was skercely ever
seen,
Than Green,
Old mean Sam Green.
Soon’s she fairly placed her feet, she called the
doctors in,
An’ they commenced to work on her an’ tap
old Green for tin.
He swore an’ howled, but she was boss—she
run the whole concern—
She said she’d morgidge all he owned to cure
that throat of her’n.
The high-priced doctors far an’ near come
hustlin’ to the place,
An’ fubbed an’ fussed an’ then discussed that
reely puzzlin’ case.
An’ each performed his little stunt with all his
skill an’ will,
An’ said that time would do the rest—an’ then
put in his bill.
Wal, Land o’ Goshen, Sam took on as though
they drawed his blood.
He’d hitch and hunch his wallet out as though
’twas stuck in mud.
Their nuss was quite a hand to tog; she used
to say to us
She wished that corsets laced as tight’s the
straps on that old puss.
Mis’ Green at last got down reel slim; one
night—so nuss, she said,
Old Sam come creepin’, creakin’ in; set down
‘longside the bed.
He stooped an’ poked around a spell, picked up
Lucindy’s shoe,
An’ then—wal, nuss she vums an’ vows this
’ere is honest true:
He routed’round the fireplace an’ got a cinder-
coal,
An’ went to figgerin’ up expense, right there
on ’Cindy’s sole.
He talked the items right out loud, but ’Cindy
didn’t kick
So long’s he only reckoned things she’d had
while she was sick.
But when he got to projickin’ ’bout what
’twould prob’ly cost
To bury her in decent shape, he sort o’ up an’
crossed
The “mean-man” line, the “tarnal mean” an’
even “gaul-durned mean”—
He formed a brand-new class himself; jest
him alone, Sam Green,
Stands serene!
“Green mean,”
Signifies the meanest man that ever ye have
seen.
Die? What! ’Cindy up an’ die? You bet
she didn’t die!
Got so mad to hear him talk she flew right up
sky-high.
Hopped like sixty out o’bed, as hearty’s Paddy’s
goat,
An’ that ’ere kink—whatever’twas—it came
right out her throat.
An’ talk? She hadn’t talked for years, but
soon’s she got her breath,
I swan to man, I reely b’lieve she talked old
Green to death.
For ’fore she’d trod around enough to wear the
coal marks out,
Old Sam curled up an’ passed away. Some
said there wa’n’t much doubt
He’d reely died two years before, but hadn’t
let folks know,
Because these undertakin’ chaps tuck on ex-
penses so.
Perk Todd was tellin’ down t’ the store he had
a dream las’ week—
He dreamed he got in Paradise! Must been
a denied close’ squeak!
Wal, Perk he says an angel there was showin’
him around,
“At last,” says Perk, “I ups an’ asks how
’twas I hadn’t found
No people there from where I’d lived. The
angel says, says he:
‘Here bub’ A cherub scooted up. ‘Go git
the storehouse key.’”
Says Perk: “The angel took me in. An’
where we were, it’peared
That’bout a billion boxed-up things was there
all nicely tiered.
The angel said, ‘When folks on earth do any-
thing that’s small
Their souls git squizzled bit by bit; an’ when
they die, then all
The little, teenty souls that come are packed in
here, ye know,
Jes’ same’s they box tomater plants to giv’ ’em
time to grow.’
He hunted’round an’ found a box. ‘There,’
finally said he,
‘We’ve got about as sing’lar thing as ever ye
will see.’
Inside that box was nested dus’ a dozen boxes
more;
The last box was the smallest box I ever saw
before,
An’ in it was a teenty speck. ‘Is that a soul?’
says I.
‘Oh, no,’ said he, ‘the thing you see’s the eye-
brow of a fly.
You couldn’t see the soul that’s there, to save
your blessed neck,
Because it’s one ten-millionth part as big’s
that leetle speck.
In fact it is the smallest soul that we have ever
seen;
The label says’—he squinted hard—‘it’s one
old Sam’wel Green.’
All serene,
Sam Green
Is ticketed ‘The Limit; Number billion-umpty
steen.’”
That Dickerer Jim—Shenanigan Jim.
I never see’d hoss jockey equal to him.
He’d rather swap hosses than eat a good meal,
He’d take all the chances—and Jim wouldn’t
squeal!
He’d talk like a cyclone on any old skate
—Take a wheezy old pel ter with hopity gait
And he’d make you believe—would that Dick-
erer Jim—
There were all kinds of pedigrees tied up in
him.
And you bet your old boots, if he got you in
range
He could touch you all right for a sale or a
“change.”
—As keen as a brier, as sharp as a knife
He never got phazed except once in his life.
And that was a corker, by ginger, on him,
On Dickerer Jim—Shenanigan Jim.
He loaded a breather—a reg’lar old rip
On a man from the city—just did it by lip.
Talked the man dumb and silly and giv’ him the
hooks
Till the chap forked his money just simply on
looks.
And he went back to town with a big double
cross
In the shape of a whoofity plug of a boss.
Jim—Jim,
Shenanigan Jim,
Didn’t you—didn’t you soak it to him!
Jim—Jim,
As a sample of “trim”
That feller was pruned to the very last limb.
Now Dickerer Jim—Shenanigan Jim—
Was down in the city. His eyesight was dim;
So he couldn’t keep lookout, and first thing he
knew
Right plumb up against him that city chap
blew.
He recognized Jim—Jim hadn’t seen him—
Till the feller grabbed holt; then the chances
seemed slim
For avoidin’ a scrimmage, for seldom is seen
A chap that’s so mad that his face is pea green.
But his tongue wasn’t ready as quick as his
sight;
Now Jim couldn’t see, yet his tongue was all
right,
And away he went, lickity-whizzle! Talk,
talk!
While the feller was still scoring down in a
balk
With his mouth propped apart; oh, he’d plenty
to say,
But Jim, goin’ steady, had levelled away.
And he told that ’ere feller he’d hunted for him,
—Did Dickerer Jim—Shenanigan Jim.
The feller allowed he’d been huntin’ some, too,
But Jim didn’t hesitate—slam-banged it
through!
Says he, “I’ve been sorry I sold you that hoss
And the minit I sold him I knew’twas a loss.
For the very same day that you took him away
I met with a chap that I figger will pay
A clean and cool hundred above what you giv’,
—I can load that ’ere hoss on that chap, sure’s
you live.
That feller he wants him—lie’s anxious to pay;
Now what shall I say to him—what shall I
say?”
Then the sucker he tore and he swore, and says
he,
“Go tell him the same blasted lie you told me!
He’ll buy, don’t you worry! You’ll tag him—
he’s It,
—That’s a lie you can never improve on a bit!”
Jim—Jim,
Shenanigan Jim,
That was a side-windin’ answer for him.
Jim—Jim,
Jest turned and he “clim’”
For he see’d there warn’t stretch in the chap’s
t’other limb.
Oh, a positive man—a positive man,
So the people discovered, was Benjamin Brann.
With his household and neighbors and children
and hoss
Old Brann allowed he would always be boss.
And the most of the people they’d ruther kow-
tow
To his notions than live in the midst of a row.
And whenever you’d see in a faint-hearted
crowd,
A man who was hollerin’ ’specially loud,
You could calculate suttin that positive man
Was the uncontradicted old Benjamin Brann.
For after a while all the folks stood in awe
Of the roar of his voice and the build of his
jaw;
He was lookin’ for trouble and carried a chip
And chance for a tussle he never let slip;
He hated to think that the world could still go
When he stood at one side and kept hollerin’
“whoa!”
One day he was teamin’ his oxen to town;
He set on the cart tongue., his feet hangin’
down.
And bein’ a positive kind of a chap,
—Pokin’ out o’ his way for the sake of a
scrap—
Whenever he noticed a boulder or stump
He’d gee. and ride over the critter ker-bump!
But it happened one boulder that he came
across
Gave Benjamin’s ox-cart too lively a toss;
He was under the broad-tired wheels, s’r. before
He’d gathered his voice for his usual roar.
But just as the ox-cart rolled over him—oh,
You’d a-fallen down stunned at the way he
yelled “whoa!”
’Twas so loud and so threat’nin’ that Brindle
and Haw
Who bowed to that voice as their Gospel and
Law
Were so eager to stop that they backed, s’r,
and then
The wheel it rolled over the old man again.
There’s a moral to this as you notice, no doubt,
But I haven’t the patience to ravel it out.
I’ll say to reformers and dogmatists, though,
It’s safest to holler a moderate “whoa!”
They hastened to the funeral when Aunt Sa-
brina died.
Nephews, nieces, relatives—they came from
far and wide.
They hurried in by boat and train; they came
by stage and team,
In breasts a jealous bitter greed, in eyes a hun-
gry gleam.
I knew the most as decent men, their wives as
honest dames,
Who in the common run of things were careful
of their names.
And yet, alas, we sadly find that many who be-
have
As cooing doves in daily life are buzzards at
the grave.
So while the choir softly purred, and while the
parson prayed,
The lids of mourning eyes were raised and
sneaking glances strayed
From old-style clock to pantry shelf, from par-
lor set to rug,
And knitted brows weighed soberly how much
each heir could lug.
Anon the lustful glances crossed and scowl re-
plied to scowl,
And spoke as plain as though the look were
voiced in sullen growl:
Thus when the parson prayed, “Oh, Lord, take
Thou this way-worn soul,”
I caught a look that plainly spoke: “I’ll take
that china bowl.”
And this look said, “I speak for that,” and
that look spoke for this,
The while the parson droned of love and told
them of the bliss
That cometh after struggles here; “The peace
of rest,” he said,
And then each woman claimed through looks
her aunt’s goose-feather bed.
’Twas thus the kindred flocked to town when
Aunt Sabrina died,
Ostensibly to bury her, but really to divide.
No will was left,’twas catch as can; and each
and every heir,
Came in with desperate intent to scoop the big-
gest share.
They passed around with creaking shoes and
kissed the silent lip,
And pressed the limp, old, withered hand from
out whose jealous grip
The goods of earth had slipped away to heap a
funeral pyre,
A tinder pile where torch of Greed would start
a roaring fire.
They rode behind in solemn show and stood
around the grave,
Until the coffin sank from sight; and then each
jealous knave
Hopped back with great celerity in carriage and
in hack,
And folks who saw averred those heirs raced
horses going back.
This is no fairy tale, my friend! I’m giving
you the facts,
’Tis just an instance where the heirs came
round and brought an axe;
Where folks of pretty honest stripe could
hardly bear to wait
To decently inter the corpse ere carving the
estate;
—All ready at the prayer’s “Amen” to scratch
and haul and claw
With nails of jealous rancor and the talons of
the law.
My brother, I’ve a notion, that it is sinful pride
When we pose before the heathen as a highly
moral guide.
For here in old New England are some capers
that would—hush!—
This is strictly on the quiet—put a savage to
the blush.
You know that when a savage leaves his rela-
tives bereft,
There isn’t any scrapping over what the heathen
left.
They bury all his queer stone tools, his arrows
and his bow,
They stuff his pack with grub for snack; put
in his wampum “dough;”
They kill his horse and slay his dog and then
they sing a song,
And kill off all his weeping wives and send
them right along.
There’s no annoying probate court, no long,
litigious fuss,
No lawyer’s fees, no family row, no will-de-
stroying cuss.
The estate is executed in a brisk and thorough
style
And though some certain features suit all right
a heathen isle,
Some squeamish person might arise and prop-
erly complain
There’s too much execution for adoption here
in Maine.
So I’ll not commend the custom, yet I firmly
will abide
In the notion that we have no right to pose as
moral guide
To the heathen; for it’s evident, untutored
though they are,
The heirs at least show manners in Borrioboola
Gha.
