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diff --git a/old/55341-0.txt b/old/55341-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 3b556c8..0000000 --- a/old/55341-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,10488 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Up In Maine, by Holman F. Day - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: Up In Maine - Stories of Yankee Life Told in Verse - -Author: Holman F. Day - -Commentator: C. E. Littlefield - -Release Date: August 11, 2017 [EBook #55341] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK UP IN MAINE *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - - - - - - - - -UP IN MAINE - -Stories of Yankee Life Told in Verse - -By Holman F. Day - -With an Introduction by C. E. Littlefield - -Boston: Small, Maynard & Company - -1900 - -[Illustration: 0001] - -[Illustration: 0010] - -[Illustration: 0013] - - - TO MY FRIEND - - AND FELLOW IN THE CRAFT OF LETTERS - - WINFIELD M. THOMPSON - - TO WHOM I AM INDEBTED - FOR MORE THAN ONE OF THE STORIES - TOLD HEREIN - - THIS VOLUME IS DEDICATED - - - - -PREFACE - - - I don’t know how to weave a roundelay, - - I couldn’t voice a sighing song of love; - - No mellow lyre that on which I play; - - I plunk a strident lute without a glove. - - - The rhythm that is running through my stuff - - Is not the whisp of maiden’s trailing gown; - - The metre, maybe, gallops rather rough, - - Like river-drivers storming down to town. - - - --It’s more than likely something from the - - wood, - - Where chocking axes scare the deer and - - moose; - - A homely rhyme, and easy understood - - --An echo from the weird domain of Spruce. - - - Or else it’s just some Yankee notion, dressed - - In rough-and-ready “Uncle Dudley” phrase; - - Some honest thought we common folks suggest, - - --Some tricksy mem’ry-flash from boyhood’s - - days. - - - I cannot polish off this stilted rhyme - - With all these homely notions in my brain. - - A sonnet, sir, would stick me every time; - - Let’s have a chat ’bout common things in - - Maine. - - - Holman F. Day. - - -|A_BOUT three thousand years ago the “Preacher” declared that “of -making many books there is no end.” This sublimely pessimistic truism -deserves to be considered in connection with the time when it was -written; otherwise it might accomplish results not intended by its -author. - -It must be remembered that in the “Preacher’s” time books were -altogether in writing. It should also be borne in mind that if the -handwriting which we have in these days, speaking of the period prior to -the advent of the female typewriter, is to be accepted as any criterion, ---and inasmuch as all concede that history repeats itself, that may -well be assumed,--is easy to understand how, by reason of its -illegibility, he was also led to declare that “much study is a weariness -of the flesh.” It is quite obvious that this was the moving cause of his -delightfully doleful utterance as to books. Had he lived in this year -nineteen hundred, at either the closing of the nineteenth or the dawning -of the twentieth century,--as to whether it is closing or dawning I -make no assertion,--he might well have made same criticism, but from an -optimistic standpoint. - -A competent litterateur informs me that there are now extant -3,725,423,201 books; that in America and England alone during the last -year 12,888 books entered upon a precarious existence, with the faint -though unexpressed hope of surviving “life’s fitful fever!” If the -conditions of the “Preacher’s” time obtained to-day, the vocabulary of -pessimism would be inadequate for the expression of similar views. - -A careful examination by the writer, of all these well-nigh innumerable -monuments of learning, discloses the fact that the work now being -introduced to what I trust may be an equally innumerable army of readers -has no parallel in literature. If justification were needed, that fact -alone justifies its existence. This fact, however, is not necessary, as -the all-sufficient fact which warrants the collection of these unique -sketches in book form is that no one can read them without being -interested, entertained, and amused, as well as instructed and improved. -“The stubborn strength of Plymouth Rock” is nowhere better exemplified -than on the Maine farm, in the Maine woods, on the Maine coast, or in -the Maine workshop. From them, the author of “Up in Maine” has drawn his -inspiration. Rugged independence, singleness of purpose, unswerving -integrity, philosophy adequate for all occasions, the great realities -of life, and a cheerful disregard of conventionalities, are here found -in all their native strength and vigor. These peculiarities as -delineated may be rough, perhaps uncouth, but they are characteristic, -picturesque, engaging, and lifelike. His subjects are rough diamonds. -They have the inherent qualities from which great characters are -developed, and out of which heroes are made. - -Through every chink and crevice of these rugged portrayals glitters the -sheen of pure gold, gold of standard weight and fineness, “gold tried in -the fire.” Finally it should be said that this is what is now known as a -book with a purpose, and that purpose, as the author confidentially -informs me, is to sell as many copies as possible, which he confidently -expects to do. To this most worthy end I trust I may have, in a small -degree, contributed by this introduction._ - -C. LITTLEFIELD. - -Washington, D.C., March 17,1900. - - - - -‘ROUND HOME - - - - -AUNT SHAW’S PET JUG - - - Now there was Uncle Elnathan Shaw, - - --Most regular man you ever saw! - - Just half-past four in the afternoon - - He’d start and whistle that old jig tune, - - Take the big blue jug from the but’ry shelf - - And trot down cellar, to draw himself - - Old cider enough to last him through - - The winter ev’nin’. Two quarts would do. - - --Just as regular as half-past four - - Come round, he’d tackle that cellar door, - - As he had for thutty years or more. - - - And as regular, too, as he took that jug - - Aunt Shaw would yap through her old - - mug, - - “Now, Nathan, for goodness’ sake take care - - You allus trip on the second stair; - - It seems as though you were just possessed - - To break that jug. It’s the very best - - There is in town and you know it, too, - - And ’twas left to me by my great-aunt Sue. - - For goodness’ sake, why don’t yer lug - - A tin dish down, for ye’ll break that jug?” - - Allus the same, suh, for thirty years, - - Allus the same old twits and jeers - - Slammed for the nineteenth thousand time - - And still we wonder, my friend, at crime. - - - But Nathan took it meek’s a pup - - And the worst he said was “Please shut up.” - - You know what the Good Book says befell - - The pitcher that went to the old-time well; - - Wal, whether ’twas that or his time had come, - - Or his stiff old limbs got weak and numb - - Or whether his nerves at last giv’ in - - To Aunt Shaw’s everlasting chin-- - - One day he slipped on that second stair, - - Whirled round and grabbed at the empty air. - - And clean to the foot of them stairs, ker-smack, - - He bumped on the bulge of his humped old back - - And he’d hardly finished the final bump - - When old Aunt Shaw she giv’ a jump - - And screamed downstairs as mad’s a bug - - “Dod-rot your hide, did ye break my jug?” - - - Poor Uncle Nathan lay there flat - - Knocked in the shape of an old cocked hat, - - But he rubbed his legs, brushed off the dirt - - And found after all that he warn’t much hurt. - - And he’d saved the jug, for his last wild thought - - Had been of that; he might have caught - - At the cellar shelves and saved his fall, - - But he kept his hands on the jug through all. - - - And now as he loosed his jealous hug - - His wife just screamed, “Did ye break my - - jug?” - - Not a single word for his poor old bones - - Nor a word when she heard his awful groans, - - But the blamed old hard-shelled turkle just - - Wanted to know if that jug was bust. - - - Old Uncle Nathan he let one roar - - And he shook his fist at the cellar door; - - “Did ye break my jug?” she was yellin’ still. - - “No, durn yer pelt, but I swow I will.” - - And you’d thought that the house was a-going - - to fall - - When the old jug smashed on the cellar wall. - - - - - -OLD BOGGS’S SLARNT - - - - Old Bill Boggs is always sayin’ that he’d like to - - but he carn’t; - - He hain’t never had no chances, he hain’t never - - got no slarnt. - - Says it’s all dum foolish tryin’, ’less ye git the - - proper start, - - Says he’s never seed no op’nin’ so he’s never - - had no heart. - - But he’s chawed enough tobacker for to fill a - - hogset up - - And has spent his time a-trainin’ some all-fired - - kind of pup; - - While his wife has took in washin’ and his chil- - - dren hain’t been larnt - - - ’Cause old Boggs is allus whinin’ that he’s never - - got no slarnt. - - - Them air young uns round the gros’ry hadn’t - - oughter done the thing! - - Now it’s done, though, and it’s over, ’twas a - - cracker-jack, by jing. - - Boggs, ye see, has been a-settin’ twenty years on - - one old plank, - - One end h’isted on a saw hoss, t’other on the - - cistern tank. - - - T’other night he was a-chawin’ and he says, “I - - vum-spt-ooo-- - - Here I am a-owin’ money--not a gol durn thing - - to do! - - ’Tain’t no use er backin’ chances, ner er fightin’ - - back at Luck, - - --Less ye have some way er startin’, feller’s - - sartin to be stuck. - - Needs a slarnt to git yer going”--then them - - young uns give a carnt, - - --Plank went up an’ down old Boggs went-- - - yas, he got it, got his slarnt. - - - Course the young uns shouldn’t done it--sent - - mine off along to bed-- - - Helped to pry Boggs out the cistern--he warn’t - - more’n three-quarters dead. - - Didn’t no one ’prove the actions, but when all - - them kids was gone, - - Thunder mighty! How we hollered! Gab’rel - - couldn’t heered his horn. - - - - -CY NYE, PREVARICATOR - - - - Gy - - Nye - - Thunder, how he’ll lie! - - Never has to stop and think--never has to try. - - Says he had a settin’ hen that acted clean pos- - - sessed; - - Says a kag o’ powder couldn’t shake her off her - - nest; - - Didn’t mind a flannel rag tied around her tail; - - Ev’ry now and then he’d take ’er, souse ’er in - - a pail; - - Never had the least effect--feathers even friz; - - Then she set and pecked the ice, but ’tended - - right to biz. - - ’Peared to care for nothin’ else ’cept to set and - - set; - - Didn’t seem to care a tunket what she drunk - - or et. - - Cy he said he got so mad he thought he’d use - - ’er ha’ash, - - So he went to feedin’ on ’er hemlock sawdust - - mash. - - Hen she gobbled down the stuff, reg’lar as - - could be; - - “Reely seemed to fat ’er up,” Cy says he to me. - - Shows the power of the mind when it gets a - - clutch. - - Hen imagined it was bran--helped ’er just as - - much. - - Then she hid her nest away--laid a dozen eggs; - - ’Leven chickens that she hatched all had wooden - - legs, - - T’other egg it wouldn’t hatch--solid junk o’ - - wood, - - Hen’s a-wrasslin’ with it yet--thinks the thing - - is good. - - Thunder, how he’ll lie! - - But he’s dry, - - --That Cy. - - Cy - - Nye - - Tells another lie: - - Claims to be the strongest man around here; - - this is why: - - Says he bought a side o’ beef up to Johnson’s store, - - Tucked it underneath his arm--didn’t mind it - - more - - Than a pound o’ pickled tripe; sauntered down - - the road, - - Got to ponderin’ Bible texts--clean forgot his - - load. - - All to once he chanced to think he meant to get - - some meat, - - Hustled back to Johnson’s store t’other end the - - street, - - Bought another side o’ beef. The boys com- - - menced to laugh, - - --Vummed he hadn’t sensed till then he lugged - - the other half. - - Can’t deny - - ’T he can lie, - - --That Cy. - - - - -UNCLE BENJY AND OLD CRANE - - - - Once there was a country lawyer and his name - - was Hiram Crane, - - And he had a reputation as the worst old file in - - Maine. - - And as soon’s he got a client, why, the first - - thing that he’d do - - Was to feel the critter’s pocket and then soak - - him ’cordin’ to. - - - Well, sir, one day Benjy Butters bought a hoss, - - and oh, ’twas raw - - Way old Benjy he got roasted, and he said he’d - - have the law. - - So he gave the case to Hiram, and then Hiram - - brought a suit - - And got back the hoss and harness and what - - Benjy gave to boot. - - - When he met him at the gros’ry Benjy asked - - him for the bill, - - And when Hiram named the figger, it was - - steeper’n Hobson’s hill. - - Poor old Benjy hammed and swallered--bill jest - - sort of took his breath, - - And the crowd that stood a-listenin’ thought - - perhaps he’d choke to death. - - But it happened that the squire felt like jokin’ - - some that day, - - And he says, “Now, Uncle Benjy, there won’t be - - a cent to pay - - If you’ll right here on the instant make me up a - - nice pat rhyme; - - Hear you’re pretty good at them things--give - - you jest three minutes’ time.” - - And the squire grinned like fury, tipped the - - crowd a knowing wink, - - While old Benjy started in, sir, almost ’fore - - you’d time to think: - - - “Here you see the petty lawyer leanin’ on his - - corkscrew cane. - - Sartin parties call him Gander, other people call - - him Crane. - - Though he’s faowl, it’s someways daoubtful - - what he is, my friends, but still - - You can tell there’s hawk about him by the - - gaul-durned qritter’s bill.” - - - Crane got mad, he wanted money, but the crowd - - let on to roar, - - And they laughed the blamed old skinflint right - - square out the gros’ry store. - - - - -“PLUG” - - - - For sixty years he had borne the name - - Of “Plug”--plain “Plug.” - - Those many years had his village fame - - Published the shame of his old-time game, - - Till all the folks by custom came - - To call him “Plug.” - - - And so many years at last went by - - They hardly knew the reason why; - - At least they never stopped to think, - - And dropped the old suggestive wink. - - And he took the name quite matter-of-fact, - - Till most of the folks had forgot his act; - - But sometimes a stranger’d wonder at - - The why of a nickname such as that, - - --Of “Plug”--just “Plug.” - - Then some old chap would shift his quid - - And tell the story of what he did. - - - “He owned ten acres of punkin pine, - - ’Twas straight and tall, and there warn’t a sign - - But what ’twas sound as a hickory nut, - - And at last he got the price he sut. - - They hired him for to chop it down. - - He did.--By gosh, it was all unsoun’. - - Was a rotten heart in every tree. - - But there warn’t none there but him to see. - - And quick as ever a tree was cut, - - He hewed a saplin’ and plugged the butt. - - --Plugged the butt, sir, and hid away - - For about two months, for he’d got his pay. - - But there warn’t no legal actions took, - - They never tackled his pocket-book. - - ’Twould a-broke his heart, for he’s dretful snug; - - But he never squirmed when they called him - - ’Plug.’ - - And over the whole of the country-side, - - Up to the day that the critter died, - - ’Twas ‘Plug.’ - - Till some of the young folks scurcely knew - - Which was the nickname, which was the true. - - He left five thousand,--putty rich,-- - - But better less cash than a title sich - - As ‘Plug.’” - - - - -THE SONG OF THE HARROW AND PLOW - - - - From the acres of Aroostook, broad and mellow - - in the sun, - - Down to rocky York, the chorus of the farmers - - has begun. - - They are riding in Aroostook on a patent sulky - - plow, - - --They are riding, taking comfort, for they’ve - - learned the secret how. - - They are planting their potatoes with a whirring - - new machine, - - --Driver sits beneath an awning; slickest thing - - you’ve ever seen. - - There is not a rock to vex ’em in the acres - - spreading wide, - - So they sit upon a cushion, cock their legs, and - - smoke and ride. - - Gee and Bright go lurching onward in the - - furrow’s mellow steam; - - Over there, with clank of whiffle, tugs a sturdy - - Morgan team. - - And the man who rides the planter or who plods - - the broken earth - - Joins and swells the mighty chorus of the - - season’s budding mirth. - - And they’ve pitched the tune to a jubilant - - strain. - - They are lilting it merrily now. - - We wait for that melody up here in Maine, - - --’Tis the song of the harrow and plow. - - - They are picking rocks in Oxford, and in Waldo - - blasting ledge, - - And they’re farming down in Lincoln on their - - acres set on edge. - - Down among the kitchen gardens of the slopes - - of Cumberland - - They’re sticking in the garden sass as thick as - - it will stand. - - And every nose is sniffing at the scent of fur- - - rowed earth, - - And every man is living all of life at what it’s - - worth. - - Though the farmer in Aroostook sails across a - - velvet field, - - And his mellow, crumbly acres vomit forth a - - spendthrift yield, - - All the rest are just as cheerful on their hillside - - farms as he, - - For there’s cosy wealth in gardens and a fortune - - in a tree. - - So they’re singing the song of the coming - - of Spring, - - And the song of the empty mow; - - Of the quiver of birth that is stirring the earth, - - --’Tis the song of the harrow and plow. - - -[Illustration: 0043] - - - - -HOORAY FOR THE SEASON OF FAIRS - - - - This is the season for fairs, by gosh, oh, this is - - the season for fairs; - - They’re thicker than spatter, - - But what does it matter? - - They scoop up the cash, but who cares? - - - From now till October they’ll swallow the - - change, - - These state fairs and town fairs and county and - - grange, - - But apples blush brighter arrayed on a plate, - - And the cattle look scrumptious in dignified - - state, - - Enthroned in a stall and a-gazing with scorn - - On the chaps going by without ribbon or horn. - - And the trotters and nags of the blood-royal - - strain - - Are a-furnishing fun for the people of Maine; - - While prouder than princes they prance to the - - band, - - And ogle the ladies arrayed on the stand. - - Ah, every exhibit in stall or in hall, - - From hooked rug to hossflesh and punkin and - - all, - - Takes on a new meaning, assumes a new light, - - And is, for the moment, a wonderful sight. - - And people hang over the stuff that’s displayed, - - They swig up whole barrels of red lemonade, - - And hark to the fakirs and tumble to snides, - - And treat all the young ones to merry-go rides. - - They sit on the grand stand, man crushed - - against man, - - All shouting acclaim to the track’s rataplan; - - And all the delight is as fresh and as bright - - As though the big crowd had not seen that same - - sight. - - And the people flock home with the dust in their - - eyes, - - But with hearts all a-fire with fun and surprise. - - The girls are a-humming the tune of the band, - - And dads are relating the sights from the stand; - - The dames are discussing the fancy work part, - - While bub hugs the Midway scenes close to his - - heart. - - The palms of the men folks still glow from a - - grip, - - And the women are thinking of lip pressed to - - lip, - - For all of the folks in the loud, happy throng - - Have met with the friends “they’ve not seen - - for so long.” - - A hail and salute from the press of the mass, - - Too brief, as the crowd jammed impatient to - - pass, - - A moment--that’s all--to renew the old tie, - - A handgrasp, a lip-touch, “Hello,” and “Good- - - by.” - - - Oh, this is the season of fairs, by gosh, the - - season to lay off your cares, - - Each fair is a wonder, - - They’re thicker than thunder. - - Hooray for the season of fairs! - - - - -HAD A SET OF DOUBLE TEETH - - - - Oh, listen while I tell to you a truthful little - - tale - - Of a man whose teeth was double all the solid - - way around; - - He could jest as slick as preachin’ bite in two a - - shingle nail, - - Or squonch a moulded bullet, sah, and ev’ry - - tooth was sound. - - - I’ve seen him lift a kag of pork, a-bitin’ on the - - chine, - - And he’d clench a rope and hang there like a - - puppy to a root; - - And a feller he could pull and twitch and yank - - upon the line, - - But he couldn’t do no bus’ness with tha’ - - double-toothed galoot. - - - He was luggin’ up some shingles,--bunch, sah, - - underneath each arm,-- - - The time that he was shinglin’ of the Baptist - - meetin’-house; - - The ladder cracked and buckled, but he didn’t - - think no harm, - - When all at once she busted and he started - - down kersouse. - - - His head, sah, when she busted, it was jest - - abreast the eaves; - - And he nipped, sah, quicker’n lightnin’, and - - he gripped there with his teeth, - - And he never dropped the shingles, but he hung - - to both the sheaves, - - Though the solid ground was suttinly more’n - - thirty feet beneath. - - - He held there and he kicked there and he - - squirmed, but no one come. - - He was workin’ on the