Abbott B. Appleton went to the fair
(Sing hey! for the wind among his whiskers),
Saw curious “dewin’s” while he was down
there
‘Mongst the gamblers, the sports and the frisk-
ers.
He carried his bills in a wallet laid flat—
An old-fashioned calf-skin as black as your hat;
He was feeling so well he was easy to touch—
Then he hadn’t as much; no, there wasn’t as
much.
He noticed a crowd’round a pleasant-faced
man
Whose business seemed based on a curious plan;
He asked for a quarter from each in the crowd,
Put the coin in his hat, and he forthwith al-
lowed
That simply to advertise he would restore
His quarter to each, adding three quarters
more.
Now Abbott B. Appleton he did invest—
Anxious to share in these spoils with the rest.
Man asked for ten dollars, and Abbott, said he:
“Why, sartin! And then we’ll git thutty back
free.”
But the man who was running the charity
game
Informed him it didn’t work always the same,
And Abbott B. Appleton got for his ten
A smile—and the man didn’t play it again.
Then Abbott, in order to make himself square,
Got after the rest of the snides at the fair.
He hunted the pea, but he never could tell
When “the darned little critter” was under
the shell.
He shot at a peg with a big, swinging ball,
Five dollars a shot—didn’t hit it at all.
And he finally found himself “gone all to
smash,”
With wisdom, a lot—and two dollars in cash.
Abbott B. Appleton cursed at the fair
(Sing fie! for a man who ’tended meetin’),
And he said to himself, “Gaul swat it, I swear
Them games is just rigged up for heatin’.
I thought they was honest down here in this
town;
I swow if I hadn’t I wouldn’t come down;
But if cheatin’s their caper I guess there’s idees
That folks up in Augerville have, if ye please.
I’m a pretty straight man when they use me all
square,
But I’m pirut myself at a Pirut-town fair.
I won’t pick their pockets to git back that
dough,
But I reckin’ I’ll giv’ ’em an Augerville show.”
Abbott B. Appleton “barked” at the fair
(Sing sakes! how the people they did gather),
And his cross-the-lot voice it did bellow and
blare
Till it seemed that his lungs were of leather.
He said that he had there inside of his pen
Most singular fowl ever heard of by men:
“The Giant Americanized Cock-a-too,”
With his feathers, some red and some white,
and some blue.
He promised if ever its like lived before
He’d give back their money right there at the
door.
Then he vowed that the sight of the age was
within.
“’Twill never,” he shouted. “be seen here agin..
’Tis an infant white annercononda, jest brought
From the African wilds, where it lately was
caught.
The only one ever heern tell of before,
All wild and untamed, that far foreign shore.”
Abbott B. Appleton raked in the tin.
(Sing chink! for the money that he salted.)
Then he opened the gates and he let ’em all in,
And then—well, then Abbott defaulted.
It was time that he did, for the people had
found
Just a scared Brahma hen squatting there on
the ground;
Her plumage was decked in a way to surprise,
With turkey-tail streamers all colored with
dyes;
And above, on a placard, this sign in plain
sight:
“There’s nothin’ else like her. I trimmed her
last night”
In a little cracked flask was an angle-worm
curled—
“Young annercononda, sole one in the
world.”
And another sign stated, “He’s small, I sup-
pose,
But if he hain’t big enough, wait till he grows.”
And Abbott B. Appleton, speeding afar,
Was counting his roll in a hurrying car,
Saying still, “As a general rule I’m all square,
But I’m pirut myself at a Pirut-town fair.”
There’s a letter on the bottom of the pile,
Its envelope a faded, sallow brown,
It has traveled to the city many a mile,
And the postmark names a’way up country
town.
But the hurried, worried broker pushes all the
others by,
And on the scrawly characters he turns a glis-
tening eye.
He forgets the cares of commerce and his anx-
ious schemes for gain,
The while he reads what mother writes from
up in Maine.
There are quirks and scratchy quavers of the
pen
Where it struggled in the fingers old and bent,
There are places where he has to read again
And think a bit to find what mother meant.
There are letters on his table that inclose some
bouncing checks;
There are letters giving promises of profits on
his “specs.”
But he tosses all the litter by, forgets the
golden rain,
Until he reads what mother writes from up in
Maine.
At last he finds “with love—we all are well,”
And softly lays the homely letter down,
Then dashes at his eager tasks pell-mell,
—Once more the busy, anxious man of town.
But whenever in his duties as the rushing mo-
ments fly
That faded little envelope smiles up to meet
his eye,
He turns again to labor with a stronger, truer
brain,
From thinking on what mother wrote from up
in Maine.
All through the day he dictates brisk replies,
To his amanuensis at his side,
—The curt and stern demands and business
lies,
—The doubting man cajoled, and threat de-
fied.
And then at dusk when all are gone he drops
his worldly mask
And takes his pen and lovingly performs a wel-
come task;
For never shall the clicking- type or shorthand
scrawl profane
The message to the dear old home up there in
Maine.
The penmanship is rounded, schoolboy style,
For mother’s eyes are getting dim, she wrote;
And as he sits and writes there, all the while
A bit of homesick feeling grips his throat.
For all the city friendships here with Tom and
Dick and Jim
And all the ties of later years grow very, very
dim;
While boyhood’s loves in manhood’s heart rise
deep and pure and plain.
Called forth by mother’s homely words from
up in Maine.
Without, the summer silence lies—
Within, the meeting-house is still;
The hush of First Day hovers o’er
All human-kind on Quaker Hill.
The tethered Dobbins doze and blink
In stolid calm beneath the shed;
In First Day, Quaker attitude,
With half-closed eyes and drooping head.
The cheeping birds, abashed and mute,
Have skittered off to search for shade.
Just one lone roysterer, a bee,
Embarrassed at the noise lie’s made,
Whirrs up against a staring pane
And folds his wings and sits him down,
To gaze with apiarian mirth
On strange drab poke and shining crown.
The elders sit in sober rows,
Upon the long, prim, facing-seats;
—Each visage like an iron mask;
No look of recognition greets
The softened landscape out of doors.
—The shimmer of the summer falls
On unresponsive eyes; The God
Of Nature all unheeded calls.
Their half-veiled gaze droops coldly down,
Fixed on the dusty, worn, old floor,
Unnoting that the gracious Lord
Smiles in God’s sunshine at the door.
The Spirit has not moved the tongue;
Each contrite soul has conned its own;
And in the hush of silent prayer,
Each worshipper has bent alone.
And some are sad and some are stern
And some are smug and others bow
As though, with furtive stealth, to hide
What conscience writes upon the brow.
But hark! the Meeting lifts its eyes
And he who’s sitting at the head
Breaks on the hush with reverent tone:
“If friends,” says he, “have planned to wed
’Tis meet that now they do proceed.”
Forthwith upon the women’s side
A blushing youth stands forth in view
And with him shrinks his Quaker bride.
With trembling hand in shaking palm,
They face the Meeting’s awful hush,
—No minister to question them,
No kindly shield to hide a blush.
Alone they stand, alone must they
Swear matrimony’s solemn oath;
A hundred noses point their way,
Two hundred eyes stare hard at both.
Then twice and thrice the youth’s parched lips
Strive hard to frame the longed-for word;
And twice and thrice he tries again,
Yet not a single sound is heard.
There’s just an upward flash of eyes
Like starlight in a forest pool,
—She may have said, “Take heart, dear
one!”
—She may have said, “Go on, thou fool!
His cheeks flush dark, his lips are gray,
His knees drum fast against the pew.
But by a mighty gasp he speaks,
The dry lips part, a croak comes through:
“Here in the presence of the Lord,
And in the First-Day meeting, I
Take thee, my friend, Susannah Saul
To be my wife. My loving eye
Shall rest on thee, and till the Lord
Is pleased by death to separate
Our lives and loves, I’ll be to thee
An honest, faithful, loving mate.”
As one an echo of a song
Thrums thinly on a single string,
The Quaker maid in trembling tones
Vows to her lord to likewise bring
Love, truth and trust to grace their home.
Their voices cease and side by side
They stand abashed. One honest voice
Rolls out, “Amen;” the knot is tied.
Petit Pierre of Attegat,
—Peter, the Little, round and fat,
Balanced himself on the edge of a chair
And gazed in the eyes of Father Claire.
Without on the porch, defiant sat
The prettiest maiden in Attegat.
And here was trouble; for Zelia Dionne
Had vowed to the Virgin she’d be a nun;
But Peter, who loved her more than life,
Was fully as bound she should be his wife.
Yet as often as Peter pressed to wed
The pretty Zelia tossed her head.
“I’m not for the wife of man,” she said.
“I’ve dreamed three times our Mary came
And pressed my brow and spoke my name.
I know she means for me to kneel
And take the vows at St. Basil.”
Though Peter stormed, yet Zelia clung
To her belief and braved his tongue.
“Je t’aime, mon cher,” she shyly said,
And drooped her eyes and bent her head;
“But when our Virgin Mother calls
A maiden to her convent walls,
How shameless she to disobey
And follow her own guilty way!”
“But dearest,” Peter warmly plead,
“’Twould not be guilty if it led
To our own home and our own love!
Our Holy Mother from Above,
Will pardon us—I know she will—”
And yet the maid responded still,
“I dare not, Peter, disobey,
And follow my own guilty way.”
So thus it chanced that Zelia Dionne
Had vowed herself to be a nun.
Though Peter teased for many a day
She pressed her lips and said him nay,
And when he begged that she at least
Would leave the question to the priest,
Although she grudged her faint consent
As meaning doubt, at last she went,
Overpersuaded by Peter’s prayer,
To take the case to Father Clair.
Peter, the Little, of Attegat
Fumbled with trembling hands his hat,
As breathlessly he tried to trace
The thoughts that crossed the father’s face.
“My son,” at length the priest returned,
—How Peter’s heart within him burned—
“If truly by the maid the Queen
Of Most High Heaven hath been seen,
—If only in her maiden dreams—
You must allow it ill beseems
My mouth to speak. It may be sin,
For—well, my son, bring Zelia in!”
She stood before him half abashed
Yet boldly, too;—her dark cheek dashed
With ruddy flame; for all her soul
Burned holily. For now her whole
Rich nature stirred. She was not awed
For had she not been called of God?
And little Peter sat and stared
And marvelled how he’d ever dared
To lift his eyes to such a maid,
Or strive to wreck the choice she’d made.
She told in simple terms the tale.
“And do you wish to take the veil?”
The father asked. “Think long, think twice
And never mourn the sacrifice.”
She quivered, but she said, “I’ve thought;
Our Mary wills it and I ought.”
“And can you gladly say farewell
To earth and love and friends; to dwell
With perfect peace nor ever sigh
For things behind?” She said, “I’ll try.”
But even as she spoke the word,
The old time love for Peter stirred;
And mingling with her quick regret,
There came a sob and Peter’s wet,
Sad eyes peered at her through a rain
Of honest tears. She tried in vain
To choke her grief, but Zelia Dionne
Forgot her vow to be a nun,
And crying, “Pierre, I love you best!”
She flung herself upon his breast.
A moment thus—and then in prayer
Both knelt before good Father Clair.
“My daughter, did that vision speak
That night when motherly and meek,
She pressed her hand upon thy brow?
No? Then, my child, she spoke just now;
And in the promptings of thy heart
Her word is clear. My child, thou art
Blest in this choice, for that caress
Upon thy brow was but to bless
And not to call thee from thy choice.
Depart in peace, wed and rejoice.”