roof alone--there - - warn’t no folks around. - - He hung like death to niggers till his jaws was - - set and numb, - - And he reely thought he’d have to drop them - - shingles on the ground. - - - But all at once old Skillins come a-toddlin’ down - - the street. - - Old Skil is sort of hump-backed and he allus - - looks straight down; - - So he never see’d the motions of them Number - - ’Leven feet, - - And he went a-amblin’ by him--the goramded - - blind old clown! - - - Now this ere part is truthful--ain’t a-stretehin’ - - it a mite,-- - - When the feller see’d that Skillins was a- - - walkin’ past the place, - - Let go his teeth and hollered, but he grabbed - - back quick and tight, - - ’Fore he had a chance to tumble, and he hung - - there by the face. - - - And he never dropped the shingles and he never - - missed his grip, - - And he stepped out on the ladder when they - - raised it underneath. - - And up he went a-flukin’ with them shingles on - - his hip, - - --And there’s the satisfaction of a havin’ - - double teeth. - - - - -GRAMPY’S LULLABY - - - - Your marmy’s mixin’ cream o’ tartar biskit up - - for tea; - - Fie, deedle, deedle, leetle ba-a-arby! - - And I reckon you had better come and roost - - upon my knee; - - Tumpy, dumpy, deedle, leetle barby! - - - - I s’picion how ye never heard of Ebernezer - - Cowles. - - Tell ye what, he warn’t brung up to be afraid of - - owls. - - Reckon that a spryer critter never tailored - - boots; - - Allus up to monkey tricks and full o’ squirms - - and scoots. - - Once he done a curis thing, I vummy, on a - - stump: - - Set a larder up one end and gin’ a mighty jump; - - Run right up the larder, jest as nimble as a - - monkey, - - Balarnced, I sh’d suttin say, a minit--all a- - - hunky; - - Then he straddled out on air and grabbed the - - pesky larder - - And run ’er up another length--another length, - - suh, farder; - - Skittered up that larder ’fore she had a chance - - to teeter, - - Quicker’n any pussy cat--lighter’n a mos- - - keeter. - - Soon’s he clambered to the top, grabbed the - - upper rung, - - Ketched hisself with t’other hand, and there the - - critter hung. - - Gaffled up his britches’ slack and took a resky - - charnce - - And thar’ he held hisself right out, arms-length, - - suh, by his parnts. - - Ye ought ter heerd, my barby dear, the cheerins - - and the howls - - The crowd let out when they’d obsarved that - - trick of Mister Cowles. - - - Sing’lar thing of which I sing--might not - - think ’twas true; - - Fie, deedle, deedle, leetle ba-a-arby! - - But ye know, my leetle snoozer, grampy wouldn’t - - lie to you, - - --To his dumpy, dumpy deedle, leetle - - barby. - - - Hush, I guess that mammy isn’t done a-makin’ - - bread, - - We ain’t at all pertic’lar how she overhears - - what’s said. - - Ye’re over-young, purraps, to hear of Sam’wel - - Doubl’yer Strout, - - --Weighed about two hundred pounds, and, - - chowder, warn’t he stout! - - Used to work for me one time as sort of extry - - hand, - - --Allus planned to ’gage him when I cleared up - - any land; - - Once I see him lug a rock with fairly mod’rit - - ease - - So hefty that at ev’ry step he sunk above his - - knees. - - Hain’t at all surprised to see the wonder in your - - eye; - - Fie, deedle, deedle, leetle ba-a-arby! - - But ye know your poor old grampy wouldn’t - - tell ye ary lie, - - --To his tumpy, dumpy deedle, leetle - - barby. - - - Course ye’ve never heerd ’em tell of Atha-ni-al - - Prime, - - For he was round a-raisin’ Cain so long afore - - your time. - - Used to run the muley saw down to Hopkins - - mill, - - --Allus euttin’ ding-does up--a master curis - - pill! - - - Once the chaps that tended sluice stood upon a - - log, - - Got to argyin’ this and that, suthin’ ’bout a dog. - - Clean forgot to start the log a-goin’ up the - - sluice, - - But shook their fists and hollered round and spit - - torbarker juice. - - Atha-ni-al heerd the towse and grabbed a pick- - - pole up, - - --Wasn’t goin’ to stop a mill to fight about a - - pup,-- - - Tied a rope around the pole and then he let her - - flam, - - Speared the end of that air log and yanked her - - quicker’n Sam. - - Log, suh, come right out the bark, he twitched - - the thing so quick; - - Fellers never felt the yank, ’twas done so smooth - - and slick. - - Log come out and up the sluice and left behind - - the bark, - - --Fellers thought the log was there and stood - - and chawed till dark. - - Sing’lar things has come to pass when I was - - young as you; - - Fie, deedle, deedle, leetle ba-a-arby! - - And best of all, what grampy sings you bet your - - life is true, - - Tumpy, deedle, dumpy, leetle barby. - - - - -HOSKINS’S COW - - - - Hoskins’s cow got into the pound and the notice - - was tacked on the meetin’-house door: - - “Come into my yard, one brindle cow with three - - white feet, and her shoulders sore, - - --Galled by a poke,--and the owner is asked - - to call at the pound and take her away.” - - Well, Hoskins knew she was his all right, but, - - you see, he hadn’t wherewith to pay. - - - The cow was breachy--she wasn’t to blame, - - for Hoskins had turned her abroad to roam; - - She had to battle for daily grass, for the bovine - - cupboard was bare at home. - - So Hoskins had hitched on her withered neck a - - wooden “regalia”--sort of a yoke, - - Supposed to keep her from breachy tricks, but - - the poor old creature employed the “poke” - - To rip up fences and let down bars; her hunger - - sharpened her slender wits, - - And somehow she sneaked through the guarded - - gates, and gave the garden sass regular fits. - - - The neighbors pitied her starving state, but at - - last she stubbornly wouldn’t shoo; - - They pounded tattoos on her skinny ribs till it - - really seemed they would whack ’em through. - - But she got so toughened and callous and hard, - - and the stiffened frame of her mortised bones - - Formed such an excellent armor-plate against - - the broadsides of sticks and stones, - - That they “pounded” her then in a different - - way--in the village pound--whose walls - - would hold - - The breachiest cow that ever strayed--and the - - notice was posted as I have told. - - - She stood there a day and she stayed there a - - night; she cropped the scanty bushes and - - grass, - - And moo-ed and loo-ed in a yearning way, when- - - ever a person chanced to pass. - - --She ate the leaves from some alder sprouts - - for a scanty breakfast the second day, - - And munched the twigs for her dinner, alas, - - and longed, oh, so much, for some meadow - - hay. - - That night she gnawed at her dry old poke,-- - - a painful meal, for the slivers ran - - In her tongue; so she crouched by the high- - - barred gate and seemed deserted of God and - - man. - - - And Hoskins knew that they had his cow, and - - Hoskins knew of her solemn fast, - - For he’d gone up the highway and looked - - through the gate in her dumb, reproachful eyes - - as he passed. - - Yet what, may I ask, could the poor man do? - - He was right in a place where he couldn’t - - Pay, - - --He had three dollars, ’tis true enough, and -‘twould square the bill, but, you see, that day - - The catchers had come and taken his dogs: a - - hound, a setter, and brindle-pup, - - And a man like Hoskins would ne ’er endure to - - have the dog-pound gobble them up, - - For he gunned on Sundays behind the hound, - - and the bull was entered and backed to fight. - - And Hoskins, you see, as a sporting man had a - - reputation to keep upright. - - - -I wonder, friends, if you’ve ever thought, while - - you’ve stormed at rum as the poor man’s curse, - - There are chaps so built on the mental plan that - - keeping dogs will warp them worse? - - The “dog” man may be reclaimed, but I’ve - - been compelled, alas, to see - - That there doesn’t appear to be much hope for - - the wretched critter condemned to three. - - And Hoskins’s duty was plain to him: his - - youngsters wailed for the milk they missed, - - But Hoskins thought of his poor, poor dogs and - - gripped his dollars tight in his fist. - - He shut his ears to his children’s cries, he steeled - - his heart when he passed the pound, - - To the mute appeal in the old cow’s eyes; but - - he smiled at last when his dogs were found. - - And he gladly proffered the three lone plunks - - to sate the greed of the legal hogs, - - And proudly he took the highway back, a-lead- - - ing his licensed, bailed-out dogs. - - And they barked and yipped and yapped and - - yawped at a poor old tottering cow they found - - Absorbed in a desperate, hungry reach for a - - thistle outside the village pound. - - - - -AN OLD STUN’ WALL - - - - If ye only knew the backaches in an old stun’ - - wall! - - O, Lordy me, - - I’m seventy-three! - - --Begun amongst these boulders and I’ve lived - - here through it all. - - I wasn’t quite to bub’s age there, when dad - - commenced to clear - - The wust of ninety acres with a hoss team and - - a steer. - - And we’ve used the stun’s for fencin’ and we’ve - - built around the lot, - - O, I’ve tugged and worked there, sonny, ontil - - gracious me, I’ve sot - - And fairly groaned o’ evenings with the twinges - - in my back; - - Sakes, there warn’t no shirkin,’ them days; it - - was tug and lift and sack, - - For it needed lots of muscle, lots of gruntin’, - - lots of sand - - If a feller calculated for to clear a piece of - - land. - - Bub, it isn’t any wonder that our backs has got - - a hump, - - That our arms are stretched and awkward like - - the handle on a pump, - - That our palms are hard and calloused, that we - - wobble in our gait - - --There’s the reason right before you ’round - - the medders in the State. - - And I wonder sometimes, sonny, that we’ve - - any backs at all - - When I figer on the backaches in an - - Old - - Stun’ - - Wall. - - - If ye only knew the backaches in an old stun’ - - wall! - - We read of men - - Who with a pen - - Have pried away the curses that have crushed - - us in their fall. - - I don’t begrudge them honor nor the splendor - - of their name - - For an av’rage Yankee farmer hasn’t any use - - for fame, - - But the man who lifted curses and the man - - who lifted stones - - Never’ll hear a mite of diff’runce in the - - Heavenly Father’s tones. - - For I have the humble notion, bub, that when - - all kinds of men, - - The chaps that pried with crowbar and the - - chaps that pried with pen, - - Are waitin’ to be measured for the things - - they’ve done below - - The angel with the girth-chain’s bound to give - - us all fair show. - - And the humble man who’s tussled with the - - rocks of stubborn Maine - - Won’t find that all his labor has been thankless - - and in vain. - - And while the wise and mighty get the glorious - - credit due - - The man who took the brunt of toil will be - - remembered too. - - The man who bent his aching back will earn - - his crown, my child, - - By the acres he made fertile and the miles of - - rocks he piled. - - That ain’t my whole religion, for I don’t propose - - to shirk - - What my duties are to Heaven,--but the gospel - - of hard work - - Is a mighty solid bed-rock that I’ve built on - - more or less; - - I believe that God Almighty has it in his heart - - to bless - - For the good they’ve left behind them rough old - - chaps with humped-up backs - - Who have gone ahead and smoothed things with - - the crowbar and the axe. - - - For if all our hairs are numbered and He notes - - the sparrow’s fall - - He understands the backaches in an - - Old - - Stun’ - - Wall. - - - - -THE STOCK IN THE TIE-UP - - - - I’m workin’ this week in the wood lot; a hearty - - old job, you can bet; - - I finish my chores with a larntern, and marin has - - the table all set - - By the time I get in with the milkin’; and after - - I wash at the sink, - - And marm sets a saucer o’ strainin’s for the cat - - and the kittens to drink. - - Your uncle is ready for supper, with an appetite - - whet to an edge - - That’ll cut like a bush-scythe in swale-grass, and - - couldn’t be dulled on a ledge. - - And marm, she slats open the oven, and pulls - - out a heapin’ full tin - - Of the rippin’est cream-tartar biskit a man ever - - pushed at his chin. - - We pile some more wood on the fire, and open - - the damper full blare, - - And pull up and pitch into supper--and com- - - fort--and taste good--wal, there! - - And the wind swooshes over the chimbly, and - - scrapes at the shingles cross grain, - - But good double winders and bankin’ are mighty - - good friends here in Maine. - - - I look ’crost the table to mother, and marm she - - looks over at me, - - And passes another hot biskit and says, “Won’t - - ye have some more tea?” - - And while I am stirrin’ the sugar, I relish the - - sound of the storm. - - For, thank the good Lord, we are cosy and the - - stock in the tie-up is warm. - - - I tell ye, the song o’ the fire and the chirruping - - hiss o’ the tea, - - The roar of the wind in the chimbly, they sound - - dreadful cheerful to me. - - But they’d harrer me, plague me, and fret me, - - unless as I set here I knew - - That the critters are munchin’ their fodder and - - bedded and comf’table too. - - These biskits are light as a feather, but, boy, - - they’d be heavier’n lead - - If I thought that my hosses was shiv’rin’, if I - - thought that my cattle warn’t fed. - - There’s men in the neighborhood ’round me who - - pray som’w’at louder than me, - - They wear better clothes, sir, on Sunday--chip - - in for the heathen Chinee, - - But the cracks in the sides o’ their tie-ups are - - wide as the door o’ their pew, - - And the winter comes in there a-howlin’, with - - the sleet and the snow peltin’ through. - - Step in there, sir, ary a mornin’ and look at their - - critters! ’Twould seem - - As if they were bilers or engines, and all o’ - - them chock full o’ steam. - - - I’ve got an old-fashioned religion that calkalates - - Sundays for rest, - - But if there warn’t time, sir, on week days to - - batten a tie-up, I’m blest - - I’d use up a Sunday or such-like, and let the - - durned heathen folks go - - While I fastened some boards on the lintel to - - keep out the frost and the snow. - - - I’d stand all the frowns of the parson before I’d - - have courage to face - - The dumb holler eyes o’ the critters hooked up - - in a frosty old place. - - And I’ll bet ye that in the Hereafter the men - - who have stayed on their knees - - And let some poor, fuzzy old cattle stand out in - - a tie-up and freeze, - - Will find that the heat o’ the Hot Place is keyed - - to an extra degree - - For the men who forgot to consider that critters - - have feelin’s same’s we. - - - I dasn’t go thinkin’ o’ tie-ups where winter goes - - whistlin’ through. - - Where cattle are humped at their stanchions - - with scarcely the gumption to moo. - - But I’m glad for the sake of Hereafter that - - mine ain’t the sin and the guilt, - - And I tell you I relish my feelin’s when I pull - - up the big patchwork quilt. - - - I can laugh at the pelt o’ the snowflakes, and - - grin at the slat o’ the storm, - - And thank the good Lord I can sleep now; the - - stock in the tie-up is warm. - - - - -EPHRUM WADE’S STAND-BY IN HAYING - - - - Ephram Wade sat down in the shade - - And took off his haymaker hat, which he laid - - On a tussock of grass; and he pulled out the - - plug - - That jealously gagged the old iron-stone jug. - - And cocking his jug on his elbow he rigged - - A sort of a “horse-up,” you know, and he - - swigged - - A pint of hard cider or so at a crack, - - And set down the jug with a satisfied smack. - - “Aha!” said he, “that grows the hair on ye, - - bub, - - My rule durin’ hayin’s more cider, less grub. - - I take it, sah, wholly to stiddy my nerves, - - And up in the stow hole I pitch ’em some - - curves - - On a drink of straight cider, in harnsomer shape - - Than a feller could do on the juice of the grape. - - Some new folderinos come ’long every day, - - All sorts of new jiggers to help git yer hay. - - Improvements on cutter bars, hoss forks, and - - rakes, - - And tedders and spreaders and all of them fakes. - - But all of their patents ain’t fixed it so yit - - That hayin’ is done without git-up and git. - - If ye want the right stuff, sah, to take up the - - slack, - - The stuff to put buckram right inter yer back, - - The stuff that will limber and ile up yer j’ints, - - Just trot out some cider and drink it by pints. - - It ain’t got no patents--it helps you make hay - - As it helped out our dads in their old-fashioned - - way. - - Molasses and ginger and water won’t do, - - ’Twill irrigate some, but it won’t see ye through. - - And ice water’ll chill ye, and skim milk is durn - - Mean stuff any place, sah, except in a churn. - - I’m a temperate man as a general rule, - - --The man who gits bit by the adder’s a fool,-- - - But when it comes hayin’ and folks have to strain, - - I tell you, old cider’s a stand-by in Maine.” - - Then Ephrum Wade reclined in the shade - - And patiently gazed on the hay while it “made.” - - - - -RESURRECTION OF EPHRUM WAY - - - - Old Uncle Ephrum Isaac Way - - --He had a fit the other day. - - A sort of capuluptic spell; - - He hasn’t been in no ways well - - Since year ago come next July; - - He had a sunstroke; come blamed nigh - - To passin’ ’crost. And since, for him, - - The poor old man’s been dretful slim. - - And ’twarn’t surprisin’ none, I say, - - That fit of his the other day. - - By time that Dr. Blaisdell come - - His legs and arms had growed all numb. - - He didn’t sense things source at all, - - His lower jaw commenced to fall, - - And, jedged from looks, there warn’t no doubt - - That Ephrum’s soul was passin’ out. - - Fact is, they thought that he was dead; - - They tied the bandage round his head, - - Laid out his shroud--when first they knew, - - Eph kicked awhile and then come to; - - Got up and stared with all his eyes, - - And said, “Why, this ain’t Paradise! - - Gol durn the luck, they let me in; - - Now here I’m back on earth agin. - - I’ve been to Heaven! I’ve been dead, - - I’ve seen it All,” so Ephrum said. - - And while we gathered round with awe - - He told us all the things he saw. - - And while he yarned that tale of Death - - The parson came, all out of breath, - - Exclaiming o ’er and o ’er again, - - “A vision! Wondrous! Blest of men!” - - And asked, “Oh, tell us, Mr. Way, - - How long were you allowed to stay?” - - And then the crowd hung breathless round - - A-harkin’ until Ephrum found - - Some sort of language in his reach, - - --For he was sort of dull in speech. - - “Wal, friends,” he slowly said at last, - - “I ricolleet that when I passed - - The pearly gates and sills of gold - - And see that blessed sight unfold - - Before my dim old hazy eyes, - - - I got a shock of such surprise - - I couldn’t move,--I couldn’t speak, - - --Jest run my tongue down in my cheek - - And sort of numbly pronged and pried - - The chaw I took before I died. - - --That’s been my habit all my days; - - When I am nervous anyways - - I don’t fly all to gosh. Instid - - I simply, calmly shift my quid. - - But jest as I had rolled her ’crost-- - - Wal, suthin’ dropped and I was lost. - - And all of Heaven, friends, I saw - - Was while I shifted that air chaw.” - - - I think, dear sir, I scarce need add - - That seldom do you see so glad - - A resurrection time as they - - Who stood there gave old Ephrum Way. - - The parson first he tried to screw - - His face up solemn, but that crew - - Broke out and howled like they was daft. - - And so he laughed and laughed and laughed. - - - - -LOOK OUT FOR YOUR THUMB - - - - Hindsight is clearer than foresight, - - But foresight is better and safer, old chap. - - Experiment teaches, but common sense reaches - - And tests the bright baubles in Dame Future’s - - lap. - - - I’m telling you what Eph Landers did - - The time that the critter lost his fid. - - He was sort of a quick, impulsive man; - - --When others walked, he always ran. - - He never waited to calmly view, - - But he got right up and slam-banged through. - - Believed that the moments a feller took - - To give the future a good square look - - Was simply so much wasted time; - - His plan was, “Never look up; just climb.” - - He was yankin’ boulders a week ago - - And things got balky and movin’ slow. - - He strung the chain ’round a good big rock - - And found that he lost the little block - - To catch the link; it’s used instid - - Of a hook and link, and it’s called a fid. - - And Eph, he held the unhooked chain - - By the ends, and he looked and he got profane. - - But he couldn’t find it and wouldn’t wait, - - --He was mad as a bug and desperate, - - And the crack-brained critter--what do ye - - think? - - Why, he stuck his thumb in the unhooked link. - - He didn’t consider that ’twarn’t his fid, - - But the oxen started--and then he did! - - He see’d his mistake, as most men do, - - When the deed is done and the thing is through: - - You stick your thumb where it don’t belong - - And the world will yank it, good and strong. - - _Hindsight is clearer than foresight, - - But you’d better ask foresight to give ye a - - point; - - Or, first thing you’re knowin’, Old World will be - - goin’, - - And he’ll laugh while you howl with your thumb - - out of joint_. - - - - -THE TRIUMPH OF MODEST MARIA - - - - Maria’s comb hung lopsy-wise - - And flapped athwart her filmy eyes, - - Exactly like a slattern’s hair - - On washing day; and I declare - - She was the slouchiest-looking hen - - That pecked in T. B. Tucker’s pen. - - Cah-dah! Cah-dut! - - She was the butt - - Of every sort of jibe and cut. - - - Maria was a Brahma dame, - - Broad and squat and plucked and lame. - - The Leghorns cast a pitying smile - - Upon her queer, old-fashioned style. - - The Plymouth Rocks would jeer and flout - - Because her legs were feathered out. - - The cocks would strut, - - Pah-rutt! Pah-rutt! - - And snigger at her bloomers’ cut. - - - The trim white Cochins tip-toed by - - And froze her with disdainful eye; - - Each tufted Houdan tossed her plume - - And glared Maria’s social doom. - - Where ’er she strolled in all the yard - - Maria got it good and hard! - - Cah-dut! Cah-dah! - - Each social star - - Just dropped Maria with a jar. - - - But she pursued her quiet way, - - And picked and scratched the livelong day, - - Kept early hours and ate bran mash, - - Nor sought to cut a social dash. - - And then one day she left her nest - - With pallid comb and swelling breast. - - Cah-dut! Cah-dah! - - Hooray, hurrah! - - Maria, you’re a queen, you are! - - - The news went cackling round the pen - - --An egg! It measured twelve by ten. - - And T. B. Tucker drove to town - - To take that gor-rammed big egg down. - - The editor put on his specs, - - The villagers turned rubber necks, - - And some collecting feller paid - - Right smart for what Maria laid. - - And European news was set - - Aside that week by the Gazette - - In order that a glowing pen - - Might pay due praise to that old hen. - - Cah-lip! Cah-lop! - - You’ll find, sure pop, - - That modest merit lands on top. - - - -SON HAS GOT THE DEED - - - - Mother fights with Marshy, and Marshy fights - - with her, - - --Don’t give up yer proputty, I’m tellin’ on yer, - - sir! - - Don’t give up yer proputty to nary blessed one, - - --Don’t keer whuther brother, sir, or nephy, - - sir, or son. - - Don’t make over northin’, sir, ontil you’re done - - and through, - - Or ye’ll cuss the day ye done it till the air is - - black and blue.. - - Me and marm got feeble and we couldn’t run - - the farm, - - Son was newly married and we couldn’t see the - - harm - - In makin’ on it over, we to have the ell and shed, - - Use the sittin’ room in common--and a room - - for one spare bed. - - And so we made the papers and we signed ’em, - - me and wife, - - ’Lowin’ them the stand and stock, and us our - - keep for life. - - Twelvemonth isn’t finished, but the trouble has - - begun, - - An’ it’s one continyal rowin’ ’twixt us and her - - and son. - - Marshy dings at mother and mother dings at her, - - ’F things ain’t settled somehow, sir, they’ll git - - to clawin’ fur. - - - Don’t give up yer proputty, I’m tellin’ on ye - - straight. - - Don’t keer who your family is, ye’ll rue it sure - - as fate. - - ’Fore ye sign the papers they’ll come round ye - - slicker’n cream, - - But ye’ll notice little later, sir, that things ain’t - - what they seem. - - Man that’s got his proputty, he’s looked to with - - respect; - - Relations they come meechin’ round to - - scratch, sir, where he’s pecked. - - Ye see, he rules the family roost and leads the - - family flock, - - As proud and full of manners as a Cochin China - - cock. - - But if the years have loosened up his intellect - - and grip, - - And if he thinks his folks are straight, and lets - - the old farm slip, - - He’ll find the grin becomes a frown and sweet- - - ness turns to greed, - - For folks see things in different light when once - - they’ve got a deed. - - Now Marshy snarls at mother and mother sends - - it back, - - And all the time, from sun to sun, it’s clack and - - clack and clack! - - - Don’t give up yer propputy, hang on till death, - - I say; - - It’s time when you are done with it to give your - - all away. - - Oh, how the devil snickers round when some - - old codger drools - - About “the laying down of cares”--and jines - - the ranks of fools! - - And how the lawyers laugh and joke, and how - - the angels weep, - - To see some old folks deed away their farm for - - board and keep! - - --Never see’d no better cook than Marshy - - used to be, - - When first along she’d ask us down to dinner - - or to tea. - - Used to sweeten grub with smiles when she - - would pass a plate, - - And me and marm, like two old coots, we swal- - - lowed hook and bait. - - You bet we git some diff’rent looks, we git some - - different feed, - - Jest like they’d throw it out to dogs, now son - - has got the deed. - - An’ Marshy growls at mother, and mother’s - - growlin’ wuss, - - An’ I--wal, I jest set and smoke and cuss-- - - and cuss--and cuss! - - - - -AN IDYL OF COLD WEATHER - - - - When all the sky seems blazing down, and sun- - - shine curls the bricks, - - And General Humidity puts in his biggest licks, - - I welcome with a moist and dripping - - palm, - - A placid old philosopher who runs a little farm, - - Who says imagination helps a deal in keeping - - cool, - - And who to comfort other men makes this his - - simple rule: - - To talk of piping, biting days, and drifting - - winter storm - - Whene ’er the weather pipes it up and gets too - - thunderin’ warm. - - They’re better far than fizz or smash or juleps, - - sure’s you’re born, - - --The honest little narratives of Frigid Weather - - John. - - For though the sizzling summer time may boil - - and steam and hiss, - - Who’d ever, ever think of it while listening to - - this? - - - “I never see’d a winter have a durnder, sharper - - aidge - - Than in the year of Sixty-one, the year that I - - drove stage. - - I never had so hard a job attendin’ to my biz, - - For everything was frizable, that year you bet - - was friz. - - At last I done a caper that I hadn’t done for - - years: - - I got a little careless and I friz up both my ears. - - The roads was awful drifted and I trod ten - - miles of snow, - - And all the time that zippin’ wind did nothin’, - - sah, but blow. - - Them ears of mine was froze so hard, stuck out - - so bloomin’ straight, - - I thought the wind would snap ’em off, it blew - - at such a rate. - - And when at last I hauled up home, the missus - - bust in tears - - And hollered, ‘John, oh, massy me, you’re going - - to lose your ears.’ - - But I--why, land o’ goodness, I was cooler’n I - - be now,” - - --And he passed his red bandanna up across - - his steaming brow,-- - - “I jest got out my hatchet and I chopped two - - cakes of ice - - And held ’em on my friz-up ears--’twas - - Granpy Jones’ advice. - - - I didn’t dast go in the house, but set there in - - the shed - - A-holdin’ them two chunks of ice to either - - side my head. - - The chunks weighed fifty pounds apiece--that - - doctorin’ didn’t cost-- - - And so I got ’em big enough to take out all the - - frost. - - My wife came out at last to see what made me - - keep so still, - - And there I was, sound asleep and snorin’ - - fit to kill. - - She got me in and gave me tea and helped me - - inter bed, - - With that ’ere ice a-frozen tight and solid to my - - head. - - ’Twas sort of curi’s, I confess, but still I slept - - complete, - - A crystal palace on my head and soapstones on - - my feet. - - It wasn’t really what you’d call a calm and rest- - - ful night, - - But when the ice peeled off next day them ears - - come out all right.” - - - They’re better far than fizz or smash or juleps, - - sure’s you’re born, - - --These honest little narratives from Frigid - - Weather John. - - - - -BUSTED THE “TEST YOUR STRENGTH” - - - - When pa was down to Topsham fair - - I snooped around and heard him swear - - To Jotham Briggs that it seemed to him - - That muscle nowadays was slim, - - For he said he’d stood there quite a length, - - Seein’ folks whang at the “test your strength,” - - And there wasn’t a one in all that spell - - Who’d hit a crack that had tapped the bell. - - And pa talked loud and he sassed the crowd, - - And the crowd sassed pa, and he allowed - - He’d show ’em what; and so old Jote - - Just held his hat and his vest and coat; - - And pa he rolled his sleeves up tight, - - Hauled out his plug and took a bite. - - He whirled one arm in wind-mill style, - - --Then whirled the other one awhile. - - He picked his pessle out at length - - And sassed the great, tall “test your strength.” - - “I’m goin’ to soak ye now,” says pa, - - “You’ll think it’s y’earthquakes by the jar. - - Git out the way and giv’ me swing, - - --I’ll bust the ha’slet out the thing.” - - And pa he spit in both his fists - - And give the handle two three twists, - - And swung the beetle round and round - - To give one big, gol-rippin’ pound. - - One knee was right up’ginst his chin, - - His eyes stuck out, his lips sucked in, - - And down he fetched her with a jolt, - - But pa--but pa--he missed his holt! - - He lost his grip, the pessle flew, - - And folks they scattered, I tell you. - - Some chaps fell down and some they ducked, - - And them fur off, by gosh, they hucked. - - For that air pessle, sir, it come - - Sky-hootin’ like a ten-inch bomb. - - It landed more’n eight rods away - - Right through the top of Drew’s new shay, - - --Right ’twixt the gal and Ezry Drew, - - And hully gee, it scart ’em blue. - - While pa--wal, pa, he jest turned green - - --Gawked fust at Drew, then that machine. - - And hammed and stuttered out at length, - - “I aimed ’er at that to test your strength’!” - - “Good eye!” says Ez, as mad as sin, - - And then he snorted, “Drunk agin!” - - And pa--wal, warn’t a thing to say, - - ’Cept pull,--and ask Ez, “What’s to pay?” - - - - -“WHEN A MAN GETS OLD” - - - - The clash and the clatter of mowing-machines - - Float up where the old man stands and leans - - His trembling hands on the worn old snath, - - As he looks afar in the broadening path, - - Where the shivering grasses melt beneath - - A seven-foot bar and its chattering teeth. - - When a man gits old, says he, - - When a man gits old, - - He is mighty small pettaters - - As I’ve just been told. - - - I used to mow at the head of the crew, - - And I cut a swath that was wide as two. - - --Covered a yard, sah, at every sweep; - - The man that follered me had to leap. - - I made the best of the critters squeal, - - And nary a feller could nick my heel. - - The crowd that follered, they took my road - - As I walked away from the best that mowed. - - But I can’t keep up with the boys no more, - - My arms are stiff and my cords are sore: - - And they’ve given this rusty scythe to me - - --It has hung two years in an apple-tree-- - - And told me to trim along the edge - - Where the mowing-machine has skipped the - - ledge. - - It seems, sah, skurcely a year ago - - That I was a-showin’ ’em how to mow, - - A-showin’ ’em how, with the tanglin’ grass - - Topplin’ and failin’, to let me pass; - - A-showing ’em how, with a five-foot steel, - - And never a man who could nick my heel. - - But now it’s the day of the hot young blood, - - And I’m doin’ the job of the fuddy-dud; - - Hacking the sides of the dusty road - - And the corner clumps where the men ain’ - - mowed. - - And that’s the way, a man gits told, - - He’s smaller pettaters when he grows old. - - - - -I’VE GOT THEM CALVES TO VEAL - - - It’s a jolly sort of season, is the spring--is the - - spring, - - And there isn’t any reason for not feeling like a - - king. - - The sun has got flirtatious and he kisses Mis- - - tress Maine, - - And she pouts her lips, a-saying, “Mister, can’t - - you come again?” - - The hens are all a-laying, the potatoes sprouting - - well, - - And fodder spent so nicely that I’ll have some - - hay to sell. - - But when I get to feeling just as well as I can feel, - - All to once it comes across me that I’ve got - - them calves to veal. - - - Oh! I can’t go in the stanchion, look them - - mothers in the eye, - - For I’m meditatin’ murder; planning how their - - calves must die. - - Every time them little shavers grab a teat, it - - wrings my heart, - - --Hate to see ’em all so happy, for them cows - - and calves must part. - - That’s the reason I’m so mournful; that’s the - - reason in the spring - - I go feeling just like Nero or some other wicked - - thing, - - For I have to slash and slaughter; have to set - - an iron heel - - On the feelings of them mothers; I have got - - them calves to veal. - - - Spring is happy for the poet and the lover and - - the girl, - - But the farmer has to do things that will make - - his harslet curl. - - And the thing that hits me hardest is to stand - - the lonesome moos - - Of that stanchion full of critters when they find - - they’re going to lose - - Little Spark-face, Little Brindle--when the - - time has come to part, - - And the calves go off a-blatting in a butcher’s - - rattling cart. - - Though the cash the butcher pays me sort of - - smooths things up and salves - - All the really rawest feeling when I sell them - - little calves, - - Still I’m mournful in the springtime; knocks - - me off my even keel, - - Seeing suffering around me when I have them - - calves to veal. - - - - -THE OFF SIDE OF THE COW - - - Old Wendell Hopkins’ hired man is an absent- - - minded chap, - - He’ll start for a chair, and like as not set down - - in some one’s lap. - - I happened along where he stopped to bait his - - hosses the other day, - - --He’d given the hosses his luncheon pail and - - was trying to eat their hay, - - --A kind of a blame fool sort of a trick for even - - a hired man, - - But he tackled a different kind of a snag when - - he fooled with Matilda Ann, - - --When he fooled with Matilda Ann, by jinks, - - he got it square in the neck, - - And the doctors say, though live he may, he’s a - - total human wreck. - - He’s wrapped in batting and thinking now - - Of the grief in insulting a brindle cow. - - Matilda Ann gives down her milk and she - - doesn’t switch her tail; - - She gives ten quarts--week in, week out, and - - she never kicks the pail. - - She doesn’t hook and she doesn’t jump, but even - - Matilda Ann - - Ain’t called to stand all sorts of grief from a - - dern fool hired man. - - And when he stubbed to the milking-shed in - - sort of a dream and tried - - To make Matilda “So” and “Whoa” while he - - milked on the wrong, off side, - - She giv’ him a look to wilt his soul and pugged - - him once with her hoof, - - And I guess that at last his wits were jogged as - - he slammed through the lintel roof. - - He’s got a poultice on his brow - - Of the size of the foot of a brindle cow. - - - Now study the ways of the world, my son; oh, - - study the ways of life! - - It’s the hustling chap that gets the cash, or the - - girl he wants for a wife; - - It’s the feller that spots the place to grab, when - - Chance goes swinging by, - - Who gets his dab in the juiciest place and the - - biggest plum in the pie; - - There’s always a chance to milk the world-- - - there’s a teat, a pail, and a stool; - - There’s a place for the chap with sense and grip, - - but a dangerous holt for a fool. - - For while the feller that’s up to snuff drums a - - merry tune in his pail, - - The fool sneaks up on the left-hand side and - - lands in the grave or in jail. - - --It’s an awkard place, as you’ll allow, - - The off-hand side of the world or a cow. - - - - -THE LYRIC OF THE BUCK-SAW - - - - Ur-r rick, ur-r raw, - - Ur-r rick, ur-r raw! - - Have you buckled your back to an old buck-saw? - - Have you doubled your knee on a knotty stick - - And bobbed to the tune of ur-r raw, ur-r rick? - - Have you sawed till your eye-balls goggled and - - popped, - - Till your heart seemed lead and your breath was - - stopped? - - Have you yeaked her up and yawked her down, - - --As doleful a lad as there was in town? - - If so, we can talk of the back-bent woe - - That followed the youngsters of long ago. - - Ah, urban chap, with your anthracite, - - Pass on, for you cannot fathom, quite, - - The talk that I make with this other chap - - Who got no cuddling in Comfort’s lap. - - You’ll scarcely follow me when I sing - - Of the rasping buck-saw’s dancing spring, - - For the rugged rhythm is fashioned for - - The ear that remembers ur-r rick, ur-r raw. - - - Ur-r raw, ur-r rick. - - Ur-r raw, ur-r rick! - - We pecked at our mountain stick by stick. - - Our dad was a man who was mighty good - - In getting the women-folks lots of wood. - - And as soon as sledding came on to stay - - Jack got all work and he got no play. - - For daily the ox-sleds creaked and crawked - - Till the yard was full and the buck-saws talked. - - ’Twas rugged toil and we humped our backs, - - But we scarce kept pace with dad’s big axe. - - There were bitter mornings of “ten below,” - - There were days of bluster and days of snow, - - But with double mittens, a big wool scarf, - - And coon-skin ear-laps, we used to laugh - - At the fussiest blast old Boreas shrieked, - - And the nippingest pinches Jack Frost tweaked, - - We were warm as the blade of the yanking saw - - That steamed to the tune of ur-r rick, ur-r raw! - - - Ur-r raw, ur-r rick, - - Ur-r raw, ur-r rick! - - Ho, men at the desks, there, dull and sick! - - You slap your hands to your stiff old backs - - At thought of the days of the saw and axe; - - And you press your palms to an aching brow, - - And shiver to think of a saw-buck now. - - But ah, old fellows, you can’t deny - - You hanker a bit for the times gone by, - - When the toil of the tasks that filled the day - - Made bright by contrast our bits of play. - - Oh, grateful the hour at set of sun, - - When the tea was hot, and the biscuits “done;” - - When chocking his axe in the chopping-block, - - Dad sung, u Knock off, boys, five o’clock.” - - Now tell me truly, ye wearied men, - - Are you ever as happy as you were then, - - When you straightened your toil-bent, weary - - backs - - At the welcome plop of dad’s old axe? - - And tell me truly, can you forget - - The sight of the table that mother set, - - When dropping the saws in the twilight gloom, - - We trooped to the cheer of the dear fore-room, - - And there in the red shade’s mellow light - - Made feast with a grand good appetite? - - --Made feast at the sweet old homespun board - - On the plum preserves and the “crab jell” stored - - For demands like these; and made great holes - - In the heaps of the cream o’ tartar rolls? - - Ah, gusto! fickle and faint above - - The savory viands you used to love, - - What wouldn’t you give for the sharp-set tang - - That followed those days when the steel teeth - - sang? - - --For zest was as keen as the bright, swift saw - - When you humped to the tune of ur-r rick, - - ur-r raw? - - - - -MISTER KEAZLE’S EPITAPH - - - - Foster the tinker traversed Maine - - From Elkins town to Kittery Point, - - With a rattling pack and a rattling brain, - - And a general air of “out of joint.” - - - A gaunt old chap with a shambling gait, - - A battered hat, and rusty clothes, - - With grimy digits in sorry state, - - And a smooch on the end of his big red nose. - - That was the way that Foster went, - - --Mixture of shrewdness and folly blent, - - Mending the pots and the pans as ordered, - - But leaving the leak in his nob unsoldered. - - - But Foster the tinker was no one’s fool; - - He fired an answer every time. - - ’Twas either a saw or proverb or rule, - - Or else a bit of home-made rhyme. - - And while he knocked at a pot or a pan - - And puffed the coals of his little blaze, - - He was ready and primed for the jocose man - - Who thought that the tinker was easy to - - phase. - - It chanced that Foster stopped one night - - With a man who thought a master sight - - Of being esteemed as smart’s a weasel - - --Man by the name of Obed Keazle. - - - And he pronged at Foster the evening through - - While the folks were having a merry laugh; - - And they laughed the most when he said, “Now - - you - - Compose me a good nice epitaph, - - And your lodging here shan’t cost a cent.” - - So Foster snapped at the chance and said - - He would have it ready before he went, - - And would make one verse ere they went to - - bed. - - So Keazle listened with deep delight - - While he heard the guileless chap recite, - - With his head a-cock like a huge canary, - - This sample of his obituary: - - Thus he begun - - Verse number one: - - - “A man there was who died of late, - - Whom angels did impatient wait, - - With outstretched arms and smiles of love - - To bear him to the Realms Above.” - - - Foster the tinker slept that night - - On a feather tick that was three feet thick, - - And Keazle attended in calm delight - - To warm the bed with a nice hot brick. - - And the tinker sat at the breakfast board - - And blandly smiled and ate and ate, - - Then piled on his back his motley hoard - - And took his stand at the front yard gate. - - He said, “I’ll give ye the other half - - Of that strictly fust-class epitaph.” - - There are doubts you know as to how it - - suited, - - But the tinker didn’t wait--he scooted. - - For thus ran--whew! - - Verse number two: - - - While angels hovered in the skies - - Disputing who should bear the prize, - - In slipped the devil like a weasel - - And Down Below he kicked old Keazle.” - - - - -PLAIN OLD KITCHEN CHAP - - - - Mother’s furnished up the parlor--got a full, - - new haircloth set, - - And there ain’t a neater parlor in the county, - - now, I’ll bet. - - She has been a-hoarding pennies for a mighty - - tedious time; - - She has had the chicken money, and she’s saved - - it, every dime. - - And she’s put it out in pictures and in easy - - chairs and rugs, - - --Got the neighbors all a-sniffin’ ’cause we’re - - puttin’ on such lugs. - - Got up curtains round the winders, whiter’n - - snow and all of lace, - - Fixed that parlor till, by gracious, I should never - - know the place. - - And she says as soon’s it’s settled she shall give - - a yaller tea. - - And invite the whole caboodle of the neighbors - - in to see. - - Can’t own up that I approve it; seems too much - - like fubb and fuss - - To a man who’s lived as I have--jest a blamed - - old kitchen cuss. - - Course we’ve had a front room always; tidy place - - enough, I guess, - - Couldn’t tell, I never set there, never opened it - - unless - - Parson called, or sometimes mother give a party - - or a bee, - - When the women come and quilted and the men - - dropped round to tea. - - Now we’re goin’ to use it common. Mother - - says it’s time to start, - - If we’re any better’n heathens, so’s to sweeten - - life with art. - - Says I’ve grubbed too long with plain things, - - haven’t lifted up my soul. - - Says I’ve denned there in the kitchen like a - - woodchuck in his hole. - - --It’s along with other notions mother’s getting - - from the club; - - But I’ve got no growl a-comin’, mother ain’t let - - up on grub! - - Still I’m wishin’ she would let me have my - - smoke and take my nap - - In the corner, side the woodbox; I’m a plain old - - kitchen chap. - - - I have done my stent at farmin’; folks will tell - - you I’m no shirk; - - There’s the callus on them fingers, that’s the - - badge of honest work. - - - And them hours in the corner when I’ve stum- - - bled home to rest - - Have been earnt by honest labor and they’ve - - been my very best. - - Land! If I could have a palace wouldn’t ask no - - better nook - - Than this corner in the kitchen with my pipe - - and some good book. - - - I’m a sort of dull old codger, clear behind the - - times, I s’pose; - - Stay at home and mind my bus’ness; wear some - - pretty rusty clothes; - - ‘Druther set out here’n the kitchen, have for - - forty years or more, - - Till the heel of that old rocker’s gouged a holler - - in the floor; - - Set my boots behind the cook stove, dry my old - - blue woolen socks, - - Get my knife and plug tobacker from that dented - - old tin box, - - Set and smoke and look at mother clearing up - - the things from tea; - - --Rather tame for city fellers, but that’s fun - - enough for me. - - - I am proud of mother’s parlor, but I’m feared - - the thing has put - - Curi’s notions her noddle, for she says I’m - - underfoot; - - Thinks we oughter light the parlor, get a crowd - - and ontertain, - - But I ain’t no city loafer,--I’m a farmer down in - - Maine. - - Course I can’t hurt mother’s feelin’s, wouldn’t - - do it for a mint, - - Yet that parlor business sticks me, and I guess - - I’ll have to hint - - That I ain’t an ontertainer, and I’ll leave that - - job to son; - - I’ll set out here in the kitchen while the folks - - are having fun. - - And if marm comes out to get me, I will pull - - her on my lap, - - And she’ll know--and she’ll forgive me, for I’m - - jest a kitchen chap. - - - - -TAKIN’ COMFORT - - - - I wouldn’t be an emp’ror after supper’s cleared - - away; - - I wouldn’t be a king, suh, if I could. - - So long as I’ve got health and strength, a home - - where I can stay, - - And a woodshed full of dry and fitted wood. - - For Jimmy brings the bootjack, and mother trims - - the light, - - And pulls the roller curtains, shettin’ out the - - stormy night. - - And me and Jim and mother and the cat set - - down-- - - Oh, who in tunket hankers for a crown? - - - Who wants to spend their ev’nin’s sittin’ - - starched and prim and straight, - - A-warmin’ royal velvet on a throne? - - It’s mighty tedious bus’ness settin’ up so - - thund’rin’ late, - - With not a minit’s time to call your own. - - I’d rather take my comfort after workin’ through - - the days - - With my old blue woolen stockin’s nigh the - - fire’s social blaze, - - For me and Jim and mother and the old gray cat - - Come mighty near to knowin’ where we’re at. - - - - -EPHRUM KEPT THREE DOGS - - - - Ephrum Eels he had to scratch durned hard to - - keep ahead, - - --But he always kept three dogs. - - He couldn’t keep a dollar bill to save his life, - - they said, - - --But he always kept three dogs. - - He said he might have been some one if he’d - - had half a chance, - - But getting grub from day to day giv’ Ephrum - - such a dance, - - He never got where he could shed the patches - - off his pants; - - --But he always kept three dogs. - - - Ephrum’s young ones never looked as though - - they was half-fed, - - --But he always kept three dogs. - - The house would be so cold his folks would - - have to go to bed; - - --But Ephrum kept three dogs. - - One was sort of setter dog and two of ’em was - - houn’s, - - Their skins was full of Satan; they was always - - on their roun’s, - - Till people durned their pictures in half a dozen - - towns, - - --But Ephrum kept his dogs. - - - They ’bated Ephrum’s poll-tax’cause he was too - - poor to pay, - - --But Ephrum kept his dogs. - - How he scraped up cash to license ’em it ain’t - - in me to say, - - --But I know he kept his dogs. - - And when a suff’rin’ neighbor ambuscaded ’em, - - Eph swore-- - - Then in a kind of homesick way he hustled - - round for more; - - He struck a lucky bargain and, by thunder, he - - bought four! - - --Jest kept on a-keepin’ dogs. - - - - -LAY OF DRIED-APPLE PIE - - - - Sunning themselves on the southern porch, - - Where the warm fall rays from the towering - - torch - - Of the great sun flash in the glowing noons, - - The drying apples, in long festoons, - - Drink the breath of the crisp fall days, - - Borrow the blush of the warming rays; - - Storing their sweetness, their rich bouquet, - - Against that savage and wintry day - - When the housewife’s fingers shall by and by - - Mould them into dried-apple pie. - - - There they mellow and there they brown, - - Homely enough to a man from town, - - Merely strings of some shrunken fruit, - - Swung in the sun. And yet they’re mute - - Memory-ticklers to those who know - - The ways of the farm in the long-ago: - - --The kitchen table, the heaping store - - Of round, red apples upon the floor. - - The purr of the parer, the mellow snip - - As the busy knives thro’ the apples slip. - - The merry chatter of boys and girls, - - The rosy clutter of paring curls, - - As hurrying knives and fingers fly - - O ’er the luscious fruit for dried-apple pie. - - - I’m idly thinking it sure must be - - That the rollicking sport of the apple-bee, - - --The sweetness of smiles, the touch of the - - white - - Hands flashing there in the candle-light,-- - - Must all in a mystic way be blent - - In one grand flavor;--that such was lent - - To those mellowing strings, those festoons dun - - Swinging there in the late fall sun. - - For lo, as I look I seem to see - - A dream of the past, a fantasy, - - --A laughing, black-eyed roguish girl - - Whirling a writhing paring curl; - - Chanting the words of the old mock spell - - That all we children knew so well: - - “Three times round and down you go! - - Now who is the one that loves me so?” - - - Merely a fancy, a passing gleam - - Of the old, old days;--a sudden dream - - Beguiled by some prank of a blurring eye - - And the tricking song of a big, blue fly; - - --Merely a fancy, and yet, ah me, - - How often I’ve wondered where she can be. - - - There they mellow and there they brown, - - Homely objects to folks from town; - - Only some apples hung to dry - - And doomed to be finally tombed in a pie. - - - -ONLY HELD HIS OWN - - - - Now there’s Hezekiall Adams--nicest man you - - ever saw! - - Never had a row with no one; never once got - - into law; - - Always worked like thunderation, but to save - - his blessed life, - - Never seemed to get forehanded--and I’ve laid - - it to his wife, - - For she always kept him meechin’; calls him - - down with sour tone, - - Till the critter hasn’t gumption for to say his - - soul’s his own. - - - T’other day - - Happened to ride along his way; - - Heseki’, - - Like a gingham rag hung out to dry, - - Peak-ed and pale, - - Lopped on the gate ’cross the upper rail. - - “Howdy!” says I, - - “Blamed if I know,” says Heseki’. - - “Don’t feel sick, - - But marm’s kept my back on a big hot brick - - Till I can’t tell - - Whuther I’m ailin’ or whuther I’m well.” - - “Think,” says I, - - “It’s too early to hoe when the ground’s so dry?” - - Says he, “’Bout all - - I’m sartin’ of is, I shall dig come fall.” - - Says I, “Things look - - Like we farmers can fatten the pocket-book.” - - “Mebbe,” says he, - - “But inarm vows there ain’t much she can see.” - - “Ye can’t jest crawl,” - - Says I, “but there’s money for folks with - - sprawl.” - - Old Hezekiah shifted legs and give a lonesome - - groan; - - “I begun with these two hands,” said he, - - “And I’ve only held my own.” - - - He has always worked like blazes, but, has - - always seemed to fail; - - --Made his grabs at prancin’ Fortune, but has - - caught the critter’s tail; - - Never jumped and gripped the bridle--wouldn’t - - darst to on his life; - - Always acts too blasted meechin’--and I’ve laid - - it to his wife. - - - - -GRAMPY SINGS A SONG - - - - Row-diddy, dow de, my little sis, - - Hush up your teasin’ and listen to this: - - ’Tain’t much of a jingle, ’tain’t much of a tune, - - But it’s spang-fired truth about Chester Cahoon. - - - The thund’rinest fireman Lord ever made - - Was Chester Cahoon of the Tuttsville Brigade. - - He was boss of the tub and the foreman of hose; - - When the ’larm rung he’d start, sis, a-sheddin’ - - his clothes, - - --Slung cote and slung wes’cote and kicked off - - his shoes, - - A-runnin’ like fun, for he’d no time to lose. - - And he’d howl down the ro’d in a big cloud of - - dust, - - For he made it his brag he was allus there fust. - - --Allus there fust, with a whoop and a shout, - - And he never shut up till the fire was out. - - And he’d knock out the winders and save all the - - doors, - - And tear off the clapboards, and rip up the - - floors, - - For he allus allowed ’twas a tarnation sin - - To ’low ’em to burn, for you’d want ’em agin. - - He gen’rally stirred up the most of his touse - - In hustling to save the outside of the house. - - And after he’d wrassled and hollered and pried, - - He’d let up and tackle the stuff ’twas inside. - - To see him you’d think he was daft as a loon, - - But that was jest habit with Chester Cahoon. - - - Row diddy-iddy, my little sis, - - Now see what ye think of a doin’ like this: - - The time of the fire at Jenkins’ old place - - It got a big start--was a desprit case; - - The fambly they didn’t know which way to turn. - - And by gracious, it looked like it all was to burn. - - But Chester Cahoon--oh, that Chester Cahoon, - - He sailed to the roof like a reg’lar balloon; - - Donno how he done it, but done it he did, - - --Went down through the scuttle and shet - - down the lid. - - And five minutes later that critter he came - - To the second floor winder surrounded by - - flame. - - He lugged in his arms, sis, a stove and a bed, - - And balanced a bureau right square on his head. - - His hands they was loaded with crockery stuff, - - China and glass; as if that warn’t enough, - - He’d rolls of big quilts round his neck like a - - wreath, - - And carried Mis’ Jenkins’ old aunt with his - - teeth. - - You’re right--gospel right, little sis,--didn’t - - seem - - The critter’d git down, but he called for the - - stream. - - And when it comes strong and big round as my - - wrist - - He stuck out his legs, sis, and give ’em a - - twist; - - And he hooked round the water jes’ if ’twas a - - rope - - And down he come easin’ himself on the slope, - - --So almighty spry that he made that ’ere - - stream - - As fit for his pupp’us’ as if ’twas a beam. - - Oh, the thund’rinest fireman Lord ever made - - Was Chester Cahoon of the Tuttsville Brigade. - - - - -UNCLE MICAJAH STROUT - - - - Guess that more’n a dozen lawyers, off and on, - - from time to time, - - Tried to settle down in Hudson, but they - - couldn’t earn a dime. - - Never got a speck of business, never had a single - - case, - - Said they never in their travels struck so - - blimmed-blammed funny place. - - People did a lot of hustling, town was flourish- - - ing enough, - - --Everybody but the lawyers had his fingers - - full of stuff. - - Lawyers stayed till they got hungry, then they’d - - pull their shingles down - - And go tearing off to somewhere, damning right - - and left the town. - - Told the lawyers round the county, “Hudson’s - - bound to starve you out - - Till some patriot up and poisons one old cuss - - down there named Strout. - - ’Cause they won’t fork up a fee, - - Long’s he’s round to referee. - - ’Case of difference or doubt - - Folks say, 6 Wal, we’ll leave her out - - To Uncle Micajah Strout.’” - - - If a farmer bought a heifer and she didn’t run - - to milk, - - If a dickerer in horse trades struck a snag or - - tried to bilk, - - If two parties got to haggling over what a farm - - was worth, - - Or if breeders split in squabbling over weight or - - age or girth; - - If a stubborn line-fence quarrel, right-of-way dis- - - pute, or deed, - - Claim of heirship or of debtor, honest error, - - biassed greed, - - Rose to foster litigation, no one scurried to the law, - - No one belched out objurgations, sputtered oaths, - - or threatened war, - - For there was a ready resource in a certain plain - - old gent, - - Unassuming, blunt, and honest. When he said - - a thing it went. - - So there was no chance for wrangle, disputations, - - snarls, or fray, - - When the people of the village universally could - - say, - - “Oh, what’s the use to fuss? - - We shall only make a muss. - - We can fix it in about - - Half a minute. Leave it out - - To Uncle Micajah Strout.” - - - So no wonder all the lawyers banned and cursed - - the place, and left; - - For contention was but fleeting and the town - - was never cleft - - By a quarrel or dissension. Rows were always - - settled young - - By the pacifying magic of. Micajah’s ready - - tongue. - - When at last his days were ended and he passed - - --well, now you bet - - That he had the biggest funeral ever seen in - - Somerset. - - Miss him? Guess we miss Micajah, but if ever - - dreams come true, - - I’ve a sort of sneaking notion that he hasn’t yet - - got through - - Settling things for us in Hudson; for I dreamed - - --and this is straight-- - - That I died and went to Heaven, but was yanked - - up at the gate. - - Peter showed me facts and figures, all the - - records, and allowed - - That I’d have to take my chances down below - - with t’other crowd; - - --Said the thing was pretty even, but he had to - - draw it fine, - - Then commenced to hunt the index for the next - - shade in the line. - - - I protested, and we had it, this and that, and pro - - and con, - - And I hung and begged and argued when he - - told me to move on. - - Till at last he called a cherub, sent the little - - chap inside, - - Owning up that he was bothered as to how he - - should decide. - - “But I’ll give you all the show. - - That I can,” said he. “You know, - - I’ve arranged, in case of doubt, - - --When it’s close,--to leave it out - - To Uncle Micajah’s trout.” - - - - -THE TRUE STORY OF A KICKER - - - - There lived two frogs, so I’ve been told, - - In a quiet wayside pool; - - And one of those frogs was a blamed bright frog, - - But the other frog was a fool. - - - Now a farmer man with a big milk can - - Was wont to pass that way; - - And he used to stop and add a drop - - Of the aqua pure, they say. - - - And it chanced one morn in the early dawn, - - When the farmer’s sight was dim, - - He scooped those frogs in the water he dipped, - - --Which same was a joke on him. - - - The fool frog sank in the swashing tank - - As the farmer bumped to town. - - But the smart frog flew like a tug-boat screw, - - And he swore he’d not go down. - - - So he kicked and splashed and he slammed and - - thrashed, - - And he kept on top through all; - - And he churned that milk in first-class shape - - In a great big butter ball. - - - Now when the milkman got to town, - - And opened the can, there lay - - The fool frog drowned; but, hale and sound, - - The kicker he hopped away. - - - - -MORAL. - - - - Don’t fret your life with needless strife, - - Yet let this teaching stick: - - You’ll find, old man, in the world’s big can - - It sometimes pays to kick. - - - - -ZEK’L PRATT’S HARRYCANE - - -‘Twould make an ox curl up and die - - To hear how Zek’l Pratt would lie. - - --Why, that blamed Zeke - - Could hardly speak - - Without he’d let some whopper fly. - - Come jest as natchrul to him, too, - - --’Twas innocent, and them as knew - - Zeke’s failin’s never took great stock, - - But jest stood back and let him talk; - - Jest let him thrash his peck o’ chart, - - Then got behind his back to laugh. - - Why, Zeke would--jest hold on and see - - What that old liar told to me. - - Last fall while gettin’ in his grain - - He said he see’d a harrycane - - --A cikerloon, as they say West-- - - A-boomin’ on like all possesst. - - And Zekel see’d to his consarn - - ’Twas bound plumb straight for his new barn. - - - “’Twas crickitul,” says he. “Thinks I, - - I’ve got to be almighty spry. - - If somethin’ ain’t done kind o’ brash - - That barn will get chawed inter hash. - - It don’t take long for me to think, - - And what I done was quicker’n wink. - - Jest gafflin’ up a couple boards - - I sashayed out deerectly to’ards - - That howlin’, growlin’ harrycane - - That come a-raisin’ merry Cain. - - - “When I’d got out as fur’s my wind - - Would take me, I slacked up and shinned - - That cob-piled monnyment o’ stones - - Between my land and Bial Jones. - - Though I don’t scare - - I’ll own, I swear, - - It sent a twitter through my bones - - When I got where that I could see - - The thing ’twas goin’ to tackle me. - - ’Twas big and round and blacker’n Zip, - - --And powerful? My sakes, ’twould grip - - A tree or bam or line o’ fence - - And make ’em look like thirty cents. - - While all the time it growled and chawed - - And spit the slivers forty rod. - - --As things looked then a bob-tailed darn - - Was too much price for Pratt’s new barn. - - - “But let me tell ye this, my son, - - Me’n them boards warn’t there for fun. - - I held one underneath each arm; - - The ends stuck out - - In front about - - Ten feet. I held ’em aidge to aidge - - And made a fust-class kind of wedge. - - - I grit my teeth. There was a calm - - For jest a minit, kind o’ ’s ef - - That harrycane had stopped itse’f - - And snickered, snorted, laughed, and yelled, - - Then stopped again and sort o’ held - - Its breath; then swellin’ up its breast - - Swooped down to knock me galley-west. - - - “It grabbed them boards and then ’twas fight! - - But scare me? Not a gol-durned mite! - - It pulled and tugged and yanked and hauled - - And tooted, howled, and squealed and squalled; - - It picked up sculch and dirt, and threw, - - And followed with a tree or two; - - It hit me with a rotten squash, - - And give me fits with Marm Jones’ wash. - - But ’twarn’t no use, suh, Zek’l Pratt - - Ain’t built to scare at things like that. - - - I jest let into that air tyke - - And punched its innards reg’lar-like - - With them ’ere boards, and honest true, - - I split her square and plumb in two. - - One half went yowlin’ by to right - - And one to left--and out’ of sight. - - While Zek’l Pratt was still on deck - - With Marm Jones’ night-gown round his neck.” - - - - -THOSE PICKLES OF MARM’S - - - - It doesn’t need eyesight to tell that it’s fall, - - Up here in Maine. - - Though the glamor of yellow is over it all, - - And the cold, swishing rain - - Comes peltering down and goes stripping the - - leaves, - - And smokes in cold spray from the edge of the - - eaves. - - All, it’s wild out of doors, but come in here with - - me - - Where mother’s as busy as busy can be. - - And you need not your eyes, sir, to know it is fall - - In this stifle and stirring and steam like a pall. - - For there’s savor of spices and odorous charms - - When your nose gets a sniff of these pickles of - - marm’s. - - - You know it is fall without using your eyes, - - Up here in Maine. - - There is fragrance that floats as the flower-pot - - dies - - In the tears of the rain. - - And the hand of the frost strips the sheltering - - leaves - - From the pumpkins, those bombs of the sentinel - - sheaves - - That stiffly and starkly keep gnard in the field, - - A desolate rank without weapon or shield. - - And the fragrance of death like a delicate musk - - Floats up from the field through the crispness of - - dusk; - - Yet out from the kitchen, more savory far, - - Drifts the fragrance of pickles compounded by - - ma. - - The autumn sweeps past like a dame to a ball, - - Up here in Maine. - - Her perfumes would stagger shy Springtime, but - - Fall, - - Like a matron of Spain, - - Puts musk in her bosom and scent on her hair, - - And prinks her gay robe with elaborate care. - - Yet the fragrance she sheds has the savor of - - death, - - The brain is turned giddy beneath her fierce - - breath, - - Till over it all floats the vigorous scent - - Of spices and hot things and good things, all - - blent. - - It’s wonderful, friend, how it tickles and calms, - - --That whiff from those simmering pickles of - - marm’s. - - - - -“THE MAN I KNEW I KILLED” - - - - Ezra Saunders, of Hopkins’ Creek, - - Was the next old soldier asked to speak. - - He’d seen his share of the thousands slain - - In the active days of the Umteenth Maine; - - And we settled hack to hear him tell - - His reasons for thinking that “War is Hell.” - - - “Dear comrades of Keesuncook Post and ladies - - of the Corps, - - I thank you for this invite and I’m proud to - - take the floor. - - I was thinkin’ as I set here of the battles that - - I’ve fought, - - Of the suff’rin’ and the slaughter--and the - - sudden, awful thought - - Come across me that I’d taken very likely scores - - of lives, - - --Taken fathers from their children, taken - - husbands from their wives. - - While mad with heat of battle I was pumping - - reeking lead, - - Not knowing, no, nor caring, where the bullet - - found its bed. - - Now people they will ask us if we really, truly - - know - - For a fact that while a-fightin’ we have ever - - killed a foe. - - But it’s rare you find a soldier who has seen, in - - heat of strife, - - That the bullet he had fired was the one to take - - a life. - - Now, to-night, I’m going to tell you, though I - - hate to, boys, I swan, - - That I know I’ve done my murder; that I know - - I’ve killed my man. - - - “’Twas when we got our rapping at the fight of - - Hatcher’s Run; - - I was running hard as any;--yes, I threw away - - my gun - - And the rest of my equipment, and proceeded, - - friends, to steer - - Just as fast as legs would help me for protection - - at the rear. - - - I was quite a nervy sprinter--‘bout as swift as - - you will find, - - But I couldn’t shake that Johnny who came - - slammin’ on behind; - - For he had the Georgy straddle and was sort of - - razor-edged, - - And if nothin’ special busted, I was spoke for, - - so I jedged. - - He was hanging to his rifle, but he didn’t try to - - shoot, - - --He see he had me solid,--but I give the - - blame galoot - - A standard mile or such-like and had druv him - - ‘in the list,’ - - When I stepped upon a hubble, fell, and give - - my leg a twist. - - And the tumble sort of stunned me so I laid - - there quite a spell, - - Expectin’ that he’d grab me; just a-harkin’ for - - his yell. - - But things stayed calm and quiet, so I peeked; - - he laid there sprawled - - ‘Bout a dozen yards behind me. And he looked - - so queer I crawled - - Slowly back to reconnoitre, got where I could - - see his head, - - Saw his face was black’s a stove-pipe. Apo- - - plexy! He was dead. - - And I stood and wept above him, stirred, dear - - comrades, to the peth - - With the awful, awful pity for that man I’d run - - to death. - - - And my conscience always pricked me and my - - heart with grief is filled, - - For there ain’t no question, comrades, there’s a - - man I know I killed.” - - - - -’LONG SHORE CRUISE OF THE “NANCY P.” - - - - We was off Seguin with the “Nancy P.,” - - From the Sheepscot bound for Boston way; - - We was one day out, and massy me! - - What a leak she’d sprung sence she left the bay! - - Why, never knowed sech an awful leak, - - Gad, we made her old pump squeak, - - Gad, we made it whoop and hump, - - --Two at a turn, on the stiddy jump,-- - - Ker-chonk, ker-chump, - - With an up yo-ho and a down ker-bump. - - - But the more we pumped, the more she drawed, - - And we all turned to for a mighty pull; - - But when we giv’ her the soundin’ rawd, - - Why, bless yer soul, she was jam, bang full. - - Plumb, jamb full to the soaked old deck, - - Full to her gol-durned tarred old neck; - - Wonder was how she kept aflo’t, - - With the sea a-gozzlin’ in her thro’t; - - Ker-do’t, ker-do’t, - - --And we couldn’t leave, ’cause there wam’t no - - bo’t. - - - So we hung to the pump and we giv’ her Cain, - - Though it didn’t seem to be no use. - - We thought of the good dry ground in Maine, - - And durned the pelt of that old caboose, - - Durned the hide of a tops’l tub, - - For we never thought we’d see the Hub; - - --Got so scart we forgot to thank - - Our lucky stars for a lo’d of plank, - - Ker-clink, ker-chank, - - And still we bounced that old pump crank. - - - So we woggled on like a bale of hay, - - And we set our teeth and we pumped with - - groans. - - At last we got to Boston bay; - - But our arms were stretched to our ankle bones, - - Hands were the size of corn-fed hams, - - Eyes bulged out like the horns o’ rams, - - We humped like monkeys bound for war, - - And ev’ry man had a raw, red paw, - - Ker-haw, ker-haw, - - We beached that tub--and then we saw-- - - - The “Nancy P.,” she’d grown that old, - - Her butts had rotted all away. - - Her lo’d of planks still jammed the hold, - - But we’d left her bottom in Sheepscot bay. - - So there we’d made a tumble try - - To pump old ’Lantic ocean dry. - - Over our rail, ’twixt you and me, - - We’d h’isted, suttin, a mile of sea; - - Blame me! But we - - Was a darn sick crowd on the “Nancy P.” - - -[Illustration: 0129] - - - - -TALE OF THE SEA-FARING MAN - - - - I purchased a glass of stiff Maine grog for a - - salty son of the sea, - - And he confidentially leaned on the bar and - - spun this yarn for me: - - - “ ’Twas down in the aidge of the Saragos’ in the - - nineteenth latitood - - That I think I see the dumdest sight that ever a - - sailor viewed. - - - “We was dobbin’ along with dumpy sails in a - - nigh-about dead calm, - - When the forrard watch give a good long squint, - - and he yapped a loud alarm. - - - “And there afloat, two points to port, was a - - shark, a reg’lar he’un, - - The biggest shark I’ve ever seen outside the - - Caribbeun. - - - “The old man reckoned he’d have his pelt, and - - he yelled to the second mate, - - Sling over the biggest hook ye’ve got, with a - - good big plug o’ bait.’ - - - “We dragged her astern and his nobs come on, - - and then with a mighty splosh, - - He gulped the pork, he bit the rope, and away - - he went, by gosh! - - - “But when he’d hipered two miles to lee, and - - begun to wopse and wheel, - - We figgered he found the lunch he had a rayther - - too hearty meal. - - - “Yet right behind the quarter wash the critter - - swum next day, - - And though he gobbled the bait we threw, he - - allus got away. - - - “And at last, do ye know, we liked the cuss for - - the way he showed his spunk, - - And we named him Pete, and shared salt hoss, - - and tossed him a daily junk. - - - “He got the orts of the fish we caught and, all - - in all, I’ll bet - - A two-hoss waggin wouldn’t haul the stuff that - - critter et. - - - “Then one day Jones, the heftiest man we had - - in all the crew, - - Went off the rail with a swinging sail, and Pete - - he et him too. - - - “From that time on we tipped our caps to the - - razor-backed old brute, - - --We tipped our caps and pulled a bow in a - - most profound salute; - - - “For ’twas only due from a decent crew to honor - - a comrade’s grave, - - Though ’twas odd, I’ll own, to have a tomb afloat - - on the ocean wave. - - - “And the old man ordered the fish lines coiled, - - for he ’lowed ’twarn’t proper game - - To bob behind for a grave-yard lot; so Pete - - swum on the same, - - - “--Swum on the same, though we come to see - - that he didn’t act quite right. - - For he grew as thin’s a belayin’ pin on that gol- - - durned appetite. - - - “And we couldn’t figger the secret out, though - - the second mate was firm - - That stowed ’tween decks in the shark’s insides - - was a bastin’ big tape-worm. - - - “As we didn’t have no vermifuge we could only - - mourn for Pete, - - And steal salt hoss when the mate wam’t round, - - and give him lots to eat. - - - “But at last he rolled his glassy eyes and give - - an awful chum, - - And turned his belly up to view and drifted off - - astern. - - - “He rolled and sogged on a logy swell like a - - nut-cake dropped in fat, - - And it ’peared to all there was suthin’ wrong - - with the shark we was lookin’ at. - - - “So the old man ordered the gig crew up, and - - the bos’n piped a tune, - - And away we sploshed with the mate ahead - - a-grippin’ a big harpoon. - - - “He slung the thing when we drew abreast and - - we hacked like all-possessed; - - But the shark was sleepin’ sound, you bet, for - - we never broke his rest. - - - “--We never broke his peaceful snooze, though - - plunk to the eyelet head - - Went rippin’ in that big harpoon,--for, you see, - - the shark was dead. - - - “And the old man ordered an ortopsy, for the - - thing seemed mighty queer - - That an able-bodied, hearty shark was deader’n - - a door-knob here. - - - “So the mate was medical ’xaminer, and he - - straddled the critter’s back - - And laid him open from deck to keel with one - - almighty whack. - - - “Now listen close while I tell the rest, for this is - - the story’s peth, - - --You may take my nob for a scuttle-butt if - - the shark warn’t starved to death. - - - “Starved to death, though the sea was full of - - the fattest kind of fish, - - --Starved, though a seaman plump and sound - - had tumbled in his dish, - - - “--Starved though he had in his gorged insides - - I’ll bet a hundredweight - - Of every kind of a floating thing from codfish - - down to bait. - - - “And this was how: He’d spied, we judged, an - - empty cask afloat, - - And bein’ a glutten he grabbed the thing and - - tucked it down his throat. - - - “The cask, we found, had an open end--the - - bottom was good and stout - - --The shark had swallowed the whole end fust - - --the open end was out. - - - “And ev’ry mossel the critter et was scooped by - - the cask inside; - - His vittles failed to reach the spot, and so the - - poor shark died.” - - - This is a sample of weird, wild yarns the marin- - - ers relate - - Under the spur of a glass of grog in a Prohibi- - - tion State. - - - - -CAP’N NUTTER OF THE “PUDDENTAME” - - - - The foam bells tinkle at gilded prow - - --There’s a creamy wake to the far horizon. - - And she tiptoes along with a New York bow - - To the curt’sying waves, and we’ll all allow, - - She’s the daintiest yacht we have set our eyes - - on. - - While sneaking after, in grimy shame, - - Rolls tops’l schooner, the “Puddentame.” - - On the rocking surge swings the millionaire, - - And about him splendor and music and - - laughter; - - The glint of jewels and ladies fair; - - Jollity throned, and Old King Care - - Drowned in the brine and dragging after. - - But the billows lift and toss the same - - Old Cap’n Nutter in the “Puddentame.” - - - Under the gloom of the Porcupines, - - In the gleam of the lights of the summer city, - - In a tapestried cabin the rich man dines, - - And toasts his friends in his bubbling wines, - - While the repartee and the careless ditty - - Float from the lips of squire and dame - - To Cap’n Nutter of the “Puddentame.” - - - And the old man munches his bread and cheese - - In the gloom and grime of his little cuddy; - - --Through the mirk of the dusty deadlight sees - - This riot of riches; then on his knees - - --This sea-stained, warped old fuddy-duddy-- - - He prays for their souls in the Saviour’s - - name, - - ---Does Cap’n Nutter of the u Puddentame. - - - And they?--Why, they neither know nor care - - That the honest chap has knelt and pleaded. - - For just at the edge of the dazzling glare - - From the rocking yacht of the millionaire, - - The old craft swings and sways unheeded. - - Yet who’ll sleep better, jaded Fame - - Or Cap’n Nutter of the “Puddentame”? - - - - -GOOD-BY, LOBSTER - - - - We’ve gazed with resignation on the passing of - - the auk, - - Nor care a continental for the legendary rok; - - And the dodo and the bison and the ornith-o- - - rhyn-chus - - May go and yet their passing brings no shade of - - woe to us. - - We entertain no sorrow that the megatherium - - Forever and forever is departed, dead and - - dumb: - - But a woe that hovers o ’er us brings a keen and - - bitter pain - - As we weep to see the lobster vanish off the - - coast of Maine. - - - Oh, dear crustacean dainty of the dodge-holes - - of the sea, - - I tune my lute in minor in a threnody for thee. - - You’ve been the nation’s martyr and ’twas wrong - - to treat you so, - - And you may not think we love you; yet we - - hate to see you go. - - We’ve given you the blazes and hot-potted you, - - and yet - - We’ve loved you better martyred than when - - living, now you bet. - - - You have no ears to listen, so, alas, we can’t - - explain - - The sorrow that you bring us as you leave the - - coast of Maine. - - - Do you fail to mark our feeling as we bitterly - - deplore - - The passing of the hero of the dinner at the - - shore? - - Ah, what’s the use of living if you also can’t - - survive - - Until you die to furnish us the joy of one - - “broiled live”? - - And what can e ’er supplant you as a cold dish - - on the side? - - Or what assuage our longings when to salads - - you’re denied? - - Or what can furnish thunder to the legislative - - brain - - When ruthless Fate has swept you from the rocky - - coast of Maine? - - - I see, and sigh in seeing, in some distant, future - - age - - Your varnished shell reposing under glass upon - - a stage, - - The while some pundit lectures on the curios of - - the past, - - And dainty ladies shudder as they gaze on you - - aghast. - - - And all the folks that listen will wonder vaguely - - at - - The fact that once lived heathen who could eat - - a Thing like that. - - Ah, that’s the fate you’re facing--but laments - - are all in vain - - --Tell the dodo that you saw us when you - - lived down here in Maine. - - - - -CURE FOR HOMESICKNESS - - - - She wrote to her daddy in Portland, Maine, from - - out in Denver, Col., - - And she wrote, alas, despondently that life had - - commenced to pall; - - And this was a woful, woful case, for she was - - a six months’ bride - - Who was won and wed in the State of Maine by - - the side of the bounding tide. - - And ah, alack, she was writing back that she - - longed for Portland, Maine, - - Till oh, her feelings had been that wrenched she - - could hardly stand the strain! - - Though her hubby dear was still sincere, she - - sighed the livelong day - - For a good old sniff of the sewers and salt from - - the breast of Casco bay. - - And she wrote she sighed, and she said she’d - - cried, and her appetite fell off, - - And she’d grown as thin’s a belaying-pin, with a - - terrible hacking cough; - - And she sort of hinted that pretty soon she’d - - start on a reckless scoot - - And hook for her home in Portland, Maine, by - - the very shortest route. - - But her daddy dear was a man of sense, and he - - handles fish wholesale, - - And he sat and fanned himself awhile with a - - big broad codfish tail; - - And he recollected the way he felt when he - - dwelt in the World’s Fair whirl. - - He slapped his head. “By hake,” he said, “I - - know what ails that girl.” - - And he went to a ten-cord pile of cod and he - - pulled the biggest out, - - A jib-shaped critter, broad’s a sail,--three feet - - from tail to snout. - - And he pasted a sheet of postage stamps from - - snout clear down to tail, - - Put on a quick delivery stamp, and sent the cod - - by mail. - - She smelled it a-coming two blocks off on the - - top of the postman’s pack; - - She rushed to meet him, and scared him blind by - - climbing the poor man’s back. - - But she got the fish, hit out a hunk, ate postage - - stamps and all, - - And a happy wife in a happy home lives out in - - Denver, Col. - - - - -ON THE OLD COAST TUB - - - Blast from the winter. Wrack-wood and splinter - - Adrift in the smother of roaring lee shore: - - And a blunt-nosed old coaster; some ancient - - sea-wagon, - - Sweeps in from the fog no more--no more, - - Rolls in from the sea no more. - - - Bricks make her load and New York her destin- - - ation. - - (Dern yer hide, ye snoozer, keep a-pumping - - there, I say!) - - Bricks for a cargo and she leaks like thundera- - - tion, - - And the gulls a-trailin’ after like the buzzards - - sniffin’ prey! - - Pump away! - - And ev’ry brick a-soakin’ in her innards growls - - and grates; - - She hesitates--she balks and waits, - - And holy hawse-pipe, how she hates - - To leave Penobscot Bay! - - - Pounce! On her bows leap the combers like - - a tiger-cat, - - (Lift ’er on the handle, there, you loafer, - - pump away!) - - - Lurch! Reels her gait, and her sloshin’ scup- - - pers hiccup at - - The sight of drunken breakers fightin’ past - - ’er up the bay. - - Pump, I say! - - Oh, give her all the rotten sail her leary masts - - will lug. - - Ka-chig, ka-chug; her ugly mug - - Rolls orkord as a driftin’ jug, - - And so we slosh away. - - - Grub to last a week, a quadrant and an alma- - - nick; - - (Wag ’er there, you rascal, wag ’er lively - - there, I say!) - - Rotten are her sails and her hold a-roar with - - shiftin’ brick, - - --Ain’t we up ag’inst it if a norther comes - - our way? - - Pump, I say! - - Stagger down, ye bloated drunkard, wheel and - - take the starboard tack! - - Ka-slup, ka-smack, now work ’er back, - - Jest hear that old black canvas crack. - - Ho! Davy Jones, hooray! - - - Black cordage tangled, dead features mangled, - - Adrift in the smother of roaring lee shore. - - And a blunt-nosed old coaster; - - some broad-bellied wagon - - Sweeps in from the sea no more - - --Rolls in from the sea no more, - - --no more. - - - - -TALE OF THE KENNEBEC MARINER - - - - Guess I’ve never told you, sonny, of the strandin’ - - and the wreck - - Of the steamboat “Ezry Johnson” that run up - - the Kennebec. - - That was ’fore the time of steam-cars, and the - - “Johnson” filled the bill - - On the route between Augusty and the town of - - Water ville. - - - She was built old-fashined model, with a - - bottom’s flat’s your palm, - - With a paddle-wheel behind her, druv’ by one - - great churnin’ arm. - - Couldn’t say that she was speedy--sploshed - - along and made a touse, - - But she couldn’t go much faster than a man - - could tow a house. - - Still, she skipped and skived tremendous, dodged - - the rocks and skun the shoals, - - In a way the boats of these days couldn’t do to - - save their souls. - - Didn’t draw no ’mount of water, went on top - - instead of through. - - This is how there come to happen what I’m go- - - ing to tell to you. - - - --Hain’t no need to keep you guessing, for I - - know you won’t suspect - - How that thunderin’ old “Ez. Johnson” ever - - happened to get wrecked. - - - She was overdue one ev’nin’, fog come down - - most awful thick; - - ’Twas about like navigating round inside a - - feather tick. - - Proper caper was to anchor, but she seemed to - - run all right, - - And we humped her--though ’twas resky-- - - kept her sloshing through the night. - - - Things went on all right till morning, but along - - ’bout half-past three - - Ship went dizzy, blind, and crazy--waves - - seemed wust I ever see. - - Up she went and down she scuttered; sometimes - - seemed to stand on end, - - Then she’d wallopse, sideways, cross-ways, in a - - way, by gosh, to send - - Shivers down your spine. She’d teeter, fetch a - - spring, and take a bounce, - - Then squat down, sir, on her haunches with a - - most je-roosly jounce. - - Folks got up and run a-screaming, forced the - - wheelhouse, grabbed at me, - - --Thought we’d missed Augusty landin’ and - - had gone plum out to sea. - - --Fairly shot me full of questions, but I said - - ’twas jest a blow; - - Still, that didn’t seem to soothe ’em, for there - - warn’t no wind, you know! - - Yas, sir, spite of all