Peter, the Little, of Attegat,
Clapped on his curls, his fuzzy hat,
And clasping the hand of his promised bride
He trudged back home with one at his side,
—No longer the self-vowed, mournful nun,
But laughing, black-eyed Zelia Dionne.
Here’s a toast to the kings and the health of
the queens
Of the echoing oval course;
And a song of the steel that is forged for the
wheel
And the hoof of the blue-blood horse!
There’s the song of the steel that is forged for
the wars—
The song of the long, bright sword;
The chant of the weapon the patriot draws
In defence of his land, in support of its laws—
In the cause that his heart has adored.
But the sword that is bared to the glint of the
sun,
—Who knows when that sword will be
sheathed?
For strife plunges hotly when once’tis begun,
So the steel of the sword I forswear and I
shun,
And the horrors its edge has bequeathed.
No, I vaunt the honest circlet to a worthy use
applied—
The steel that flashes swiftly in the broad two-
minute stride;
The steel that clinking hammers in the forges’
clang and heat
Have shaped with merry music for a trotter’s
twinkling feet.
You may choose the glint of sabres or the gleam
of martial arms,
As for me the vibrant flashing of those hoofs
has greater charms,
As I ride the swaying sulky and we cleave the
singing air,
And I hear the merry rick-tack of the trotting
of my mare.
Now what are the prizes of war, my boy,
Or the honors of kingdom and court
To a chap that’s contented with honester joy
Than desperate ventures that crush and de-
stroy
In the din of the battlefield’s sport?
I envy no prowess of warriors of old
Astride of a mail-clad steed.
And I challenge the right of the furious might
That forces an innocent victim to fight
For human ambition or greed.
But ho, for the rush of the steel-shod feet
When the clink of the bright shoe rings—
When the flickering hoofs down the home-
stretch beat
And I on the perch of the sulky seat
Drive hard in the Sport of Kings.
I pledge to you the honor of the ringing, sing-
ing course,
When the tautened reins are throbbing with the
motion of the horse,
When the glossy shoulders glisten with the
twitching muscles’ play,
Beating time in swift staccato to the slender
sulky’s sway.
Let the roaring stand go crazy as we finish at
the pole—
’Tis no human acclamation that avails to stir
my soul,
’Tis the batter and the clatter of those hoofs
that ring and beat,
’Tis the rhythm and the music of those flashing
little feet—
’Tis the sympathy between us, all a-quiver in
the reins,
Till I almost feel the pulsing of the current in
her veins,
And I have no eye or hearing for the vain ac-
claim of man
When my heart and soul are throbbing with
her hoof-beats’ rataplan.
To the king of the course! To the queen of
the track! .
What matter their breeding or name?
To all that have battled the second-hand back
Here’s tribute in measure the same.
Here’s a toast to the king and the health of the
queen,
Who reign on the oval course,
—To the stout, stout steel! forged true for the
wheel
Or the hoof of the blue-blood horse.
I festoon for Bacchus no chaplet of roses,
I will vaunt not the vat—I’ve no homage for
wine;
Panegyric of paint for convivial noses
Shall never find place in a lyric of mine.
Unseemly indeed were such rank exhibition
Of scorn for the statutes that seek to restrain,
By beneficent mandate of stern Prohibition,
The lust for the grape in the good State of
Maine.
So a truce to the bowl and its fervid excitement,
And down with the flagon, the goblet and
stein!
My lyric exalts the more balmy enticement
Of a certain old humble companion of mine.
’Tis addressed
With a zest
Springing out of vague unrest
Stirring underneath my vest.
I’m obsessed
By a guest
Who has come at my behest
From the misty days of boyhood, borne se-
renely in the van
Of the friends that I’d forgotten in the cares
that grind the man.
—You were just a pewter pitcher, a demure
and dull old pot—
With a yee-yaw to your nozzle like the grimace
of a sot.
The knob upon your cover had a truly rakish
cant,
Your paunch was apoplectic and your handle
had a slant
Of a most.convivial nature. But despite your
seedy style
Not a guest upon the threshold got a more
benignant smile
Than when upon a platter, flanked by apples
and by pears,
You rose splashing full of cider up the dark old
cellar stairs.
I’m sure that the fruit that we sacrificed duly
Each fall to the cruel embrace of the press
Had quaffed of the honey of Nature and truly
Deserved from her hand a more tender
caress.
Pm sure that the sun kissed both fruit and the
flower
With all the devotion his warm heart could
bring,
Till Alcohol ceded his ominous power
And gall lost its bitter, the adder its sting,
For though round and round went the old pew-
ter pitcher,
And chucklingly filled for us horn after
horn,
We never saw dragon, blue goblin or witch, or
Required a hoop for our heads in the morn.
Here goes!
Here’s to those
Who sat and warmed their toes
Drowning cares and frets and woes.
No one knows
How memory glows
As I see that ancient nose
Gleaming blandly in the circle of the friends of
long ago
Within, the light; without, the night and the
wind and drifting snow.
Then the dented pewter pitcher poured for us
its amber stream
While the tinkling bubbles winked upon the
brink with dancing gleam,
Ah, there was no guile within you as there were
no gauds without
—Just a plain, old-fashioned fellow, with an
awful homely snout;
And you never left us headaches and you didn’t
stir the bile,
And no guest upon the threshold got a more
benignant smile
Than when, upon a platter, flanked by apples
and by pears,
You rose splashing full of cider up the dark old
cellar stairs.
There was Sinon, he of Troy, and Ulysses, too,
and Cain,
Who preceded many centuries the liars here in
Maine.
There was Gulliver, Munchausen, there was
Ananias, too,
A very handsome job of it those gentlemen
could do.
Yet look at Ananias! Why, his story knocked
him dead,
But here in Maine the liar “does” the other
man instead.
And Sinon, he of Troy, had to plan and build
his lie,
But here in Maine the liar doesn’t even have
to try.
For the pure prevarication comes cascading
down his lip
And he never seems to falter or to stub his toe
and trip.
And he walks abroad with honor, and no mortal
will arraign
The pure and worthy motives of the liar here
in Maine.
His strongest hold is fishing, and he fixes with
his eye
The victim who must listen and who never
dares deny.
Each river and pellucid pond, each brooklet and
each stream,
Possesses fifty liars to preserve it in esteem.
And he that owns a yaller dog, and he that
owns a hoss
Will never see their laurels dimmed, if words
can add a gloss.
’Tis true the old inhabitant, narrating ancient
tales,
Occasionally soars to heights where homely
language fails.
So then, alas, he’s hampered some, but note
his kindling eye,
And as he gets his second wind, observe how
he can lie!
’Tis no invidious charge I bring against this
worthy crew,
We love the lies they tell to us and love the
liars too.
They hold to truth in business deals, they’d
never lie to cheat;
But when the “sport” comes down from town,
by gracious he’s their meat.
They “torch” him up with narrative until his
fancy steams
And swogons, yaps, and witherlicks go ramp-
ing through his dreams.
For when our solemn ruminants describe the
olden times
They stimulate a state of mind I can’t describe
in rhymes.
I pen this humble lyric and I bring a wreath of
bay,
For the good prevaricators doing business down
this way.
May their tongues be ever limber, and im-
agination free,
With no interloping infidel to ask how such
can be.
May the plug from which they nibble spice a
piquant, pungent tale,
May words to paint the details of their fiction
never fail.
Let the chips from which they whittle always
have an even grain,
And we’ll challenge all creation with our liars
here in Maine.
Doctor Pluff, who lived in Cornville, he was
hearty, brisk and bluff,
Didn’t have much extry knowledge, but in
some ways knowed enough;
Knowed enough to doctor hosses, cows an’ dogs
an’ hens an’ sheep,
When he come to doctor humans, wal, he wasn’t
quite so deep.
Still, he kind o’ got ambitious, an’ he went an’
stubbed his toe,
When he tried to tackle subjects that he really
didn’t know.
Doc he started out the fust-off as a vet’rinary
doc,
An’ he made a reputation jest as solid as a rock.
Doct’rin’ hosses’ throats or such like, why, there
warn’t a man in town
Who could take a cone of paper, poof the sul-
phur furder down.
He could handle pips an’ garget in a brisk an’
thorough style,
An’ there wan’t a cow’t would hook him when
he give her castor ile.
As V. S. he had us solid, but he loosened up his
hold
When he doctored Uncle Peaslee for his reg’lar
April cold.
Uncle Peaslee allus caught it when he took
his flannels off,
For a week or two he’d wheezle, sniff an’ snee-
zle, bark an’ cough.
An’ at last, in desperation, when the thing be-
came so tough,
He adopted some suggestions that were made
by Doctor Pluff.
Fust o’ March he started early an’ he reg’lar
ev’ry day
From his heavy winter woolens tore a little
strip away.
For the doc he had insisted that the change
could thus be made,
’Cause the system wouldn’t notice such an easy,
steady grade.
Walsir,’bout the last of April, Uncle Peaslee
he had on
Jest the wris’ban’s an’ the collar—all the rest
of it was gone.
Then—with Doctor Pluff advisin’—on a mild
an’ pleasant day,
He took off the collar ‘n wris’ban’s, and he
throwed the things away.
An’ in lesser’n thutty hours he was sudden
tooken down
With the wust case of pneumony that we ever
knowed in town.
An’ he dropped away in no time; it was awful
kind of rough,
An’ we had our fust misgivin’s’bout the skill
of Old Doc Pluff.
Reckoned that ’ere scrape would down him an’
he’d stick to hens an’ cows,
But he’d got to be ambitious, an’ he tackled
Irai Howes.
Uncle Iral’s kind o’ feeble, but was bound to
wean a caff;
Went to pull him off from suckin’ when the
critter’d had his haff.
Caff he turned around an’ bunted—made him’s
mad’s a tyke, ye see—
An’ old Iral’s leg was broken, little ways above
the knee.
T’other doctor couldn’t git there’cause the
goin’ was so rough,
So they had to run their chances and they called
on Doctor Pluff.
Doc he found old Irai groanin’ where they’d
laid him on the bed,
An’ he took his old black finger, rolled up Iral’s
lip an’ said,
“Hay-teeth worn; can’t chaw his vittles!
Vittles therefore disagree,
It’s as tough a case of colic as I think I ever
see.”
Some one started then to tell him, but the doc
he had the floor,
An’ he snapped ’em up so spiteful that the}
didn’t say no more.
Then he wrinkled up his eyebrows, pursed his
lips as tight’s a bung,
Pried apart old Iral’s grinders an’ says he,
“Le’s see your tongue.”
“Why,” says he, “I see the trouble—you’ve
got garget of the blood,
An’ if symptoms hain’t deceivin’, you have also
lost your cud.”
“Blame yer soul,” groaned Uncle Irai, “can’t
ye see what’s ailin’ me?
That ’ere leg is broke!” “Oh, sartin,” says
the doc, “I see! I see!”
Then he pulled off Iral’s trousers, an’ he spit
upon his fist,
Grabbed that leg in good old earnest an’ com-
menced to twist an’ twist.
Irai howled an’ yowled an’ fainted, then come
to an’ howled some more,
He an’ doc they fit an’ wrassled on the bed an’
on the floor.
Doc, though, held him to the wickin’—let old
Irai howl an’ beg,
Said he’d got to do his duty, straight’nin out
his blamed old leg.
When the splints come off, though, later, wal-
sir, Irai was provoked,
Hain’t surprised it made him ugly, for he sar-
tinly was soaked.
Doc had set it so the kneejoint comes behind,
jest like a cow’s,
An’ ’twould make ye die a-laughin’, would that
gait of Irai Howes’.
If that case of Uncle Peaslee wasn’t damagin’
enough,
Bet your life that job on Irai made us shy of
old Doc Pluff.
Now this is the story of Hunneman Two,
Old Hunneman Two from Andover town;
—A tub with the likeliest, heftiest crew
That ever hoorayed in a hot break-’er-down.
And I’ll give you the facts, for if any one knows
It’s me who was Hunneman’s foreman of hose:
Ev’ry feller we mustered was over six feet
And the gang that we brought to a fireman’s
meet
They never was licked and they never was
downed,
And a crowd up against us would likely get
drowned.
Ev’ry man in the forty was six feet and more
And their shirts was the reddest that ever men
wore;
Whenever they hollered they’d jump up a yard
And when they came down they came dreffully
hard.
Ev’ry man had a trumpet and some of them
tew
—And’twas safest to plug up your ears when
they blew.
They’d ballast the tub with a cart-load of stone
And stuff her with sody ontil she would groan
Then they’d spit on their fists and would gaffle
that beam
And whoop fa, la larry, my jinks what a
stream!
’Twas h’ist on the beam till your eyeballs gog-
gled,
Hump-jump-pump!
Give her the tar till her old sides woggled,
Pump-jump-hump!
Down with the beam till it sartin would seem
We were drowndin’ the sun in a hissin’, white
stream.
Oh, there never was anything up with the crew
That buckled the beam of old Hunneman Two.
One time we were playin’ at Andover fair
And old Uncle Boomer drove up with his mare.
She cocked up an eye for to see the stream sail
Then she up with her ears and her head and
her tail;
And whoosh! she was off down the Bunganuck
road
At as lively a clip as a mare ever hoed.
Now the Bunganuck road it was right straight
away,
And jest for a hector we started to play
Right over the tailboard, right into his team,
And we followed him up with old Hunneman’s
stream.
We followed him one mile, we followed him
tew
With the foreman a-swearin’ and all of the
crew
A-breakin’ her down and a-crackin’ their heels
Till we lifted her plum fair and square off the
wheels.
We followed him three miles, we followed him
four
—If he hadn’t shied off we’d a-followed him
more.
Old Boomer got rheumatiz out of wet feet
For we kept his old waggin full, clear to the
seat.
’Twas h’ist on the beam till your eyeballs gog-
gled,
Pump-jump-hump!
Give her the tar till her old sides woggled,
Hump-jump-pump!
Down with the beam till it sartin would seem
We were drownin’ the sun in a hissin’ white
stream.
Oh, there never was anything up with the crew
That buckled the beam of old Hunneman Two.
Bring on your speechifyin’ runts, yes, bring
your biggest gun;
Trot out your high-flown orators, we don’t bar
nary one.
From Quoddy Head to Caribou, from there to
sassy York,
Bring out your braggadosho chaps who think
that they can talk.
We’ve got our man—don’t want no odds’nd
warn you fair and true
So’t when the Legislatoor meets you’ll have
your men there, too.
He’s jest a’goin’ to sweep the floor, we’ll have
you recollect,
—Our Oradudolph Moody, reprusentertive-
elect.
When Mister Moody rises up ’nd ’hams ’nd
clears his thro’t
’Nd loosens up his gallowses ’nd lays aside his
co’t,
I guess he’ll fool the av’rage man, he looks so
cool ’nd carm,
A-dribblin out his words ’nd wavin’ careless-
like his arm.
But pretty soon that arm goes and quivers in
the air,
His hand a-wrigglin’ up a-top, seems ’sif ’twas
spinnin’ there.
It acts as sort of windmill, pumpin’ langwidge
I expect
From Oradudolph Moody, reprusentertive-elect.
When Oradudolph Moody speaks he has the
durndest knack
Of windin’ up opponents so they never an-
swer back.
When yearly meetin’ comes around he alwus
swings the town
On anything he advocates from new school-
houses down.
The elerquence just bubbles up without no
work at all,
He almost mesmerizes everybody in the hall.
’Nd down there to Augusty you’ll parceive the
strange effect
Of Oradudolph Moody, reprusentertive-elect.
Magnetic! He’s a dynamo, his pulley never
slips,
’Nd eelectricity!—It runs right off his finger-
tips.
We’ve tried to send him down before, but no,
he wouldn’t go;
He said he had no time to fool with Legisla-
tors, so
Our town ain’t never had a man to speak, ex-
cept Mulkearn,
Who managed once to stutter out a motion to
adjourn.
But now, by gosh jest set right back and wish-
fully expect
Our Oradudolph Moody, reprusentertive-
elect.
E. Perley Atkins had a low—deep—bass.
The noise came out of his face,
But the place
Whence the sound sprung
And bubbled toward the bung,
When he sung,
To come lolloping up to his tongue,
In long fortissimo hoots,
Or staccato toots,
—That place was suttin’ly down in his boots.
Omp, omp!
That was the kind of a bass
That oozed from the face
Of E. Perley Atkins who lived in our place.
He sung at all the paring bees, the quilting teas,
and parti-ees
He sung at all the shindigees we had for miles
around.
He opened his lip and let her rip and folks were
never obliged to tease,
For he allowed
That he was proud
As well as the rest of the awe-struck crowd
Of the deep, profundo timbre of that sound.
Boomp, boomp!
He wended thus on his deep, bass way
Ready to omp, omp night or day.
He sung in the choir Sunday forenoon
And an hour later furnished a tune
For the Sabbath school and the Bible class,
With a voice that was meller’n apple sass.
At evenin’ meetin’ he came around
Full to the neck with that cream-rich sound,
And the way he would lead Coronation hymn
Would lift ye off’n your pew, by Jim.
On Monday nights he had a call
To sing for the Maltys at Jackson’s Hall.
Tuesdays the Masons and Wednesdays he
Sung like blazes for the I. G. T.
Thursdays, class-meetings, Fridays, sings
With Saturdays open for rackets and things.
A busy week? Well, I guess, but wait,
I mustn’t forget, my friend, to state
There warn’t no fun’ral for ten miles’round,
No dear departed tucked under ground,
No mourners jammed in a settin’ room,
Sozzled in grief and soaked in gloom,
But Perley was there with his rich, cream bass
To trickle like salve on the wounded place.
And the tears would dry on each mourner’s
nose,
They’d perk right up and forget their woes
And nudge each other and say, “Suz me,
What a beautiful funeral voice that be.”
And in time, though he sang for all who asked,
For saint and sinner, still he basked
In especial favor as one whose ease
And voice gave a tone to obsequies.
It’s whispered around, and I guess it’s so
That when he hinted he thought he’d go
To Rome and Paris to train that bass,
A widow and three old maids in the place,
Who were living along, no man knew why,
Decided they’d hurry up and die.
They just stopped breathing and died from
choice
For the sake of having that funeral voice
Draw copious streams from the mourner’s eyes
And give them a send-off toward Paradise.
—No man who’s monkeyed with bass B-flat
Got ever a compliment higher’n that.
He sung at all the paring bees, the quilting teas,
the parti-ees,
He sung at all the shindigees for twenty miles
around.
He opened his lip and let her rip,
Admirers had no need to tease,
And he sprung a bass that joggled the roof and
fairly shook the ground.
While the echoes of his “funeral voice”
Made even the cherubim rejoice,
As the melody pulsed against the skies
And ushered a soul into Paradise.
Couldn’t speak of nothin’ smart—no one strong
or spry—
’Thout old Talleyrand B. Beals to grab right
in an’ lie!
All the thing he’d talk about was chap by name
of Jim,
Ev’ry story that he told was sort of hung round
him.
—Said the critter’d worked for him twenty
years before,
—Yarn at last it got to be the by-word down
t’ th’ store,
When we’d hear of biggish things, “That,”
we’d say, “I swan,
Beats tophet, taxes, time an’ tide an’ Bealses’
hired man.”
Beals, though, clacked right on an’ on; would
set an’ chaw an’ spit,
An’ tell us’bout that hired man—couldn’t make
him quit!
Champyun jump or heft or swim— ’twas all the
same to him,
He’d wait till all the rest had shot, then plug
the mark with Jim.
Had to laugh the other day—boys were down
t’ th’ store,
Talleyrand got started in—the dratted, deef
old bore!
Silas Erskine’s boy spoke up—that’s Ez; wal,
Ez says he,
“Say, Tal, what ever come o’ Jim?” Old
Beals uncrossed his knee,
Said he, “A master cur’us chap, that Jim was,
I must say,
—Seemed to like us fine as silk, but off he
went one day,
—Went right off without a yip—didn’t take his
clothes;
Hank’rin’ struck him all to once—couldn’t
wait, don’t s’pose.
Didn’t even take his pay, which was some sur-
prise,
—Prob’ly, though, a lord or dook, trav’lin’ in
disguise.”
Beals he stopped an’ gnawed his plug; chawed
an’ chawed a while,
Then Ben Haskell hitched around an’ smole a
sing’lar smile.
“Told that hired man,” said he, “I’d never let
it out,
Guess I’d better tell it, though, an’ settle all
this doubt.
Want to say right here an’ now, to back up
Beals,” says Ben,
“His Jim did sartin wear the crown amongst
all hired men.”
S’prised us all when Ben said that,’cause he
us’al planned
All the hector, tricks an’ jokes’t were put on
Talleyrand.
Ben, though, kept right on his talk. Ben says,
then says he,
“Here’s the secret how he went for I’m the man
that see.
Happened down in Allen’s field day he disap-
peared,
Jim came’crost the intervale; straight as H he
steered
To’ards that silver popple tree; up that tree he
dim’,
—Set there, sort o’ lost in thought, a-straddle
of a limb.
Jest as I’d got underneath he sighed an’ took a
piece
Of mutton taller—give his boots a heavy co’t
of grease,
Greased his fingers nice an’ slick an’ then—an’
then, I swear,
Grabbed them boot-straps, give a pull an’ up
he went in air.”
—Ought to heered us critters laugh—gre’t big
“Haw, haw, haw-w-!”
Jason Britt he dropped his teeth, Erskine gulped
his chaw,
Talleyrand jest set there grum—fin’ly snorted
“Sho!
Think ye’re smart, ye pesky fool! Lemme tell
ye, though,
’Tain’t so thund’rin’ big a stretch ye made then
when ye lied,
Bet ye Jim could lift himself, providin’ he had
tried.
Stout? I see’d him boost a rock—” “Minit,
Tal,” says Ben,
“Hain’t got done my story yit! Jest ye wait
till then.
—Soon’s I see’d that critter start, hollered
loud’s a loon,
’Jeero cris’mus, Jim,’ said I, ‘startin’ for the
moon?’
Jim looked down an’ said, says he, ‘Don’t
know where I’ll fetch,
Ner care a rap so long’s I dodge old Beals, the
mean old wretch!
Trouble is, consarn his soul, his feed has been
so slim
I’ve fell away till northen’s left’cept clothes an’
name o’ Jim.
Reckin then I’ll h’ist myself,’cause, ye see, I’ve
found
It’s blame sight easier raisin’ up than holdin’
to the ground.’
“Then he give them straps a tug an’ up he went
from sight,
—Stood an’ watched him till he growed to jest
a leetle mite!
He’s the champyun hired man, sartin sure, be-
cause
Critter went to Paradise, prob’ly jest’s he
was.”
Talleyrand he got so mad he actyal wouldn’t
speak,
Didn’t come t’ th’ store agin for more’n a solid
week. .
Soon’s he edged around some more wa’n’t no
talk from him
’Bout no hired men, you bet! Clack was shet
on Jim.
Inventor Jones—Eliphalet Jones,
Ah, he was the fellow for schemes!
Though critics might carp and his rivals throw
stones,
They never vexed Uncle Eliphalet Jones,
Or troubled his radiant dreams.
He calmly asserted that every day
One hundred inventions, or so, came his way;
They flocked through his mind in such myriad
rout
He hadn’t the leisure to figure them out.
But he said if a fellow should chase him around
With a pencil and notebook’twould surely be
found
That projects prolific were shed from his brain
As a wet bush, when shaken, will scatter the
rain.
When he plowed, when he hoed, when he
sowed, when he mowed
He was steadily throwing off load after load
Of notions, he stated—each notion a mint
For the chap who would take and develop the
hint.
But Eliphalet Jones—Eliphalet Jones
Was so busy with farmwork and clearing off
stones,
So busy with milking and errands and chores
He scattered inventions by dozens and scores
With a liberal hand, but with barren effect,
For they dried on the cold, arid sands of
neglect.
But for all he forgot he would cheerfully say
There were always as many the very next day.
And he figured it up; though enormous it
seems
He had fashioned and fired some ten thousand
schemes.
Now, out of that number a limited few
Eliphalet tackled and engineered through;
A few little notions right out of his head
To help out the farmwork, he carelessly said.
One patent, a holder to hitch a cow’s tail
So she couldn’t keep swatting the man with the
pail;
A few dozen scarecrows of hellish design,
Real impish constructions to jig on a line
That was jerked by a water-wheel down in the
brook;
All the horses that passed, if they got a good
look
Tumbled down stiff and dead or else, frantic
with fear,
Kicked the wagon in bits and spun’round on
one ear.
And he rigged a contrivance by which ev’ry
morn
His old Brahma rooster descending for corn,
Stepped down on a lever that flipped up a lock
And down came the fodder in front of the
stock.
Still, these were but puerile notions beside
The thing that he hoped for—his spur and his
pride,
His climax of schemes ere he went back to
dust—
For he vowed that he’d fathom the secret or
“bust;”
That if motion perpetual ever could be
Discovered by mortal, that man should be he.
So he fussed with his springs and his wee-jees
and wings
And all sorts of queer little duflicker things,
And he builded queer whiz-a-jigs, then with a
frown
He ruthlessly, scornfully cuffed them all down.
Well, the years hurried by, as the years surely
will,
But Eliphalet Jones he was confident still,
For he constantly vowed that some thingumy
spring
Put somewhere “would settle the dad-ratted
thing.”
Yet the years skittered past and his head was
snow-white
And he almost had solved it, but never “jest
quite;”
So the neighbors employed some satirical tones
When they chanced to refer to Perpetual Jones.
But hail to his name and remember his fame!
At the last—at the last, friends, he won the
great game!
He died at the birth of his triumph,’tis true,
And he left only words—yet I give them to
you,
Convinced they’re a gift to the world, without
doubt,
Or will be as soon as the thing is worked out.
He sat in his chair by the window one day
While his grandson was out with a puppy at
play;
And the boy hitched some meat to the tail of
that pup,
Then he gave him a twirl and the puppy “gee-
ed up,”
And he spun and he spun and he spun and he
spun
Just as fast at the last as when he begun,
But the tail and the meat ever kept just ahead
Of the clamorous jaws as the puppy dog sped.
“There she is,” cried Eliphalet, “darned if she
ain’t!
There’s perpetual motion!” and pallid and faint
He fell prone and dying. They lifted him up
And his eyes, glazed with death, looked their
last on that pup.
And through the dark shade of mortality’s fog
He gasped, “All you need is the right kind of
dog.”
Inventor Jones—Eliphalet Jones,
Ah, he was the fellow for schemes;
Though critics might carp and his rivals throw
stones
They never vexed Uncle Eliphalet Jones,
Or troubled his radiant dreams.
Aunt Brown—Jemimy Brown—
Was a spinster, spinner-weaver of merited re-
nown;
Our town set it down
As a fact beyond disputing there was never
any suiting
Like the suiting that was made by Spinster
Brown.
She raised the wool she made it of, she even
raised the sheep,
She fed ’em on the toughest straw the hired
man could reap
She spun the thread with double-twist and
made a warp and woof
So tarnal tough it really seemed’twas almost
bullet-proof.
And when the cloth was shrunk and dyed and
ready for a suit
The men in town would almost fight, they’d
get in such dispute
Concerning who had spoken first—the farthest
in advance—
And therefore had the prior claim on Aunt
Jemimy’s pants.
The cloth that folks make nowadays is slimpsy,
sleazy stuff;
It’s colored up in fairish style and fashionable
enough!
But blame the goods! It’s made to sell—it
isn’t made to wear—
These trousers here I’ve worn five year, and
that is merely fair.
But when you bought a cut of cloth of Aunt
Jemimy’s weave,
You got some stuff to last you through, you’d
better just believe!
Why, ’bout the time that modern pants are get-
ting worn and thin
A pair of Aunt Jemimy’s pants were scarcely
broken in.
I’ve got a pair up attic now, made forty years
ago
They’re just as tough as iron still and Time
has made no show.
They’ve stood the brunt of honest work and
dulled the tooth of moth,
And there they stand, as stiff’s a slab, good,
plain, old-fashioned cloth.
And so I think it’s only right that tribute
should be paid
To those old sturdy pioneers—the pants Je-
mimy made.
The day I first put on those pants I held a
break-up plough—
The farmers of these later days don’t have
such wrassles now;
I drove six oxen on ahead, a pretty hefty team,
For farming in those old, old days took mus-
cle, grit and steam;
You didn’t stop for rocks and stumps, nor
dodge and skive and skip,
Or else you’d have to lug your meals on ev’ry
furrow’s trip,
And so the only thing to do was make the oxen
tread
And hold the ploughshare deep and true, and
plunk ’er straight ahead.
So back and forth and back and forth I
ploughed and ploughed that day;
I tackled ev’ry rock and snag that dared dispute
my way,
Until the only critter left was one old maple
stump,
And I?—I gave the team the gad—and took
’er on the jump!
She split in halves and through I went, but
back she slapped, ker-whack,
And gripped Jemimy’s pantaloons right where
she’d left the slack.
The team was going double-quick—the oxen
plunged along—
I held the old oak handle-bars, I gripped ’em
good and strong—
And there I was, the living link’twixt stump
and plough, because
The cloth it stuck there good and tight between
those maple jaws.
Jemimy never planned on that, in making pants
for me;
She made ’em solid, yet of course she gave no
guarantee
That they would stand a yank like that—but
still I clung and yelled,
Those oxen plunged and tussled and—Je-
mimy’s pants, they held!
And the stump came out a-kicking, roots and
dirt and stones and all,
But those pants weren’t even started by that
most tremendous haul,
And to prove this ’ere is truthful, should some
scoffer cast a doubt,
I have saved the chips and hewings where they
came and chopped me out.
Aunt Brown—Jemimy Brown—
Was a spinster, spinner-weaver of merited re-
nown;
Our town set it down
As a fact beyond disputing there was never
any suiting
Like the suiting that was made by Spinster
Brown.
Elkanah B. Atkinson’s tarvun was run
On a plan that was strictly his own;
And he “reckoned that dudified sons of a gun”
Would far better leave him alone.
He allowed that he always had plenty to eat
For folks that liked vitt-u-als plain;
An’ when ye came down to pettaters and meat
His house was a credit to Maine.
The garding truck they raised themselves,
They killed their pork; and the but’ry shelves
Jest fairly groaned with jells and jams;
—In a shed out back they smoked their hams.
And old Elkanah used to brag
They laid down pickles by the kag;
And they had the darndest hens to lay
—Got fifty eggs most ev’ry day—
And ev’ry egg was big’s your fist
And fresher’n a whiff of mountain mist.
The whole blamed house it used to shake
When old Elkanah pounded steak,
For he used to say what made meat tough
Was ’cause some cooks warn’t strong enough.
And he piled the grub right on sky-high:
Soup and meat and fish and pie
—All the courses on first whack—
And then Elkanah he’d stand back
And say: “There, people, now hoe in;
When ye’ve et that grub, pass up ag’in;
Of course we hain’t no big hotel,
But some few things, why, we dew well.”
P. Mortimer Perkins came down from New
York,
—A salesman for corsets and things;
With his trousers all creased and a lah-de-dah
walk,
As if he were jiggered by strings;—
Arrived at the Atkinson tarvun one night
And says to Elkanah, says he:
“I want to be called just as soon as it’s light,
For I’m going first train, don’t ye see.
It’s very important I go by first train,
But I find in these country hotels
The service ye get gives a fellah a pain
—They don’t even answer the bells.
Now I want to be called for that train, me good
man,
For it’s very important I go;
Now weally, old chappie, please see if you can
Just do a thing right once, y’ know-
Ye may call me at four, and at half after four
I’ll bweakfast; now recollect, please!
Before I wetire I’ll tell you once more;
—You’ll get the idea by degwees.”
Elkanah B. Atkinson lowered his specs
To the very tip-end of his nose;
Says he: “When a feller he really expec’s
To go by that train, wal—he goes.
Jest fall right asleep and don’t worry a mite;
This hain’t -no big city hotel,
But we’ll git ye to goin’ termorrer all right,
For there’s some things we dew fairly well.”
Elkanah B. Atkinson sat all night
And kept the office fire bright.
He nodded some and yawned and smoked,
And at half-past three he went and poked
The kitchen fire; then pounded steak
And set potatoes in to bake.
Started the coffee and all the rest
And then went up to call his guest.
Bangity, whang! on the cracked old door!
Whangity, bang! It checked a snore.
P. Mortimer Perkins opened his eyes
In the cold dark dawn with much surprise,
And under the coverlet warm and thick
On the good, old-fashioned feather tick,
Felt the cold on his nose like a frosty knife
And was never so sleepy in all his life.
But still bang, whang on the cracked old door!
And Elkanah shouting, “Mos’ ha’f-pas’ four!”
But the louder the old man pounded and yapped
The more the drummer garped and gapped.
At last says he: “Is it stormy—oh-h-h?”
“Wall,” says Elkanah, “she’s spittin’ snow.”
P. Mortimer Perkins snuggled down
And says he, “This isn’t a blamed bad town;
I say, old man, now please go’way,
I’ve changed my mind, and I guess I’ll stay.”
Elkanah B. Atkinson then says he:
“This changin’ minds is a bad idee;
I’ve set in that office there all night
So’s I could git ye up all right.
An’ breakfus’ is on, an’ the coffee’s hot;
Now, friend, ye can go on that train or not,
But I tell ye now, right off- the reel,
Ye’re goin’ to git up and eat that meal.”
P. Mortimer Perkins cursed and swore,
But Elkanah slammed right through that door,
And he pulled that drummer out of bed
And brandished a chair’round over his head;
He poked his ribs and made him dress
So sleepy still that his gait cut S
As he staggered down to the dining-room
And ate his meal in the cheerless gloom,
While over him stood the grim old man
With a stick and a steaming coffee can.
“Now, mister,” allowed Elkanah, “sence
It’s a special breakfus’ it’s thutty cents.”
When the feller paid, as meek’s a pup,
And stuttered “Now, can I be put up?”
“Why, sartin, mister,” Elkanah said;
“Ye can go to tophet or back to bed;
There hain’t hard feelin’s, no, none at all,
But when a feller he leaves a call
At the Atkinson House for an early meal,
He gits it served right up genteel,
An’ when it’s served, wal, now you bet
There hain’t no peace till that meal’s been et.
Of course we hain’t no big hotel,
But some few things we dew quite well.”
’Twas a battered old, double-B, twisted bass
horn,
With a yaw in the flare at its end;
A left-over veteran, relic forlorn
Of the halcyon days when a band had been
born
To the village of Buckleby Bend.
The band was dismembered by time and by
death
As the years went a-scurrying by,
And only one player was left with his breath
And that was old Obadi’ I.
P. Frye.
Old Obadi’ Isaac Pitt Frye.
With a glow in his eye
He would plaintively try
To puff out the tune that they marched to at
training;
But the tremolo drone
Of the brassy old tone
Quavered queerly enough with his scant breath
remaining.
Ah, the years had been many and bent was his
back,
And caved was his chest and departed his
knack;
So, though he was filled with musicianly pride
And huffed at the mouthpiece and earnestly
tried
To steady his palsied old lip and control
The old-fashioned harmonies stirring his soul—
There was nothing in Buckleby quite so for-
lorn
As the oomp-tooty-oomp of that old bass horn.
To the parties and sociables, quiltings and sings
They invited old Obadi’ Frye;
He’d give ’em doldrums of old-fashioned
things
With occasional bass obligato for strings
—Or at least he would zealously try.
The minister coaxed him to buy a cornet
And chirk up a bit in his tune,
But none could induce him to ever forget
His love for that old bassoon,
Whose tune
Was the solace of life’s afternoon.
So he’d splutter and moan
With his thin, gusty tone
But his empty old lungs balked his anxious en-
deavor.
He hadn’t the starch
For a jig or a march,
And with double-F volume he’d parted forever.
For he hadn’t the breath for a triple note run,
’Twas a whoof and a pouf! and alas, he was
done;
But the pride of his heart was that old double-
bass,
He was happy alone with its lips at his face.
So he sat in his old leather chair day by day
And whooped the one solo he’d power to play,
An anthem entitled, “All Hail Christmas
Morn,”
As rendered by gulps on an old bass horn.
“All hail—hoomp—hoomp—bright Christmas
morn,
Hail—hoomp, hoomp—hoomp—fair
hoomp—hoomp—dawn;
Turn—hoomp—hoomp, eyes
Hoomp—hoomp,
HOOMP—skies,
When—hoomp—hoomp,
hoomp—H O O M P—boom.
While a-tooting one morning his breath flick-
ered out
With a sort of a farewell purr;
Of course there are many to scoff and to scout,
But’twas sucked by that cavernous horn with-
out doubt,
At least, so the neighbors aver.
They laid him away in the churchyard to rest
And with grief that they sought not to hide,
They placed the old battered B-B on his breast
And that Christmas hymn score by his side—
His pride,
‘Twas the tune that he played when he died.
Now, who here denies
That far in the skies
He is probably calmly and placidly winging;
That his spirit new-born
With his score and his horn
Takes flight where the hosts are triumphantly
singing.
Yet it irks me to think that he’s far in that
Land
With only the score of one anthem in hand.
For the music Above must be novel and
strange—
Too intricate far for that double-B range,
But at last when the Christmastide rings in the
skies
There’ll be some queer quavers in fair Para-
dise,
For an humble old spirit will calmly allow
“I reckin I’ll give ’em that horn solo now.”
Up there we are certain there’s no one to carp
Because Obadiah won’t tackle a harp—
Seraphs and cherubs will hush their refrain
When a new note of praise intermingles its
strain,
And he’ll add to the jocund delight of that
morn
With his anthem, “All hail,” on that old bass
horn.
“All hail—hoomp—hoomp—bright Christmas
morn,
Hail—hoomp, hoomp—hoomp—fair
hoomp—hoomp—dawn;
Turn—hoomp—hoomp, eyes
hoomp—hoomp,
HOOMP—skies,
When—hoomp—hoomp,
hoomp—HOOMP—born.”
Flappy-doodle, flam, flam—whack, whack,
whack!
Balance to the corners and forward folks and
back;
Gaffle holt an’ gallop for an eight hands round,
While the brogans and the cowhides they pessle
and they pound;-
No matter for the Agger providin’ there’s the
time.
Jest cuff’er out and jig’er;—jest hoe’er down
and climb!
No matter’bout your toes or corns; let rheu-
matiz go hang,
For we’re weltin’ out the wickin at the old
folks’ whang.
—At the old folks’ whang
Hear the cowhides bang,
When we “up and down the center” at the old
folks’ whang.
Yang, tangty, yee-yah!—yang, yang, yang!
Old Branscomb plays the fiddle at the old folks’
whang;
And he puts a sight o’ ginger in the chitter of
the string,
—It isn’t frilly playin’ but he makes that fiddle
sing.
He slashes out promis’cus, sort o’ mixin’ up
the tune,
—Takes the Irish Washerivoman, slams’er up
agin Zip Coon;
And he Speeds the Plough a minute, then he’ll
sort o’change his mind
And go off a-gallivantin’ with the Girl I left
Behind.
Oh, he mixes up his music queerest way I ever
saw,
For he shifts the tune he’s playin’ ev’ry time
he shifts his chaw;
But we never mind the changes for he keeps us
on the climb,
—He may twist the tune a little but he’s thun-
der on the time!
So line up and choose your pardners—we’re
the old ones out for fun,
You’ll forgit your stiff rheumaticks jest as soon
as you’ve begun.
’Course we ain’t so spry and spiffy as we used
to be, but yet
We can show them waltzy youngsters jest a
thing or two, you bet.
We will dance the good old contras as we used
to years ago,
Jest as long as Uncle Branscomb has the
strength to yank the bow.
There is no one under sixty—we’ve shet out
the youngster gang
And we’re goin’ to welt the wickin’ at the old
folks’ whang.
—At the old folks’ whang
Hear the cowhides bang,
When we canter up the center at the old folks’
whang.
O, the sleddin’s gettin’ ragged and it’s dodge
and skip and skive,
Till it’s jest an aggravation for to try to start
and drive.
Fust to this side, then to t’other—here some
ice and there some snow,
—Just continyal gee and holler; fust “Gid-
dap,” and then it’s “Whoa!”
Takes a half a day to git there, round by way
o’ Robin Hood;
Like as not ye’ll bust your riggin’ haulin’ out
your hay and wood.
’Tain’t no way o’ doin’ bus’ness; ’tain’t no
way to haul a load,
—You must do your hefty haulin’ in the mid-
dle of the road.
If ye want to keep a-hoein’
Better wait for settled goin’,
For twice the heft goes easy in the middle of
the road.
O, in dealin’s with your neighbors, brother,
sure as you’re alive,
It’s better to go straight ahead and never skip
or skive.
For the man who keeps a-dodgin’ back and
forth across the way
Like enough will find his outfit in the gutter,
stuck to stay.
Till the road is clear and settled, till with can-
dor in your heart
You can see your way before you, guess ye
hadn’t better start;
For to get there square and easy; and to lug
your honest load,
You’ll find it’s best to travel in the middle of
the road.
—So’s to make an honest showin’
Better wait for settled goin’,
Then, s’r, hustle brisk and stiddy in the mid-
dle of the road.
Drivin’ the stage,
Oh, drivin’ the stage,
With the wind fairly peelin’ your hide with its
aidge!
Jest got to git through with the’Nited States
For the contract provisions don’t have the
word “Fail.”
So it’s out and tread drifts while the snow
howls and sifts
For a dollar a trip—and no extrys—no gifts.
For them star-route contractors they figger it
fine
And take it right out of the chaps on the line.
They set in an office and rake in their slice
While the drivers are tusslin’ the snow and the
ice.
It may howl, it may yowl, it may snow, it may
blow
But that’Nited States mail, wal, it jest has to
go.
So it’s out and unhitch, leave the pung where
it’s stuck,
Lo’d the bags on the hosses and then, durn ye,
huck!
And it’s waller and struggle, walk stun’-walls
and rails
For they don’t stand no foolin’—them’Nited
States mails.
And at last when ye git there, jest tuckered
and beat,
And sling in the bags and crowd up to the
heat,
The gang round the stove they don’t give ye
no praise
But set there and toast themselves’side of the
blaze;
And ev’ry old, wobble-shanked son of a gun
Sets up there and tells ye how he would have
done!
—If there’s any one job gives your temper an
aidge,
It’s drivin’ the stage,
—It’s drivin’ the stage.
In his big, fur coat and with mittens big as
hams,
With his string of bells a-jingling, through the
country side he slams.
There are lots of calls to make and he’s always
on the tear,
A-looming in his cutter like an amiable bear.
And it’s hi-i-i, there!
Johnny don’t ye care,
Though’tis aching something awful and is
most too much to bear.
Just—be—gay!
As soon as it is day,
That pain will go a-flyin’, for the doctor’s on
the way.
There are real, true saints; there are angels all
around,
But there isn’t one that’s welcomer than he is,
I’ll be bound.
When he bustles in the bed-room and he dumps
his buff’ler coat,
And sticks a glass thermometer a-down the
suff’rin throat.
And it’s chirk, cheer up!
Mother, bring a cup!
You’re going to like this bully when you take
a little sup.
There—there—why,
There’s a twinkle in your eye!
You’ll be out again to-morrow, bub; gid-dap,
gid-dap, good-bye!
When Mis’ Augusty Nichols joined the Tufts
Minerva Club,
She polished up on manners and she then com-
menced to rub
At the hide of Mister Nichols who, while not
exactly rude,
Was hardly calculated for a howling sort of
dude.
Now when Augusty Nichols got to see how
style was run,
You bet she went for Nichols and she dressed
him down like fun;
And the thing in all his actions that she couldn’t
bear to see
Was to have him fill his saucer and go whoof-
ling up his tea.
After more’n a month of stewing;—making
mis’able his life,
She taught him not to shovel all his vittles
with his knife.
And after more’n a volume of pretty spicy talk
She got him in the hang of eating pie with just
his fork.
She trained him so’s he didn’t slop the vittles
round his plate,
She plagued him till he wouldn’t sit in shirt-
sleeves when he ate,
And then she tried her Waterloo, with faith in
high degree
That she could revolutionize his way of drink-
ing tea.
He drank it as his father always quaffed the
cheering cup,
He poured it in his saucer, raised the brimming
puddle up
And gathered in the liquid with a loud re-
sounding “Swoof”
That now at last inspired Mrs. Nichols’ fierce
reproof.
But here was where the victim—ah, here was
where the worm
Arose and fairly scared her by the vigor of his
squirm,
—Sat down his steaming saucer and with a
dangerous light
A-gleaming in his visage, he upbore a Yan-
kee’s right.
From the days of Boston’s party up to now I
think you’ll see
That a Yankee’s independent when you bother
with his tea.
“Consarn your schoolmarm notions,” thun-
dered Mrs. Nichols’ spouse,
“You’ve kept a’dingin’ at me till I’m meechin
round the house.
I’ve swallered that and t’other for I didn’t like
to row
But ye ain’t a-going to boss me in the thing
ye’ve tackled now.
I’m durned if I’ll be scalded all the time I’m
being stung
So I’ll cool my tea, Mis’ Nichols, while ye jab
me with your tongue.”
There are rights ye cannot smother, tyrants,
whoso’er ye be,
And the good, New England Yankee’s mighty
touchy, sir, on tea.
When I was a youngster and lived on the farm
It sickened my heart—did that morning alarm!
When dad came along to the foot of the stairs
And summoned me back to my duties and
cares;
—Put all of my glorious visions to rout
With “Breakfast is ready! LP h’ist out there,
h’ist out!”
And when I came yawningly, sleepily down,
My eyes “full of sticks” and my face all
a-frown,
I got for a greeting this jocular hail,
“Wal, always behind like an old cow’s tail.”
I’ll own to you, neighbor, that work on the
farm
Had features not wholly surrounded by charm.
And when I am fashioning lyrical praise
For matters bucolic of earlier days,
You’ll note that my lyre, sir, operates best
When I tune up and sing of the blessings of
rest.
I’ve stood in the stow-hole and “tread” on the
load,
And waltzed with a bush scythe and worked
on the road,
But somehow or other the language won’t
spring
When prowess of muscle I venture to sing.
But when I am piping of “resting” or fun
Or lauding the time after chores are all done,
Why, somehow—why, blame it, as sure as
you’re born,
I mentally feel that my trolley is on!
And a trolley, you know, would be certain to
fail,
Unless’twas behind like an old cow’s tail.
The elephant he started in and made tremen-
dous fuss
Alleging he was crowded by the hippopotamus;
He entertained misgivings that the earth was
growing small,
And arrived at the conclusion that there wasn’t
room for all.
Then the hippo got to thinking and he was
frightened too
And so he passed the word along and sassed the
kangaroo.
The kangaroo as promptly took alarm and
talked of doom
And ordered all the monkeys off the earth to
give him room.
And the monkeys jawed the squirrels and the
squirrels jawed the bees,
While the bees gave Hail Columby to the
minges and the fleas,
—In the microscopic kingdom of the microbes,
I will bet
That word of greedy jealousy is on its travels
yet;
All just because the elephant got scared and
made a fuss
Alleging he was crowded by the hippopotamus.
When a hen is bound to set,
Seems as though ’tain’t etiket
Dowsin’ her in water till
She’s connected with a chill.
Seems as though ’twas skursely right
Givin’ her a dreadful fright,
Tyin’ rags around her tail,
Poundin’ on an old tin pail,
Chasin’ her around the yard.
—Seems as though ’twas kind of hard
Bein’ kicked and slammed and shooed
’Cause she wants to raise a brood.
I sh’d say it’s gettin’ gay
Jest’cause natur’ wants its way.
—While ago my neighbor, Penn,
Started bustin’ up a hen;
Went to yank her off the nest,
Hen, though, made a peck and jest
Grabbed his thumb-nail good and stout,
Almost yanked the darn thing out.
Penn he twitched away and then
Tried again to grab that hen.
But, by ginger, she had spunk
’Cause she took and nipped a junk
Big’s a bean right out his palm,
Swallered it, and cool and calm
Hi’sted up and yelled “Cah-dah,”
—Sounded like she said “Hoo-rah.”
Wal, sir, when that hen done that
Penn he bowed, took off his hat,
—Spunk jest suits him, you can bet,
“Set,” says he, “gol darn ye, SET.”
There was Uncle Ezry Cyphers and Uncle
Jonas Goff,
And Deacon Simon Peaslee, with his solemn
vestry cough;
Mis’ Ann Matilda Bellows and Aunt Almiry
Hunt,
—At all the social meetings they performed
their earnest stunt.
They were strong in exhortation, and pro-
foundly entertained
The belief that talking did it if a Heavenly
Home were gained.
So they rose on Tuesday evening, at Friday
meeting, too,
And informed their friends and neighbors what
the sinners ought to do;
They explained the route to Heaven and ex-
horted all to go
In the straight and narrow pathway through
the blandishments below;
They were good and they were earnest, but,
alas, a little tame,
For month by month and year by year their
talks were just the same,
Until the folks who’d listened all those many
years could start
And declaim those exhortations, for they had
’em all by heart.
And those old folks talked so constant there
was scarcely time to sing,
For they just let in regardless and monopolized
the thing.
Now, benign old Parson Johnson died at last.
There’s scarcely doubt
That those prosy dissertations sort of wore
the old man out.
And he promptly was succeeded ere the church
had dried its tears
By a cocky, youthful pastor, who was full of
new ideas.
Now, he sized the situation ere he’d been in
town a week,
And he set to work to fix it by a plan that was
unique,
For he saw unless he did so—and the Lord
allowed them breath,
Those devoted saints would surely talk that
wearied church to death.
So he came to Tuesday meeting and upon his
desk he placed
A nickeled teacher’s call-bell and blandly then
he faced
An astonished congregation and explained he
thought it best
To condense the exhortations so as not to
crowd the rest;
For he said that in the worship all the members
ought to share,
And monopoly of talking by the elders wasn’t
fair;
Therefore, each could have five minutes, and
he’d ring to let each know
When ’twas time to cut the discourse and give
t’other one a show.
There were scowls from Uncle Ezry—there
were grunts from Uncle Goff,
And Deacon Simon Peaslee gave a scornful
vestry cough.
Then he laid his cane beside him and he strug-
gled to his feet
And commenced his regular discourse in re-
gard to tares and wheat.
He was scarcely fairly going on the punish-
ments of hell
When the pastor smiled and nodded and ding-
clink-ling went the bell!
All the old folks gasped in horror and a titter
soft and low
Ran along the youthful sinners who were back
on Devil’s Row;
And for just a thrilling instant Deacon Simon
lost his force,
With astonished jaws a-gaping—then continued
on his course.
To the pastor’s youthful visage swept a sudden
flush of wrath,
As the obstinate old deacon brushed him calmly
from his path,
And with all the college muscle that he had at
his command
The parson cuffed the call-bell with a swift
and steady hand.
There was riot in the vestry—deacon vieing
with the bell,
As he strove to paint the terrors of the hot,
John Wesley hell,
Till at last he balked and stuttered, gasped a
while and tried to speak,
Then sat down with tears a-dropping through
the furrows on his cheek.
There he bent in voiceless anguish with his old
gray head bowed low,
While the hushed and pitying people mourned
to see him grieving so;
And the parson left the platform and contritely
crept across
To the side of Deacon Simon and expressed his
deep remorse.
But the deacon raised his visage, and, with tears
still streaming down,
Glared upon his trembling pastor with a fierce
and scornful frown.
“Drat yer hide,” roared Deacon Simon, “do
ye think that leetle bell
Scart a warrior sech as I am out of talking
truths on hell?
’Tain’t no passon sets me down, sah! ’Tain’t
no bell ye ever saw,
But ye went and got me narvous and ye’ve
made me eat my chaw.”
Then the deacon, stern and angry, arm in arm
with Jonas Goff,
And with Uncle Cyphers trailing, stalked in
righteous dudgeon off,
And the sympathizing parish held a meeting
there and then,
And extolled the absent deacon as the most
abused of men;
And the parson’s walking papers hit his neck
below the jaw
In about the same location that the deacon lost
his chaw.
That teacher was the worst we ever tackled,
He warnt so very tall, and he was light.
—It is best to lay your egg before you’ve
cackled,
Though we never had a notion he could fight.
He acted sort of meechin’ when he opened up
the school,
—We sort of got the notion he was “It”—
and we tagged gool,
We gave him lots of jolly in a free and easy
way,
And showed him how we handled guys as got
to acting gay.
We showed him where the other one had torn
away the door
When we lugged him out and dumped him in
the snow the year before.
And soon’s we thought we’d scared him, we sat
and chawed and spit,
And kind o’ thought we’d run the school—con-
cludin’ he was “It.”
It worked along in that way, sir, till Friday
afternoon.
—We hadn’t lugged him out that week, but
’lowed to do it soon.
That Friday,’long about three o’clock, he said
there’d be recess,
And said, “The smaller kids and girls can go
for good, I guess.”
And he mentioned smooth and smily, but with
kind of greenish eyes,
That the big boys were requested to remain
for exercise.
And when he called us in again he up and
locked the door,
Shucked off his co’t and weskit, took the mid-
dle of the floor,
And talked about gymnastys in a quiet little
speech,
—Then he made a pass at Haskell, who was
nearest one in reach.
’Twas hot and stiff and sudden and it took him
on the jaw,
And that was all the exercise the Haskell feller
saw.
Then jumpin’ over Haskell’s seat, he sauntered
up the aisle,
A-hittin’ right and hittin’ left and wearin’ that
same smile.
And when a feller started up and tried to hit
him back,
’Twas slipper-slapper, whacko-cracker, whango-
bango-crack!!
And never, sir, in all your life, did you see
flippers whiz
In such a blame, chain-lightnin’ style as them
’ere hands of his.
And though we hit and though we dodged—or
rushed by twos and threes,
He simply strolled around that room and licked
us all with ease.
And when the thing was nicely done, he
dumped us in the yard,
He clicked the padlock on the door and passed
us all a card.
And this was what was printed there: “Pro-
fessor Joseph Tate,
Athletics made a specialty and champion mid-
dleweight.”
That teacher was the worst we ever tackled,
He warn’t so very tall and he was light.
—It is best to lay your egg before you’ve
cackled,
Though we never had a notion he could fight.
Origen Dickerson called the figgers
With a voice like a cart ex that needed some
grease.
He and his partner would fiddle like niggers
For supper an’ dollar an’ fifty apiece.
With forty couple upon the floor—
There wasn’t an inch for no one more,
We done the honors for all three towns
At the high, old Tuckville spanker-downs.
Yeak, yawk,
Grab for your pardners!
Yawk, yawk,
Wo’ hi-i-ish inter line!
Yankity, yump-de,
Yankity, yah-h de!
—For a fife and two fiddles that music was
fine.
And we pelted the floor and sashayed through
the door,
And balanced to pardners and sashayed some
more.
And when we got orders to “all hands
around!”
Warn’t half of the girls that could stay on the
ground.
For-rud and back! Wo’ haw, there, to Ella.
Wo’ buck inter line and balance to Grace.
Grab holt o’ hands, there, and swing by yer
feller,
Clek—clek, gid-dap-along, git inter place.
And the dust would rise and the lamps would
shake
Till ye’d think their chimblys was goin’ to
break.
For we’tended to dancin’ right up brown
At a high old Tuckville spanker-down.
Squeak, squawk,
Pick out yer feller!
Raw-w-wk, raw-w-wk,
Form on your set!
High-deedle, do-o-o de,
High-deedle, dah-h-h-de!
We swung by the waist in them dances, you
bet.
There wasn’t kid slippers, there wasn’t tight
boots,
There wasn’t silk dresses, there wasn’t dude
suits,
There wasn’t no banquet—ten dollars for two—
But a good brimmin’ bowlful of hot oyster
stew.
We’d darnce twenty numbers and all the en-
cores,
—Get home in the mornin’ ’bout time for the
chores—
And all the next day the work was like play,
The girls doin’ housework would waltz and
sashay;
The boys would astonish the stock in the yard
By forgettin’ and yellin’, “Hi, all promunard!”
Hi-i-i, yah-h-h!
Ladies to center, there!
Hi-i-i, yah-h-h!
Balance ye all!
Wo’ hi-ish up the middle, bear down on the
fiddle,
By ginger,’twas fun at the Tuckville Grand
Ball.
The street parade was gorgeous and the show
was mighty fine
—Them fellers on the trick trapeze was cork-
ers in their line,
And all the lady riders was as pretty as they’re
made,
And kept the climate fully up to ninety in the
shade.
The chaps that did the tumbling acts and every
funny clown
Was just as slick an article as ever came to
town.
I’ve got to tell yon, neighbor, that it all was up
in G,
Including all the things I saw and what I
didn’t see.
But though I did a master sight of rubber-
neckin’ ’round,
A-lookin’ here and gawpin’ there, why, gra-
cious, me, I found
From what the folks have told me since, I
missed the finest things,
—I hadn’t eyes and neck enough for all them
three big rings.
And honest, if 1 had my choice, I’d good deal
ruther go
To just a good, old-fashioned sort of hayseed,
one-ring show.
The people used to gather when Van Amburgh
came to town
With a lion and an elephant, a camel and a
clown.
There wasn’t “miles of splendor,” as the cir-
cus programs say,
But folks got up at daylight, drove in early in
the day;
And they perched along the fences while the
dozen carts or so
Came trailin’ through the village with the old
Van Amburgh show.
It wasn’t just “stupendous,” but the people
didn’t jeer
And say it wasn’t up to what the circus was
last year!
O, no, they crunched their peanuts and they
took things as they’d come,
And heard a lot of music in the rump-rump of
the drum.
For things, you know, seemed fresher in the
days when we were young,
And tinsel passed for solid stuff when lady
riders sprung
Through papered hoops, or danced and frisked
upon their charger’s rump
And vaulters spun to dizzy heights with one
jer-oosly jump.
They did those ding-does master fine some
twenty years ago
And you never missed a wiggle at a one-ring
show.
I won’t pick flaws with modern ways of doing
all these things,
For folks have got to living on the gauge of
three big rings.
But while the whirl is going on, it seems, my
friend, to me
That half of what goes past your nose is things
that you don’t see.
And when the angel cries, “All done,” and
when the lights go out,
You’ll jostle to the dark Beyond amidst a diz-
zied rout.
And life that’s lived at three ring pace I fear
will only seem
A useless sort of patchwork thing—a mixed-
up fruitless dream.
Why wasn’t “father’s way” the best? Though
there was less array,
Though men had less of creeds and cults than
what they have to-day,
The old folks then from Life’s great tent went
slowly thronging out
With calm, well-ordered years behind, unvexed
by care or doubt.
And though in old Van Amburgh’s days the
thing moved rather slow,
You didn’t sprain your moral neck in looking
at Life’s Show.
That Hiram Brown he come to school and
brung in seven ticks;
He picked them off his father’s sheep—jes’ like
his dratted tricks!
One day that critter put a toad right in our
teacher’s chair,
She squatted down—and then got up! And
warn’t she mad for fair?
He brung in crawly bugs and things, a mouse
and onct a rat,
An’ then he sort o’ wound things up with
suthin’ wusser’n that.
The teacher cotched him that time, though, and
my! she combed him down
An’ I was sent to cut the switch that walloped
Hiram Brown.
Them ticks was in a pill-box doctor left when
Bill was sick,
An’ they was measly lookin’ things;—say,
j’ever see a tick?
While we was readin’ testermunt Hi stirred
’em with a pin,
—We all was wond’rin’ what he’d got, for he
was on the grin.
Then when the teacher turned her back, Hi
made for Ozy Blair
An’ turned the whole blamed seven ticks right
loose in Ozy’s hair.
Then Ozy had a spasm fit like what he’s sub-
jick to;
He squalled and clawed and bumped around till
he was black an’ blue.
An’ teacher took her fine-toothed comb an’
raked an’ scraped his head,
—It come nigh bustin’ up the school that way
that he raised Ned!
The teacher made us all set up as stiff and
straight as sticks,
An’ then says she, all raspy-like, “Who was it
brung them ticks?”
We couldn’t help it—swow to man!—We
looked at Hiram Brown
An’ Hi he set there redd’nin’ up and sort o’
lookin’ down.
An’ teacher sniffed an’ then she scowled an’
giv’ her sleeves a twitch,
An’ turned to me an’ then says she, “Ike, go
an’ cut a switch.”
’Twas dretful nice outdoors that day—it set a
feller wishin’
That he could cut an’ run from school an’ put
his time in fishin’.
’Twas one them soft’nin’ sort of days an’ while
I was a-pickin’
A switch, it come acrost me what a shame to git
a lickin’
On such a mighty pleasant day. So I shinned
up a tree
An’ cut a slimpsy popple switch that wouldn’t
hurt a flea.
Then I went in—there teacher was, a-waitin’
by the door,
The scholars set as still as death an’ Bill stood
in the floor.
But how they snickered when they see that
dinky little switch,
—The teacher broke it up on me an’ giv’ my
ear a twitch,
Says she, “You try that on agin, you’ll
git it
worse, you clown!
Now go, an’ see’f you know enough to cut
that switch for Brown.”
Seems’s if it warn’t so nice outdoors. It kind
o’ stirred my mad
To divvy up that way with Hi—’Cause ’twasn’t
me ’twas bad!
Says I, “By jing, I’ll even up.” I took my
biggest blade
An’ cut a switch that, honest true, it almost
made me ’fraid.
I didn’t trim it very dus’—by snummy, I felt
wicked,
I left the knobs all stickin’ out—an’ some of ’em
was pick-ed.
I passed ’er in. The teacher she ker-wished it
through the air,
An’ Hi he shivered; ’twas enough to fairly
curl his hair.
She fixed her hairpins so’s her pug it couldn’t
tumble down,
An’ then says she, like bitin’ nails, “Take off
your coat, Hi Brown.”
Then Hiram Brown he got right down an’
begged an’ teased an’ prayed,
She hit him once—an easy clip—an’ then he
fairly brayed.
He acted out in master style;—why, sence he’s
come of age
He’s makin’ money like all sin, play-actin’ on
the stage.
Our teacher was an easy mark—the tender
hearted kind—
When Hiram got to takin on she went and
changed her mind.
Says she, “You’ve been a naughty boy but if
you now repent
I’ll spare the rod but punish you in this way.”
Jee, she went
An’ sent that Hi acrost the room to sit with
Helen Dean,
The girl I liked the best in school; an’ Hi was
jest serene!
That warn’t the wust, for after school he licked
me like the deuce
Because I left them knobs all on. Oh, thun-
der, what’s the use
Of tryin’ to be good, sometimes? I know it’s
wicked talk
To intimate that vice may ride when virtue has
to walk;
To hint that folks of honest ways but moderate
in wits
May have their noses rubbed in dirt by rascal
hypocrites,
But truly, friends, it does appear that only mar-
tyrs’ crowns
Are passed to worth down here on earth;—the
rest to Hiram Browns.
Ba gor! J jomp an’ jomp all tam’
Bot jos’ can’t halp dat—dere she am!
Cos’ w’en som’ fellaire he say “Boo!”
Morgee! I jomp an’ holler, too.
Long tam’,’way back ma broder, Joe,
Hav’ gon’roun’ house, an’ off she go.
—Go bang, r-rat clos’ op side ma ear;
Sence w’en I ac’ dis way—dat queer!
I tak’ med’ceen—don’t geet som’ cure.
Gass I got jomp-ops now for sure.
An’ mos’ all tam’ som’ son er gon
T’ink mak’ me jomp—wal, dat ban fon.
I’ll tal yo’ wan t’ing dat ban true—
Las’ spreeng dey beeld dat r-ra’ltrack t’rough
R-rat pas’ ma house, an’ w’at yo’ s’pose?
Dem ra’ltrack fellaires, wal, he goes
Sot pos’ for whees-el side ma door,
An’ den—wal, p’rap I didn’t swore!
Wan tra’n com’ pas’ long jos’ ’bout noon,
An’ go “whoot-toot!” Wal, bamby, soon,
Wa’n’t no whol’ deeshes ’round—for why?
’Cos’, sacre, I jomp op sky-high
An’ keeck dat table’roun’ dat plac’
An’ lat som’ howl com’ off ma face.
Dat vife he skeer mos’ near on death,
An’ all dem shildreen hoi’ deir breath
For saw deir fadder ac’ lak’ dat
An’ geeve dose dinnaire wan beeg slat.
An’ wan tra’n she go pas’ on night,
Long ’bout de tarn’ I sle’p mos’ tight.
An’ w’en she whees-el, “Whoot-too-too!”
I jomp lak’ wil’ cat, I tal you.
I heet ma vife gre’t beeg hard slams
An’ black her eye mos’ seexteen tarn’s.
Till las’ she go off sle’p down stair,
—She say I worse as greezly bear,
Bot w’at yo’ t’ink? I swore dis true,
I nevaire know w’at t’ing I do.
Wal, w’en t’ings geet bos’ op dat way,
I ban saw ra’ltrack boss wan day.
I tal heem ’bout I poun’ ma vife,
—Can’t halp dat t’ing for save ma life—
An’ he—he blor-rt, lak’ wan gre’t caff,
An’ lean way back an’ laff an’ laff.
I don’t saw nottin’s dere for fon
’Bout havin’ dat ol’ ra’ltrack ron
Op pas’ ma house an’ hav’ dem car
Male’ me bos’ op ma home, ba gar!
I tol’ heem dat bam-by dat soun’
Ban mak’ me keeck dat whol’ house down.
“I’ll tal yo’ w’at,” say he bam-by,
—He wap’ hees eye off lak’ he cry—
“I’ll tol’ yo’ w’at dees ro’d weell do:
We’ll send op our construckshong crew,
We’ll beeld, to show dat we hain’t mean,
Wan good, beeg cage an’ pot yo’ een.”
Ba gar! Dat all I geet off heem!
—I weesh dey not fin’ out dat steam!
Horde of the Great Unwashed! Hobo and
moucher and bum,
Vag and yag and grafter and tramp, we care-
lessly go and come.
Of the morrow we take no heed, no care infests
the day,
Plenty of gump and a train to jump—a grip on
the rods and away!
To the grab for the gear of greed we give no
thought or care,
We own with you the arch of blue—our share
of God’s good air;
—A coin to clear the law, a section of rubber
hose
To soften the chafe of the truss and rod—our
portion of cast-off clothes;
And ours the world—the world! a heritage
won by right,
—By tacit deed to the nomad breed with the
taint of the Ishmaelite.
Some from the wastes of the sage-brush,
some from the orange land,
Some from “God’s own country,” dusty and
tattered and tanned.
Wherefore? ’Tis idle to tell you—you’d
never understand.
Hither and fro,
We come—we go,
Old Father Ishmael’s band.
Yags-will sometimes walk, a tramp will hit the
grit,
But a hobo never will count the ties so long as
he keeps his wit.
There’s the truss of the Wagner freight, the
rods and the jolting truck,
You can grab and swing at the yard-line post
if you’ve muscle enough and pluck.
There’s the perch of the pilot, too, where you’re
target for lumps of coal,
For a shack or a fireman never thinks we’ve
either nerves or soul.
If you’ve taken the full degrees and have cov-
ered the “Honey Route,”
Have fired a rock at the “Fox Train crew,” and
knocked a Doughface out,
You are man for the king-pin act! Here’s hop-
ing you have success
When you risk your neck on the smoke-swept
“deck” of the Limited Express.
Some from the slopes of the Rockies, some
from the Ogden route,
Where the meek old Mormon matrons hand
the milk and honey out,
—West and south and northward—and
t’other way about,
On tank and wall,
You’ll find the scrawl
Of the tramp’s monarka-scout.
Taint of the nomad’s blood! God, if we could
but burst
From the thrall of vags and drop our rags and
cleave to the best—not worst!
Each day on a town’s main-drag, as we’re
flaggin’ some house for prog,
The smile of a child or a maiden’s face will give
our hearts a jog.
And I—yes, even I, have flicked at a sudden tear
And have turned my back on Smoky Jack lest
he see the thing and jeer.
Spur of the nomad’s taint! Back to the ring-
ing rails
That coaxingly curve to the far unknown!
Confusion to courts and jails!
The “goat” is coughing the grade; grab for
the rods, there, Jack,
Look out for your grip, for a bit of a slip will
toss you to grease the track.
Bound for the Greasers’ sage-brush, under
the roaring train,
Decking the fast expresses from Texas north
to Maine,
Grimy and tattered and blinded, Ishmael’s
blood our bane,
We ride—we ride,
To hope denied,
Cursed with the curse of Cain.
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