that churnin’, warn’t a whis- - - per of a breeze - - --No excuse for all that upset and those strange - - and dretful seas. - - Couldn’t spy a thing around us--every way - - ’twas pitchy black, - - And I couldn’t seem to comfort them poor crit- - - ters on my back. - - Couldn’t give ’em information, for ’twas dark’s - - a cellar shelf; - - --Couldn’t tell ’em nothing ’bout it--for I - - didn’t know myself. - - - So I gripped the “Johnson’s” tiller, kept the - - rudder riggin’ taut, - - Kept a-praying, chawed tobacker, give her steam, - - and let her swat. - - Now, my friend, jest listen stiddy: when the sun - - come out at four, - - We warn’t tossin’ in the breakers off no stern - - and rockbound shore; - - But I’d missed the gol-durned river, and I swow - - this ’ere is true, - - I had sailed eight miles ’cross country in a heavy - - autumn dew. - - There I was clear up in Sidney, and the tossings - - and the rolls - - Simply happened ’cause we tackled sev’ral miles - - of cradle knolls. - - Sun come out and dried the dew up; there she - - was a stranded wreck, - - And they soaked me eighteen dollars’ cartage to - - the Kennebec. - - - - -DRIVE, CAMP, AND WANGAN - - - - -THE LAW ’GAINST SPIKE-SOLE BOOTS - - - - It’s a case of scuff in your stocking-feet, from - - Seboomook down, my hearties; - - Sling your spikers around your neck and swear - - your way to town. - - The dudes that we sent to legislate, and figger - - at balls and parties, - - Haye tinkered the laws to suit themselves, and - - they’ve done us good and brown. - - - There’s a howl, you bet, from the Medway dam - - across to the Caucmogummac, - - For the laws came up in the tote-team mail, and - - we’ve got the new statoots, - - And of all the things that was ever planned to - - give us a gripe in the stomach, - - The worst is the corker that t’runs us down for - - a-wearin’ our old calked boots. - - - You can’t chank on to a hotel floor, - - You’ve got to leave calked boots at the door. - - They make ye peel your hucks in the street - - And walk to the bar in your stocking-feet. - - - It’s a blank of a note that a man with chink - - Can’t prance to the rail and get his drink, - - But it’s five and costs if ye mar the paint, - - And ten if the feller that makes complaint - - Gets mad at a playful push in the eyes - - And goes into court with a lot of lies. - - It’s ten if ye sliver a steam-bo’t’s deck - - --There ain’t no argue--it’s right in the neck. - - And they soak you, too, on the railroad train; - - --Why, there’s hardly a loggin’ crew in Maine - - But what has claimed, as a nat’ral right, - - A chance to holler and heller and fight, - - And knock the stuffin’ out of the seats, - - Rip off the blinds and club with the cleats. - - But now if the bloomin’ brakeman talks, - - And you vaccinate him once with calks; - - If you feel like a man with a royal flush - - And, jest for the joke of it, rip some plush, - - Oh, they take that law and they peel you sore; - - You pay for the damage, and ten plunks more. - - ’Tain’t much like the days when we had some - - rights, - - When we roosters sharpened our spurs in fights, - - When never a crowd put up galoots - - That could scrap with the fellers with spike-sole - - boots. - - - It’s a case of step to the wangan camp, and buy - - some partent leathers; - - And go a-snoopin’ along to town like a dude on - - his weddin’-trip; - - And the only thing you can do to a guy is to tickle - - his nose with feathers, - - And curl in your seats in the smokin’-car when - - a drummer gives you lip. - - There was fun, by gee, in the good old days - - when we whooped ’er into the city, - - And you trailed our way by the slivers we left - - from the railroad down to the dives, - - And we owned the town where we left our cash; - - and now it’s a thunderin’ pity - - If all of a sudden you’ve grown too good for the - - boys who are off the drives. - - - Oh, make the laws, go make the laws with your - - derned old Legislature, - - Jest give us orders to wear plug hats and come - - down in full dress suits. - - We’ll wear the togs; but give us spikes, or - - you’ve busted the laws of nature, - - For angels can just as well shed wings as a - - driver his spike-sole boots. - - - - -THE CHAP THAT SWINGS THE AXE - - - - Sing a song of paper; first the tall, straight - - spruce, - - Torn from off the mountains for the roaring - - presses’ use. - - --A shrieking laceration by the “barker” and - - the saw; - - A slow, grim maceration in the grinder’s grum- - - bling maw; - - A dizzy dash through calenders and over whir- - - ring rolls, - - --And the press can smut the paper so to save - - or damn your souls; - - The press has got the paper, it can give you lies - - or facts - - --That vexes not the fellow up in Maine who - - swings the axe. - - - Chock! - - Chock! - - Chock! - - - The throb stuttered up from the heart of the - - wood, - - Erratic and faint, yet the trees understood, - - --Though distant and dull like the tick of a - - clock - - It started a tremor through all the great flock. - - King Spruce was a-shiver and rooted with dread, - - While past him to safety the wood people fled; - - The fox with his muzzle turned backward to - - snuff - - The bear trundling on like an animate muff, - - And rabbits up-ending in wonder and fright, - - Then scudding once more with the others in - - flight. - - Yet that which has reason most urgent to flee - - Stands grim in the rout of the panic--the - - Tree! - - While up the long slope, glaring red ’gainst the - - snow,-- - - His shirt of the hue of the butcher,--the foe, - - Beating fierce at the trunks with relentless - - attacks, - - Comes on to the slaughter, the Man with the Axe. - - Chock! - - Chock! - - Chock! - - - Shudder and totter and shiver and rock! - - --Pygmy assailing with dull steady knock. - - Trunk yawning wide with a hideous gash. - - Snow-covered limbs thrown a-sprawl; and - - then crash! - - The pens and the presses are waiting, and eyes - - That will glow with delight, or dilate with sur- - - prise. - - For there in the heart of the spruce there is - - rolled - - The fabric for thousands of stories untold. - - And on the white paper may later be spread - - The fall of a nation, or fame of one dead - - Who now strides abroad in his health and suc- - - cess, - - But will pass to the tomb when that log meets - - the press. - - There under the bark of that spruce there is - - furled - - A web that will carry the news of a world, - - That clamors and crowds at the swaying red - - backs - - Of the toilers of Maine, the rough men of the - - axe. - - - - -THE SONG OF THE WOODS’ DOG-WATCH - - - - ’Tis the weirdly witching hour of the woods’ - - “dog-watch,” - - When the guide suspends the kettle in the ash - - limb’s crotch, - - Stirs the drowsy, drowsy embers till the cozy - - fire beams - - And flickers dance like gnomes and elves athwart - - the glowing dreams - - Of the sleeping town-bred fisher who is stretched - - with placid soul - - On the earth in sweeter slumber than his town - - couch can cajole. - - Ah, ’tis tough on bone and muscle, is this chas- - - ing after fun-- - - And a sleeper gets to sleeping forty knots along - - ’bout one. - - But the guide is up a-stirring--monstrous shape - - with flaring torch, - - Prodding up the dozing fire for the woods’ “dog- - - watch.” - - And the slow unclosing eyelids of the startled - - dreamer see - - This dreadful apparition thrown in shadows on a - - tree. - - And his heart for just a second goes to skirrup- - - ing about - - As it flopped when he was wrestling with that - - five-three-quarter trout. - - But the ogre leaves the shadows, leans against - - a handy tree - - And remarks: “The water’s bilin’; won’t ye - - have a cup o’ tea?” - - And he wakes to a night of the fisherman’s - - June, - - --Afar the weird lilt of the dolorous loon - - Floats up from the heart of the fair, velvet - - night-- - - A globule of sound winging slow in its flight. - - As elfin a note as a gnome ever blew, - - It wells from the waters, “Ah-loo-hoo-ah-hoo- - - o-o-o.” - - - O spell of the forest! O glimmer and gleam - - From the sheen of the lake and the mist-breath- - - ing stream! - - The night and the stars and the dolorous loon - - Make mystic the spell of the fisherman’s June. - - - The spruces sing the lyric of the wood’s dog- - - watch; - - The kettle as it bubbles in the ash limb’s crotch, - - The rustle of the spindles of the hemlock and - - the pine, - - The crackle where the licking tongues of ruddy - - fire twine, - - The oboe, in the distance, of the weird and lone- - - some loon, - - --This chorus sings the lyric of the blessed - - month of June. - - - What June? Your June of meadows or your - - June of scented breeze, - - Or your June begirt with roses stretched in - - hammock at her ease? - - Such a deity for maidens! I can bow to no - - such June! - - I extol the mystic goddess of the Forest’s Silent - - Noon. - - --Noon of day or noon of night-time--in the - - vast and silent deeps, - - Where human care or human woe or human - - envy sleeps, - - Where rugged depths surround me, dim and - - silent, deep and wide, - - And no human shares my joy but that second - - self, my guide. - - --Here’s a June that one can worship. Here’s - - a June by right a queen, - - ’Neath her hand eternal mountains, ’neath her - - feet eternal green.. - - And here will I adore her, seeking out her - - awful throne - - With the Silence swimming round me, and - - alone, thank God, alone! - - -[Illustration: 0161] - - - - -FIDDLER CURED THE CAMP - - - Wal, things they was deader’n old Billy-be-darn, - - The boss was pernickity, cook wouldn’t yam; - - For we’d heard ev’ry story old Beans had to spin, - - And we hadn’t no longin’s to hear ’em agin; - - Old Pitts, the head chopper, we’d pumped him - - out, too, - - --And he swow’d that he’d sung ev’ry song - - that he knew. - - As the rest wasn’t gifted, a sort of a damp - - Old glister of silence fell over Peel’s camp. - - The deacon-seat doldrums were blacker’n old Zip, - - We’d set there an hour with never a yip, - - ’Cept the suckin’ o’ lips at the quackin’ T.D.’s, - - With the oof and the woo of the lonesome pine - - trees - - Wistling over our smok’-hole. It grew on us, - - too; - - Our thoughts got as thick an’ as musty an’ blue - - As the cloud o’ tobacker smoke, mixed with the - - steams - - From the woolens that dried on the stringers - - and beams. - - Old Attegat Peter said we was bewitched; - - He said that he seed the Old Gal when she - - twitched - - A fistful o’ hair out the gray hosses’ tail - - For a-makin’ witch tattin’. She’d hung on a nail - - The queerisome web, so he said, an’ the holes - - --They were fifty--they stood for the whole - - of our souls. - - - An’ there we would swing, an’ hang there we - - must, - - Till the hoodoo was busted. Eternally cussed, - - So he said, was the buffle-brained feller that - - dared - - To touch the witch-web that was holding us - - snared. - - Aw, we didn’t believe it--‘tain’t like that we - - did! - - But still we warn’t fussy! If we could get - - rid - - Of the dumps by a charm, we was ready to try, - - And Peter said singin’ would knock ’em sky - - high. - - Wal, Peter said “singin’;” I can’t tell a lie, - - ’Twarn’t singin’, ’twarn’t nothin’--that mourn- - - ful ki-yi! - - That seemed like a beller in ev’ry man’s boot, - - An’ ’twarn’t none surprisin’ the witch didn’t - - scoot. - - So there did we set in a stew an’ a cloud, - - A grumpy old, lumpy old dob of a crowd. - - - But oh, landsy sake a-Peter, when the fiddle come - - to camp, - - W’y you wouldn’t know the place: - - --Wuz a grin on ev’ry face - - W’en we know’d the critter’d got it. An’ it - - reely seemed the lamp - - Had a ’leetric light attachment; an’ you - - oughter heard us stamp - - When that feller took his fiddle out an’ rosined - - up the bow. - - Then he yawked an’ yeaked an’ yawked - - ’Twistin’ keys ontil she squawked, - - An’ we set there jest a-gawpin’; not a word to - - say, but, oh, - - We was right on pins an’ needles fer to have - - him let ’er go. - - - Tweedle-weedle, yeaky, yawky, ’nother twist, - - an’ pretty soon - - He was waitin’ to begin, - - With ’er underneath his chin; - - He a-askin’, all a-grinnin’, “Wall, boys, name - - it; what’s your tune?” - - An’ we hollered all in concert, “Whoop ’er up - - on ‘Old Zip Coon’!” - - - Oh, the deacon-seat had cushions an’ the bunks - - were stuffed with down, - - While the feller sawed the strings; - - We could feel our sproutin’ wings, - - An’ we wanted to go soarin’, go a-sailin’, wear a - - crown, - - Tear the ground up, whoop-ta-ra-ra, mix some - - red and paint the town. - - - Oh, he played the “Lights o’ London” an’ he - - played “The Devil’s Dream,” - - --All the old ones--played ’em all; - - Rode right on ’er--made ’er squall; - - Didn’t stop to semi-quiver, tip-toe Nancy, pass - - the cream; - - No; he let ’er go Jerooshy, clear the track an’ - - lots o’ steam. - - - Thought I’d never heerd such playin’ sence the - - Lord had giv’ me breath - - An’ that P. I.--seems as if - - He could put the bang an’ biff - - In the chitter of a cat-gut like to touch the very - - peth - - In yer marrow; like to raise yer from the very - - jaws of death. - - - So, oh, landsy sake a-Peter, when that fiddle - - come our way, - - Say, you wouldn’t know the place, - - --Wus a grin on ev’ry face. - - --Went to workin’ like the blazes an’ our vittles - - set--an’ say, - - Guess the Hoodoo flew to thunder when the - - Haw-Haw come to stay. - - - - -THE SONG OF THE SAW - - - - The song is the shriek of the strong that are - - slain, - - --The monarchs that people the woodlands of - - Maine; - - --‘Tis the cry of a merciless war. - - And it echoes by river, by lake, and by stream, - - Wherever saws scream or the bright axes gleam, - - --‘Tis keyed to the sibilant rush of the steam, - - And the song is the song of the saw. - - - Come stand in the gloom of this clamorous - - room, - - Where giants groan past us a-drip from the - - boom, - - Borne here from the calm of the forest and hill, - - --Aghast at the thunderous roar of the mill, - - At rumble of pulley and grumble of shaft - - And the tumult and din of the sawyer’s rude - - craft. - - - Stand here in the ebb of the riotous blast, - - As the saw’s mighty carriage goes thundering - - past, - - One man at the lever and one at the dog. - - The slaughter is bloodless and senseless the - - log, - - Yet the anguish of death and the torment of - - hell - - Are quavering there in the long, awful yell, - - That shrills above tumult of gearing and wheel - - As the carriage rolls down and the timber meets - - steel. - - Scream! And a board is laid bare for a home. - - Shriek! And a timber for mansion and dome, - - For the walls of a palace, or toil’s homely use, - - Is reft from the flanks of the prostrate King - - Spruce. - - - And thus in the clamor of pulley and wheel, - - In the plaint of the wood and the slash of the - - steel, - - Is wrought the undoing of Maine’s sturdy lords, - - --The martyrs the woodlands yield up to our - - swords. - - The song is the knell of these strong that are - - slain, - - The monarchs that people the woodlands of - - Maine. - - And the Fury that whirls in the din of this - - war, - - With rioting teeth and insatiable maw, is the - - saw! - - And this is the song of the saw. - - - - -DOWN THE TRAIL WITH GUM PACKS - - - - Ev’ry nugget clean and sound, - - Red’s a jewel, smooth and round, - - Worth a dollar’n ten a pound; - - Here’s your gum, ye giddy girls, - - Here’s your Maine spruce gum. - - The chaps that went off with the Klondike - - diggers - - For gold--jest gold, - - Have slumped in the snow, and they work like - - niggers, - - And they haven’t got rich, we’re told. - - We’re snowshoeing down from the north of - - Katahdin, - - See here! Yum, yum! - - Here’s a tole to tease Maud to come into the - - garden - - --These rich, rosy lumps o’ spruce gum. - - Our fires are dowsed in the lonesome old camps, - - We’ve left them to wolves and the foxes and - - damps. - - The trail of our snowshoes lies snakin’ behind, - - For we’re clawing for home with the treasures - - we’ve mined. - - We’ve no sort of use for the pick and the sluice; - - Our Klondike has been the straight trunks of - - the spruce. - - Let them that elect grub the dirt for a “gleam,” - - Our ore is the gum and our lode is the seam - - That doesn’t go sneaking in mire and clay, - - But grins at the sun and drinks deep of broad day. - - - Go grope for your gold in the bowels of mud! - - We’ll cleave our fresh nuggets of resinous blood - - Forced out from the heart through the fibre and - - vein - - Of the giants who lurk in the woodlands of - - Maine. - - - Just squint through this bubble and gaze at the - - blaze: - - That red is the fire of hot summer days; - - That glimmer is autumn; that glow is the tint - - That was lent by some campfire’s guttering glint. - - And here is a globe like the eye of a cat, - - And this one is amber like honey; and that - - Is a tear rosy red with the anger and shame - - Of a king glooming down as the axe-heavers - - came; - - --Staring down as around him his kin roared - - to earth - - Midst the oaths of the swampers and Labor’s - - rude mirth. - - That tear of the spruce, may it go to the pearls - - Flashing bright ’neath the lips of some sweetest - - of girls! - - These, then, are the treasures we bring in our - - packs, - - --Each round, rosy globule as sweet as the - - smacks - - We’ll get from the kids when they swoop with - - a roar - - At dad just the second he opens the door. - - Clear out your old scraps, Mr. Druggist: we - - come - - With a good hefty jag of the season’s new gum. - - Ey’ry nugget clear and sound, - - Red’s a jewel, smooth and round, - - Worth a dollar’n ten a pound. - - Here’s your gum, ye giddy girls, - - Here’s your Maine spruce gum. - - - - -REAR O’ THE DRIVE - - - - The rain has raised the river an’ she’s np to - - driving pitch, - - An’ it’s oh, an’ grab your peavies an’ go sloppin’ - - in the wet. - - We’ve got ter send ’er whoopin’ now without a - - ketch or hitch, - - But it won’t be kid-glove bus’ness, oh, my - - hearties, you can bet. - - Empty the water out of your boots - - And gaffle your peavies, you P.I. galoots. - - There’s the rips at Rundy’s Corner, and the - - sluice at Puzzle Gorge; - - You can drive ’em and connive ’em, but the - - timber’s bound to lodge. - - An’ sticks will buck--with best of luck--as - - offish-like as hogs, - - For there ain’t no calkerlatin’ how you’ll run a - - drive o’ logs. - - - Chase the heathen with a sword, - - Run the cattle with a goad, - - All we want’s our Oldtown peavies, when our - - drives go overboard. - - An’ we’ll foller, sloshin’ in, - - Yes, we’ll waller to the chin, - - An’ we’ll herd ’em through the wildest stream - - that ever frothed and roared. - - So, look alive, - - It’s after five, - - An’ the drouth is a-chasin’ the rear o’ the drive. - - Foller down, foller down with your peavies on - - your backs, - - For the herd that runs ahead of us goes loafin’ - - ’less it’s chased. - - They know they’re off to market, an’ they dread - - the saw an’ axe, - - An’ you’ve got to go and welt ’em, though the - - water’s to your waist, - - For they balk on Depsconneagon when a sixty- - - footer halts; - - Ev’ry eddy stands a-ready for to swing ’em in a - - waltz. - - An’ ev’ry rock is chock-a-block with jack-strawed - - pine an’ spruce, - - Ontil you’ve got the devil’s job to try and turn - - ’em loose. - - - But our goadstick is the peavy, an’ our cant-dog - - is the pup - - That’ll worry ’em an’ hurry ’em an’ rush ’em, - - chase ’em up. - - Oh, the drouth is right behind us, but we’ve - - passed the North Twin flume, - - An’ we’ll beat the sun in heaven in the race for - - Pea Cove boom. - - - - -MATIN SONG OF PETE LONG’S COOK - - - - It’s dark in the camp, and the woods outside - - Are dark, dark, too! - - And a hundred men still open wide - - Their loud bay-zoo. - - It’s sort of mean to rout ’em jus’ - - To work once more; - - I’d like to let each tired cuss - - Jus’ lay and snore. - - But I’ve been up for an hour or two - - And grub’s all on; - - And now as the cook of Pete Long’s crew - - I toot my horn. - - - The weirdest of all wood-sounds, by the way, - - Is a cook’s queer cadence at break of day: - - Whoo-e-e-e! - - Git UP! - - The grub is on the table, boys, the coffee’s on - - the bile: - - The swagon’s hotter’n Tophet and I swear ’twill - - make you smile. - - There’s whiskers on the gingerbread, the biskit - - can’t be beat; - - I’ve got molasses sinkers made from mother’s - - old receipt. - - --Oh, I’ve got molasses sinkers built around - - some extra holes; - - They’ll make you think of home and friends and - - tickle up your souls. - - The beans come out a-roarin’ when I boosted - - up the lid; - - They chuckled when I pried ’em out--they - - laughed, I swear they did. - - Don’t jolly me about your smells of Araby the - - blest, - - --Jus’ take a snuff of ground-baked beans all - - hot from out their nest. - - - The grub is on the table, boys, hurroop, hurroop, - - whoo-e-e-e! - - Come, tumble out, git on a move! Good Lord, - - it’s after three! - - Rise up and shine, my gentle lambs, surround - - your breakfast quick, - - Or else you’ll git the sun’s ha-ha from over - - Tumble Dick. - - And if the timer heaves a growl and docks you - - in his book, - - Jus’ blame your own durn lazy luck--don’t - - lay it on the cook. - - For ev’ry man who’s et my cream-of-tartar bis- - - kit knows - - The cook of this ’ere camp, by smut, ’s the - - earliest bird that crows. - - For I’m old enough to spell a-a-a-ble! - - The grub is all on the ta-a-a-ble! - - Whoo-e-e-e! - - Git UP! - - - - -OFF FOR THE LUMBER WOODS - - - - The duffle is packed, and the babies are smacked, - - and the wife has a buss and a hug; - - And she’s done it up brown in a-loading me - - down with about all the grub I can lug, - - So long! Good-by! - - I’m off! Don’t cry! - - --Just about a month of Sundays and you’ll - - see my homely mug. - - - Now look ye, ye towzled-haired son of a gun, - - Be good to your mother or you’ll see some - - fun - - When your daddy comes down on the drive in - - the spring - - And fetches a withe with a hornetty sting. - - Ha! ha! you young rascal, you’d rather have - - gum? - - Well, be a good baby and pa’ll fetch you some. - - - Yes, mother, you’re right, it does seem kinder - - wrong - - To leave you alone here the whole winter - - long. - - And it’s tough that I have to pack dunnage and - - break - - For the big timber wrassle at Chamberlain lake. - - But folks are a-waiting for lumber and boards, - - They’ve picked up their saws, now they’ve laid - - down their swords. - - They’re wanting the timbers for new city domes, - - They’re wanting the shingles for humble new - - homes. - - The hammers are waiting, the nails are on end, - - And the chorus of clatter’ll commence when we - - send - - A billion of lumber down race-way and sluice, - - From the lonesome dominions of gloomy King - - Spruce. - - The men who print papers are wanting fresh - - sheets, - - The folks who build ships will be launching new - - fleets, - - For, mark me, no matter what Uncle Sam - - planned, - - He finds he can’t reach his new back lots by - - land. - - Don’t smile at me, wife, but I feel when I swing - - That sweaty old axe from the fall to the spring, - - That I hear one grim cry swimming up on the air - - Through the dim, silent forest,--a pleading - - prayer. - - - The clank of the press, and the scream of the - - saws. - - The grunt of the grinder that slavers and chaws - - At the fibre of pulp wood; the purr of the plane - - Are blent in one chorus, attuned to one strain, - - --That sighs in the breezes or throbs in the roar - - Of the tempest; and ever the cry is for “More.’’ - - And we men with our axes and horn-covered - - palms - - Hear the call as a man hears the summons “To - - arms,” - - And forward we plunge with no quarter, no - - truce, - - With axes a-gleam in the realms of King Spruce. - - - The duffle is packed, and the babies are smacked; - - now wife, for a buss and a hug. - - Save a smile ’gainst the spring, for I’m going to - - bring just all the spruce gum I can lug. - - I’m off! Good-bye! - - So long! Don’t cry! - - In about a month of Sundays you will see my - - homely mug. - - - - -HERE’S TO THE STOUT ASH POLE - - - - Hooray for to-day, and hooray for to-night, and - - forget all the rest of it, boys. - - Hold on, Mister Barkeeper, close up your jaw, - - we’re paying for all of this noise. - - We won’t mosey out, and we won’t set down, - - and you can’t keep a one of us still; - - You can charge, if you want to, so much for a - - yawp; we’ll settle all right in the bill. - - For this is our very last evenin’ on earth; the - - last night we’ll be here alive. - - To-morrow at six we all cut sticks for the rear of - - the West Branch drive. - - Hooray! - - For Seboomook, and rear of the drive. - - - Oh, bartender, say, can’t you hustle them up? - - Come, push out your reddest of paint, - - We’re here for to splatter the carnation on, now - - blow us for fools if we ain’t! - - So set out your varnish for coffins, my boy,-- - - that brand called the “Grave-diggers’ Boast.” - - - I’ve got enough chink--now down with your - - drink! and I’ll give ye a riverman’s toast. - - While you’re raising up your glasses, - - Jest forget the giddy lasses - - That have coaxed away your dollars, and have - - given you the laugh. - - Turn away from them connivers, - - And as honest, hearty drivers - - Drink a good, round jorum to the stout ash staff. - - When the girls have filched your cash, - - There is still the hearty ash, - - It is waiting at Seboomook for to cheer your - - foolish soul. - - Ah, you know we love it most; and I give - - you this, my toast, - - The river driver’s darling, oh, his long ash pole. - - - We’ve ridden the gorges on rioting logs, and - - we’ve always swept safe to the land. - - So long as we rode with the spikes in our boots, - - and the long, limber pole in our hand; - - We’ve pried at the jams on the brink of the - - dams, and the pole has stood by like a man, - - And then in the dash for our lives in the crash - - the pole braced us up as we ran, - - Hooray! - - As we yelled through the smother and ran. - - - And when in the bellow of up-ending logs it - - looked like good-by to our souls - - We rode back to life from out of the strife, - - vaulting high on the end of our poles. - - Ah, these are the friends that stand by you, my - - boys: they’re truer than all of the host - - Of the fair-spoken gang of the thieves of the - - town! Crowd up here and drink to my toast! - - The girls were sweeter’n honey - - Till they gathered in our money, - - And the barkeeps they were pleasant just as - - long as we could spend. - - Now it’s quite another story, - - --Case of throwdown! But, by glory, - - We can drink this final jorum to our stout old - - friend. - - Though the gang has swiped our cash, there is - - still the hearty ash, - - He is waiting at Seboomook for to cheer your - - foolish soul. - - After all, we love him most! and he’s still the - - last, loud toast - - --The driver’s honest helper, oh, the long ash - - pole. - - - - -MISTER WHAT’S-HIS-NAME OF SEBOOMOOK - - - - Have you ever heard Seboomook with her April - - dander up, - - With the amber rushing river gorged to high- - - est drivin’ pitch? - - Have you heard her boom and bellow--rocky - - lips a-froth with yellow-- - - When she spews and spumes the torrents-- - - oh, the wild and wicked witch? - - She has menace in her breath, - - And she roars the chant of death, - - For the victim that she slavers never sees - - the sun again. - - And she clutches at the river, - - With entreaty that it give her - - The morsels for her longing, which are men-- - - men--men! - - Here’s a tale to suit the cynic--’tis a satire from - - the woods, - - And concerns a certain hero who was hunt- - - ing after Fame; - - ’Tis the grim and truthful story of a mighty - - reach for glory, - - But, alas, he didn’t get it, for we’ve clean - - forgot his name! - - - He was one of Murphy’s crew, - - And he swore that he’d go through - - Where no other West Branch driver ever saved - - the shirt he wore: - - For he vowed he’d shoot the gorge - - And allowed that he could dodge - - The Death that knelt a-clutching at the prey - - the waters bore. - - - When they said he couldn’t do it, why, he - - laughed the crowd to scorn, - - --Poled across the dimpling shallows with - - a fierce and hoarse good-by - - --He was Murphy’s top-notch driver, half a bird - - and one-half diver, - - But the best who brave Seboomook only - - sound the depths to die. - - - And they found him miles below; - - But his mother would not know - - The mangled mass Seboomook belched from out - - her vap’rous throat. - - The first man coming down - - Brought the story out to town, - - Referring to the hero as a “dretful reckless - - goat.” - - - Then he told the brisk reporters all the grim and - - grisly tale, - - And the deed was dressed in language in a - - way to bring some fame. - - But alas for human glory, the galoot who brought - - the story, - - Remembered all the details, but forgot the - - fellow’s name. - - - Have you ever heard Seboomook roaring at you - - in the night, - - With her champing jaws a-frothing in a word- - - less howl of hate? - - ’Tis a fierce vociferation to compel our admira- - - tion, - - For the chap who struck that rugged blow, - - cross-countered thus by Fate. - - - When he lunged his pole at Death, - - When the river sucked his breath, - - Seboomook gravely listened when he screamed - - his humble name; - - For the honor of a foe - - She would have the people know, - - But she vainly dins her message in the deafened - - ear of Fame. - - - - -HA’NTS OF THE KINGDOM OF SPRUCE - - - - The sheeted ghosts of moated grange - - And misty wraiths are passing strange; - - The gibbering spooks and elfin freaks - - And cackling witches’ maudlin squeaks-- - - --They have terrified the nations, and have laid - - the bravest low, - - But intimidate a woodsman up in Maine? Why, - - bless you, no! - - Merely misty apparitions or some sad ancestral - - spook - - Serve to terrify a maiden or to warn a death- - - marked duke. - - But the P. I. scoffs their terrors, though he’ll - - never venture loose - - ’Mongst the ha’nts that roam the woodlands in - - the weird domains of Spruce. - - --He’ll mock the fears of mystic and he’ll scorn - - the bookish tales - - Of the fearsome apparitions of the past, but - - courage fails - - In the night when he awakens, all a-shiver in - - his bunk, - - And with ear against the logging hears the - - steady, muffled thunk - - Of the hairy fists of monsters, beating there in - - grisly play, - - --Horrid things that stroll o’ night-times, never, - - never seen by day, - - For he knows that though the spectres of the - - storied past are vain, - - There is true and ghostly ravage in the forest - - depths of Maine. - - For even in these days P. I.’s shake - - At the great Swamp Swogon of Brassua Lake. - - When it blitters and glabbers the long night - - through, - - And shrieks for the souls of the shivering crew. - - And all of us know of the witherlick - - That prowls by the shore of the Cup-sup-tic. - - Of the Side Hill Ranger whose eyeballs gleam - - When the moon hangs gibbous over Abol - - stream; - - --Of the Dolorous Demon that moans and calls - - Through the mists of Abol-negassis falls. - - And many a woodsman has felt his bunk - - Tossed by the Phantom of Sourdna-hunk. - - There’s the Giant Spook who ha’nted Lane’s - - Old wangan camp and rended chains - - --Great iron links of the snubbing cable-- - - As though they were straw--who was even - - able - - To twist the links in a mighty mat - - With which he bent the forest flat - - From Nahma-kanta to Depsiconneag - - --Acres and acres--league after league; - - Striding abroad from peak to dale - - And laying on with his mighty flail. - - - Oh, fie for the shade of the manored hall, - - A fig for a Thing in a grave-creased pall, - - --For wraiths that flitter and flutter and sigh, - - With flabby limbs and the sunken eye! - - The woodsman recks not ye, frail ghosts, - - But he knows and he bows to the deep wood’s - - hosts, - - Who sound their coming with giant breath, - - Who mark their passing with storm and death, - - Who shriek through blow-downs and howl o ’er - - lakes, - - --And he hides and trembles, he shivers and - - shakes - - When he hears the Desperate Demons loose - - In the weird dominions of grim King Spruce. - - - - -THE HERO OF THE COONSKIN CAP - - - - When the blaze leaps forth from the camp’s - - great hearth, - - And the fitful shadows come and go; - - When the ruddy beam lights the deacon-seat - - And the silent faces in a row; - - As the storm-gust drags at the sighing eaves - - And moans at the shuddering window-pane, - - Some droning voice from a shadowy bank - - Intones a song to the wind’s long strain, - - And like the soughing, ebbing blast - - The gusty chorus bursts and swells; - - And then one single, sighing voice - - Drones plaintively the tale it tells. - - They’re simple songs, they’re homely songs, - - And yet they cling in heart and brain,---- - - Those songs of the darkling forest depths, - - These songs of the lumber woods of Maine. - - - There’s the song of home and the song of love, - - And the lilt of battle, bold and free; - - There’s the song of the axe in the ringing wood, - - And the sighing song of the distant sea. - - Yet oft when the choruses are stilled - - Some honest woodsman’s voice can wake - - A tender thrill with the homely song - - Of a nameless hero of Moosehead Lake. - - - - -UP IN MAINE - - - - A hero in leggings, he volunteered - - --When the treacherous ice lay black as loam - - In the melting spring--to risk his life - - And bring to others the news from home. - - He bore the mail for the lumber camp, - - The missives for many an anxious man - - Who toiled for the ones he loved so well, - - In the wilds of the far Socatean. - - He’d fingered each as he studied the names - - And sorted the letters with kindly care; - - While with honest heart of a friend he guessed - - At the news that the precious notes might - - hear. - - - There was one for Kane, and the last had said - - That his little girl was sorely ill-- - - Poor man, he had worried the whole long week! - - --And here was one for the Bluenose-Will, - - Who had left a sweetheart to come to Maine, - - And had looked for a line in a homesick way; - - And here were a couple from Henry’s wife, - - --And one bore “Forward without delay!” - - - A tiny message to “Pa John Booth” - - Had a cross to show where a rousing smack - - Had been pressed on the paper; and here, alas, - - Was a letter fringed with a sombre black. - - Freighted with sorrow or bringing the smiles, - - Fresh from the homes so far away, - - He tucked them all in his coon-skin cap - - And breasted the sleet of the dreary day. - - No one knew how it came about, - - No man witnessed the fight for breath, - - When the cruel clutch of the great black lake - - Reached up and dragged him down to death. - - But we always knew that his fiercest strength - - Was spent in the supreme flash of life - - When he, poor wanderer, thought alone - - Of the news for others from home and wife. - - For, as far on the edge of the broken ice - - As his arm could reach, when he sank and - - died, - - We found the worn old coon-skin cap - - With the letters carefully tucked inside. - - - - -A HAIL TO THE HUNTER - - - - Oh, we’re getting under cover, for the “sport” is - - on the way, - - --Pockets bulge with ammunition, and he’s - - coming down to slay; - - All his cartridges are loaded and his trigger’s on - - the “half,” - - And he’ll bore the thing that rustles, from a - - deer to Jersey calf. - - He will shoot the foaming rapids, and he’ll shoot - - the yearling bull. - - And the farmer in the bushes--why, he’ll fairly - - get pumped full. - - For the gunner is in earnest, he is coming down - - to kill, - - --Shoot you first and then inquire if he hurt - - you--yes, he will! - - For the average city feller he has big game on - - the brain, - - And imagines in October there is nothing else in - - Maine! - - Therefore some absorbed old farmer cutting corn - - or pulling beans - - Gets most mightily astonished with a bullet in - - his jeans. - - So, O neighbor, scoot for cover or get out your - - armor plate, - - --Johnnie’s got his little rifle and is swooping - - on the State. - - Oh, we’re learning, yes, we’re learning, and I’ll - - warn you now, my son, - - If you really mean to bore us you must bring a - - bigger gun. - - For the farmers have decided they will take no - - further chance, - - And progressive country merchants carry armor- - - plated pants; - - --Carry shirts of chain-plate metal, lines of coats - - all bullet-proof, - - And the helmets they are selling beat a Knight - - of Malta’s “roof.” - - So I reckon that the farmers can proceed to get - - their crops, - - Yes, and chuckle while the bullet raps their - - trouser seats and stops; - - And the hissing double-B shot as they criss-cross - - over Maine - - Will excite no more attention than the patter of - - the rain. - - And the calf will fly a signal and the Jersey - - bull a sign, - - And the horse a painted banner, reading “Hoss-, - - Don’t Shoot; He’s Mine!” - - And every fowl who wanders from the safety of - - the pen - - Will be taught to cackle shrilly, u Please don’t - - plug me; I’m a hen.” - - - Now with all these due precautions we are ready - - for the gang, - - We’ll endure the harmless tumult of the rifles’ - - crack and bang, - - For we’re glad to have you with us--shoot the - - landscape full of holes; - - We will back our brand-new armor for to save - - our precious souls. - - O you feller in the city, those ’ere woods is full - - of fun, - - We’ve got on our iron trousers--so come up - - and bring your gun! - - - - -HOSSES - - - - -THEM OLD RAZOOS AT TOPSHAM TRACK - - - - Won’t you poke your buzzin’ stop-watch, - - Daddy Time, and click ’er back - - To the days of spider high-wheels on the - - dinky Topsham track? - - When they raced there in October for per- - - taters, corn, and oats-- - - Sometimes paid the purse in shotes-- - - Drivers wore their buff’ler coats, - - And the weather was so juicy that the boys - - would take a vote - - As to which would drag the better, suh, a sulky - - or a boat. - - Still ’twas fun, when the sun - - Got the moppin’ bus’ness done, - - And the field went off a-skatin’, half the pelters - - on the run. - - There was’Liza, Old Keturah Ann, and Dough- - - nut Boy and Pat, - - Their pedigrees was barnyard, but we didn’t - - care for that; - - So hooray! So hooroo! Oh, ye ought to see - - ’em climb, - - They was racers, suh, from ’way back--but no - - matter ’bout the time! - - There was goers in that pack-- - - Look at Toggle-jointed Jack - - With an action like a windmill, but the critter - - he could rack! - - And I’d like to have him back, - - For I tell you, bub, I stack - - On the high-wheel, razoo-races of the good old - - Topsham track. - - - Oh, you oughter seen the send-offs, and you - - oughter seen the tricks! - - For the stretch was chock-a-blocko when they - - scored ’em down by six. - - And the starter he would whang-o on a dented - - strip of tin, - - But the drivers never minded ’less he cussed the - - gang like sin. - - The hoss-whips that they carried reached away - - beyond the manes, - - And they larruped ’em with chains-- - - Tried to lift ’em by the reins. - - ’Twas muscle, suh, that won the race in them - - old days--not brains! - - And you’d think to see the sawin’ and the - - jerkin’ and the h’ists, - - The boys they was a-usin’ partent webbin’s - - made of j’ists. - - Their elbows flapped like flyin’ and they yow- - - wowed through the dust, - - And ’twarn’t through lack of hollerin’ that ev’ry - - man warn’t fust. - - ’Twas “Hi-i yah, cut the corners!” and “Hi-i - - yoop, take the pole!” - - - “Don’t ye keep me in this pocket--let me ont - - there, darn yer soul!” - - “Gimme room there! don’t ye pinch me or I’ll - - bust yer blasted wheel!” - - “Hi, you sucker, that’s a steal!” - - “That’s a low-down trick, to squeal!” - - “Oh, ye want some trouble, do ye? Wal, con- - - sarn yer harslet, peel!” - - It was tetchy, mister, tetchy, to go sassin’ on ’em - - back, - - When the crowd got interested at the good old - - Topsham track. - - - There was Savage--Solly Savage--drivin’ - - Adeline Success-- - - He had speed to sell at auction, but they bribed - - the cuss, I guess-- - - For he pulled her tight and good-- - - Pulled her settin’--then he stood. - - Jest got up and braced his feet, suh, and he - - pulled her all he could. - - But the blamed old mare was fussy, wasn’t - - posted on the deal, - - H’isted up her skeeter-duster and let out one - - mighty squeal. - - She was leadin’ of ’em easy on the back stretch - - at the turn, - - And there wasn’t no mistakin’ that the race and - - heat were her’n. - - Ginger, ginger! She could go! - - When she didn’t stub her toe, - - Warn’t a horse in all the county stood a show - - suh, stood a show! - - Sol was madder’n snakes in hayin’--had a string - - of catnip fits, - - Just unfastened both the traces and she hauled - - him by the bits. - - And that rank old Adeline - - She come snortin’ ’crost the line - - Least a dozen lengths a leader, and they soaked - - old Sol a fine. - - Then the feller that had bribed him played tat- - - too on Solly’s face, - - And took back the dollar-fifty that he’d give him - - for the race; - - But the boys they licked the feller. Solly got - - his money back, - - For we stood for honest dealing at the good old - - Topsham track. - - - Now come join me, all old timers,--hip, hooray - - and tiger, too! - - For the high-wheel days at Topsham and the - - good old-time razoo-- - - For the days of spider sulkies and the days of - - solid fun, - - When we had a dozen knock-downs ’fore the - - race could be begun; - - When ’twas a Huddup, Uncle Eli,” and “H” - - along there, John, or bust;” - - And the man that finished fust, - - Though he argued and he cussed, - - Might not always get decisions--’twas accordin’ - - to the dust; - - And ’twas therefore kind of needful, suh, right - - after ev’ry heat, - - To have another fight or so to settle who had - - beat; - - But they never left a grudge, - - Even when they licked the judge. - - And we wasn’t all teetotal, still we went it light - - on “budge,” - - For we never took no stronger than some good - - New England rum-- - - Jest a mild and pleasant bev’rage--why, the - - deacons they took some! - - Then there wasn’t pedigrees, - - And no chin-kerbumping knees,1 - - And an av’rage field would manage jest to keep - - ahead the breeze. - - - But come join me, ye old-timers, in this pledge - - and one hurrah, - - For the spanking, wide-hoofed pelters of the old - - days of “Hi yah-h-h,” - - For a feller kinder feels - - That he’d go without his meals - - Jest to hear some more kiwhoopin’ from the old- - - time trottin’ spiels. - - When the wind was in the drivers--nowadays it’s - - in the wheels. - - When the tang was in the weather on those - - autumn afternoons, - - And the band got kind of dreamy in those good - - old-fashioned tunes. - - Oh, ’twas awful good to set there on the sunny - - side the stand, - - And to have your girl a-smilin’ and a-snugglin’, - - hand in hand; - - And to hear her, when you mentioned getting - - started pretty soon, - - Whisper, blushin’, “What’s the hurry? There - - will be a lovely moon!” - - Ah, there’s moisture on my eyelids and my voice - - is gettin’ hoarse. - - But ’tis prob’ly jest the mem’ry of the dust of - - that old course. - - Oh, Daddy Time, if somehow you could only - - click your watch - - And let a feller start again a race he’s made a - - botch, - - I wouldn’t ask no better place to start my life - - anew. - - - Than on that stand that afternoon beside that - - girl I knew, - - With my arm behind her back, - - And a hidden, bashful smack - - To sweeten all the popcorn balls we munched - - at Topsham track. - -[Illustration: 0205] - - - - -TO HIM WHO DRIV THE STAGE - - - - Here’s a lyric for the man who’s “druv’ the - - stage,” - - For the hero of the webbin’s and the whip; - - Who has faced the wind and weather, fingers - - calloused by the leather, - - And in twenty years has never lost a trip. - - - Here’s a tribute to the sway-back, spotted hoss, - - Who has struggled up the stony, gullied hills; - - And his dorsal corrugations show the nature of - - his rations, - - --When he stops, he has to lean against the - - thills. - - - Here’s obituary notice of the stage, - - Chief of hopeless and dilapidated wrecks; - - With the cracked enamel awning, and its cush- - - ions ripped and yawning, - - And the body bumping down upon the “ex.” - - - Here’s alas and oh, the ancient “buff’ler robe,” - - With the baldness of a golden-wedding - - groom; - - When the rain and snow descended, then some - - wondrous smells were blended, - - Till the stage was scented very like a tomb. - - - Here’s a word for all the weary miles he - - ploughed, - - When the drifts had piled the stage-road - - mountain high, - - When the night shut down around him and the - - north wind sought and found him, - - And the tempest chilled his blood and blurred - - his eye. - - - There were only country letters in the bags, - - And the bags were lank, and yet his word was - - “Must.” - - And he felt as if the nation knew his fierce - - determination - - That he’d have the mail sacks through on time - - or bust. - - - Here’s rebuke to those contractors who have - - skinned - - The stipends of our Uncle Sam’s star routes, - - Till the men who drive the stages hardly get - - enough in wages - - To keep their little shavers’ feet in boots. - - - Here’s a lyric, then, for him who drives the stage; - - When you ride behind his ragged back, don’t - - frown, - - But endure the bang and slamming, for the - - man who’s earned the damning - - Is the contract-sharp who bid the wages down. - - - - -HE BACKED A BLAMED OLD HORSE - - - - The neighbors came a-nosing ’round and said the - - horse could trot - - --He oughter up and killed him then, right - - there upon the spot; - - - A-killed him, yas, and tanned his hide and made - - it into boots, - - Then worn ’em out a-kicking’round them neigh- - - borly galoots - - Who set the bee to buzzing under Ezry Booker’s - - hat, - - And filled him up and chucked him full of non- - - sense such as that - - He’d got a hoss ’twas bound to make his ever- - - lasting pile, - - And what he got to do, of course, was handle - - him in style; - - That he must bandage up his legs and figger on - - his feed, - - And give him reg’lar exercise and work him out - - for speed., - - His knees, his neck, his breast, his thighs, the - - way he lugged his head, - - And all his other symptoms looked to “speed,” - - the neighbors said. - - So Ezry he just sucked it in, as child-like as - - could be, - - --It cost him thirteen dollars to look np the - - pedigree. - - Then one day down to Laneses store he ribbled - - off a mess - - Of names that struck your Uncle Dud as so much - - foolishness. - - - “I’ve traced him back,” so Ezry said, “to Mor- - - gan blood ’nd Drew,” - - To what’s-his-name and this and that, and which - - and t’other, too. - - And Ezry banged the counter, just excited as - - could be, - - A-arguing out the knots and kinks in that there - - pedigree. - - Land sakes! He couldn’t seem to think of - - nothing but that plug: - - --Neglected work, let slide his farm, went crazy - - as a bug. - - But there! The neighbors stood around and - - said to go ahead, - - And Ezra like a blamed old fool just swallowed - - all they said. - - Ef they’d turned to and burned his barn ’twould - - been a prison crime, - - But ’twould have been a better thing for Ezry - - ev’ry time. - - He could have got insurance then, but ’twas a - - total loss - - When they torched Ezry up to back - - A Blamed - - Old - - Hoss! - - - Of course he had to put that horse in some good - - trainer’s hands, - - And trainers, as the man who’s tried deereckly - - understands, - - Ain’t driving just to take the air, for scenery or - - for health, - - But sort of grab a feller’s leg and milk him for - - his wealth. - - And there were blankets, straps, and girths, and - - bandages and boots; - - Pnoomatic sulkies, pads, and shoes, and hoods - - and stable suits; - - And lotions, too, and liniments--the best of - - hay and oats, - - And Lord knows what of this and that for trot- - - ters’ backs and throats! - - Then came the entrance fees, of course, and - - travelling expense, - - For Ezry lugged that trotter round, and didn’t - - have the sense - - To know when he was fairly licked, but always - - would persist - - That “that air hoss another year is going in the - - list!” - - - The trainer said he’d have him there; the neigh- - - bors thought so, too; - - So Ezry pulled his pocketbook and said he’d see - - him through. - - So ’round the circuit went the hoss and, though - - ’tis sad to tell, - - “The Flying Dutchman” didn’t fly--he never - - got a smell. - - And when he’d come a-puffing in behind the - - whole blamed crowd - - Then Ezry swore and shook his fist, and argued - - ’round, and vowed - - That all the rest was down on him and had, - - without a doubt, - - Just pooled together in a scheme to shut The - - Dutchman out. - - The driver said so, anyway, and then, you know, - - a few - - Good neighbors took him out one side and said - - they thought so too. - - And so--but land, it’s plain enough how Ezry’s - - money went - - --He wound up his race-hoss career without a - - blasted cent. - - What’s more, he ain’t the only one who’s sunk - - his little pot - - In fubbing ’round from track to track with - - horses that can’t trot. - - --He ain’t the only man in Maine whose ever- - - lasting curse - - Has been some darn-fool neighbors, and his itch - - to win a purse. - - And, as I’ve said, if they’d turned to, and burnt - - his barn instead - - Of cracking up that hoss so much and turning - - Ezry’s head, - - He could have got insurance then, but ’twas a - - total loss - - When they torched Ezry up to back - - A Blamed - - Old - - Hoss! - - - - -B. BROWN--HOSS ORATOR - - - - I’ve heerd of Demosthenes--b’longed down in - - Greece, - - --And Cicero, too! - - But ’course, never knew - - A great deal about ’em except through my niece, - - Who’s tended the ’cademy,--lets on to know - - ’Bout most of the critters who lived years ago, - - --Who’d talk to a standstill the chaps of their - - day - - With a broadside of words like a gatling, they - - say. - - And folks knuckle down, and praise up, and - - kow-tow - - To those hefty old tongue-lashing chaps even - - now. - - So I’m ready for brickbats, and hollers, and howls, - - From the folks of the schools, and from hide- - - bound old owls, - - When I shin the high flag-staff of Fame to tear - - down - - All colors that flop there for rival renown, - - And string up the banner of Bennington Brown. - - - Don’t think I’ll assert - - What he knew ever hurt! - - He was mostly considered an ornery squirt. - - - He traded old hosses, and cattle, and such, - - And the sayin’ ’round town was: “Oh, Brown, - - he ain’t much!” - - But I read t’other day, in a volyum called - - “Hints,” - - That a speaker is gauged by his gifts to convince. - - So I stand on that statement and solemnly swear - - That as a star-actor convincer, I’d dare. - - Back Bennington Brown up against the best - - man - - That ever tongue wrassled, grab holts, catch as - - can. - - Give Cicero Pointer, Directum, or Hanks, - - And Brown an old pelter with wobbly shanks, - - --Just leave ’em an hour, no odds, a clear field, - - No matter how Cicero sputtered and spieled, - - I’ll bet he would find himself talked to a stop, - - And Brown would unload the old rip, even swap! - - - I can see how he’d look - - When he carefully took - - Old Cic by the gallus with “come-along” hook - - Of that gnurly forefinger. And there Cic would - - stand, - - For he wouldn’t be yankin’ away from that hand, - - Unless in his desperate efforts to skip - - Cic dodged from his toga, and gave Brown the - - slip. - - - And it’s likely that Brown would talk something - - like this: - - I ain’t at all anxious to shift with you, Cic. - - Your hoss, I’ll admit, has got plenty of speed, - - But you know, Cic, you know that he ain’t what - - you need. - - Outside of a show piece to stand in the barn, - - That hoss he ain’t worth, Cic, a tinker’s gol- - - darn. - - What you want is that hoss of mine--want him - - blame bad, - - He don’t need no whip, crackers, cudgel, or gad. - - ’Thout strap, boot, or toeweights, he’s gone out - - and showed - - His quarters in thirty. He stands lots of road, - - And I swow I dunno what I’m sellin’ him for, - - --I need him myself. But I’ll sell! Have a - - chaw? - - And as I was sayin’, he’s just what you want;-- - - Oh, yes, have to own he’s a leetle dite gaunt! - - Been a-drivin’ him hard, for he’ll stand lots of - - work, - - Never had a sick day, never shows the least - - quirk. - - He’s young: look yourself; jest you roll up his - - lip; - - By the way, ever smile? I’ve some stuff on my - - hip. - - Now as I was sayin’”--and on, and so on, - - Till Cicero’d put his suspenders in pawn, - - Hand oyer his steed for a wind-broken brute, - - And sling in some golden sestertia to boot. - - - I tell you again, - - That of all of the men - - Who can slat the King’s English, I swear by - - old Ben! - - And you’ll never appreciate half of my praise - - Till you’ve stood there yourself in the beller - - and blaze - - Of his thirteen-inch barker, and fust thing you - - know - - Discover you’ve bought an old bone yard or so, - - I hardly expect, O ye hurrying throng, - - Ye’ll bow to my hero, applaud my rude song, - - But sling, if ye will, all your bouquets and praise - - At the cut-and-dried speakers of pod-auger days, - - I’ll go by myself and I’ll tenderly crown - - With bay the bald brows of old Bennington; - - Brown. - - - - -“JEST A LIFT” - - - Feller was far as the foot of the hill in one of - - those boggy places, - - Had a first-class team, - - As strong as a beam, - - But the feller had busted his traces; - - And the feller gave up when he saw he was - - stuck. - - He borrowed a chaw and consarned his luck, - - --Admitted he didn’t know what to do; - - Sat down on a bank and looked so blue - - He worried the people that passed, and they - - Just turned their noses the other way. - - Old Ammi Simmons muttered that he - - Was a dite afraid of his whiffle-tree; - - It was slivered some, “and there warn’t much - - doubt - - ’Twould bust if he pulled that feller out.” - - And Ira Dorsey, regretful and smug, - - Would have helped had he brought his heavier - - tug, - - So he simply beamed a bright “good day” - - And clucked to his team and rode away. - - So thus they passed for an hour or two; - - Many not noticing, while a few - - Assured him they’d like to help him out - - “If the rigging they had was only stout.” - - - Feller had thought he was up a stump, when - - along drove Ivory Keller; - - Saw the sunken hub, - - Yelled, “What’s the troub? - - Don’t ye want a lift there, feller?” - - And the feller said that he did, you bet, - - But said he had begged while he’d set and set, - - And he hadn’t discovered a single man - - Who’d give him a boost with an extra span. - - “Why,” Ivory said, “that’s jest my holt. - - That off hoss there ain’t more’n a colt, - - And it’s hardly an extry pulling pair, - - But it’s youm for what it’s worth, I swear. - - For I’ve got a home-made sort of a rule - - --Won’t kick a cripple nor sass a fool, - - And when I find that a feller’s stuck - - --A side-tracked chap down on his luck-- - - Why, bless you, neighbor, in jest about - - Two shakes of a sheep’s tail I yank him out.” - - And the very next thing that the feller knew - - Old Ivory busted a chain or two, - - But the horse and the colt and the gay old man - - Bent to the job till the clogged wheels ran, - - --Tugged and buckled with hearty will - - Till the cart rolled over the tough old hill. - - Then the feller begged him to take some pay, - - But the old man chuckled and shoved him - - away; - - “Why, bub, see here,” said Ivory Keller, - - “I’m a tollable busy son of a gun, - - And this is the way I squeeze in fun, - - --Grab in same’s this and help a feller.” - - - - -BART OF BRIGHTON - - -‘Tis the tale of Bart of Brighton--meaning - - Brighton up in Maine; - - It’s the tale of Uncle Bart, sir, and his racker- - - gaited mare; - - I have toned it down a little where the language - - was profane, - - But the rest is as he told it--this remarkable - - affair. - - It is very wrong to swear; - - Bart admits the fact--but there! - - Times occur when human nature simply is - - obliged to “r’ar.” - - - “It’s all along o’ givin’ lifts to Uncle Isr’el - - Clark, - - --His folks don’t like him stubbin’ round the - - village after dark,-- - - And old Mis’ Clark has asked of folks that see - - him on the road - - To take him in and bring him home, if ’tain’t too - - much a load. - - The day this ’ere affair come off I’d took in - - Uncle Pease, - - With a pail of new molasses that he hugged be- - - tween his knees. - - We see old Clark ahead of us, a-lugging home - - a gun. - - - Says I to Pease, ‘Now brace yerhat: we’ll have - - a leetle fun.’ - - ‘Set in behind, old Clark,’ I says. ‘Hop in be- - - hind,’ says I. - - ‘Prowidin’ these ’ere tngs don’t bust I’ll take - - you like a fly.’ - - He piled aboard, s’r, master quick, there warn’t - - no need to tease, - - And there he sot, the gun straight up, the butt - - between his knees. - - - “I’ll tell you ’bout that mare of mine--the - - more you holler ‘whoa,’ - - I’ve larnt the whelp to clench her teeth, and - - h’ist her tail--and go! - - And when we got clus’ down to Clark’s I thought - - for jest a sell - - I’d make believe we’d run away. So I com- - - menced to yell, - - And old man Pease he hugged his knees and - - gaffled to his pail. - - And now, my boy, purraps you think that turn- - - out didn’t sail! - - He hugged his gun, did Uncle Clark, and set and - - hollered’ Oh!’ - - While I kep’ nudgin’ Uncle Pease and bellered, - - ‘Durn ye, whoa!’ - - “I larfed, suh, like a lunytick, I larfed and - - thought ’twas fun - - To look around and see old Clark a-hangin’ to - - his gun,- - - Eor he was scart plum nigh to death, and so was - - Uncle Pease, - - Who doubled clus’ above that pail he clenched - - between his knees. - - But while I larfed I clean forgot the Jackson - - corderoy, - - And when we struck that on the run, we got - - our h’ist, my boy. - - Old Clark went up jest like a ball and, next the - - critter knowed, - - Come whizzlin’ down, s’r, gun and all, starn- - - fust there in the road. - - And when the gun-butt struck the ground, ker- - - whango, off she went, - - --Both barrels of her, all to onct, and then-- - - wal, ’twas--hell-bent! - - The off-rein bust, the wheels r’ared up--the old - - mare give a heave, - - That runaway was on for sure--there warn’t - - no make-believe; - - With t’other rein I geed the mare up-hill to’ards - - Clarkses yard, - - --We struck the doorstep, struck her fair, and - - struck her mighty hard! - - And long as Lord shall give me breath I shan’t - - forget the eye - - That old Aunt Clark shot out at me as we went - - whoopin’ by. - - Then I went out and Pease went out and things - - got kinder blue - - --’Twas sev’ral minits by the clock ’fore this - - old cock come to. - - And there the old mare’d climbed the fence and - - stood inside the gate, - - With eyes stuck out and ears stuck back and - - head and tail up straight. - - And from the way she looked at me ’twas master - - evident - - She wasn’t catchin’ on to what this celebration - - meant. - - And I was clutchin’ jest about two feet of one - - the reins, - - While Uncle Pease was dodderin’ round, a-yellin’ - - ‘Blood and brains!’ - - For, bless my soul, when he had lit he’d run - - himself head-fust - - Right down in that molasses pail;--he thought - - his head had bust! - - And that the stuff a-runnin’ down and gobbed - - acrost his face - - Was quarts of gore, and so old Pease had clean - - give up his case. - - - And there he stood like some old hen a-drippin’ - - in the rain, - - And hollered stiddy, ‘Blood and brain, I’m - - dead; oh, blood and brain!’ - - Old Uncle Clark was on his back, a-listening to - - the fuss, - - And wonderin’ whuther that old gun had - - murdered him or us. - - - “Now that’s the way the thing come off. Best - - is,” concluded Bart, - - “They warn’t nobody hurt a mite: three-fifty - - fixed the cart.” - - But as he spoke he sought to hide a poultice - - with his hat - - And curtly said, “Oh, jest a tunk! you see, - - Aunt Clark done that.” - - -‘Tis the tale of Bart of Brighton--mean- - - ing Brighton up in Maine, - - --It’s the tale of Uncle Bart, sir, and his - - racker-gaited mare; - - I have toned it down a little where the language - - was profane, - - But the rest is as he told it, this remarkable - - affair. - - - - -GOIN’ T’ SCHOOL - - - - -THE PAIL I LUGGED TO SCHOOL - - - - I know my confession is homely, but Yankees - - are Yankees clean through, - - Their dollars make shells like a turtle’s, but - - their hearts, my dear fellow, are true - - To the dear, sacred days of their childhood, and - - luxury loses its charm: - - --The only good things are the old things to - - the fellow brought up on the farm. - - And I’d trade all the cheer of a banquet, I’d - - “swop” them, as grandpap would say, - - For the tang of the infinite gusto that came to - - me, when, after play, - - I lifted the battered tin cover and squared my - - brown arms to assail - - The grub that this hearty young shaver had - - carried to school in his pail. - - - God bless her, that darling old mother! She - - cherished the honest conceit - - That the groundwork of boyish good morals is, - - first of all, plenty to eat. - - And though I went barefoot in summer, with - - trousers cut over from Jim’s, - - We scampered to school every morning with - - dinner pails filled to their brims. - - There were doughnuts, both holed ones and - - twisters, and always a bottle of cream, - - And jell cakes and tarts and all such like--oh, - - bow the kids’ eyes used to gleam! - - - I pitied the poor little shavers who slunk to a - - corner to eat, - - Who brought only bread and potatoes and never - - had anything sweet; - - And some carried grub in their pockets, and hid - - with a child’s bitter shame - - To choke down the crust and the cooky before - - some rude fun-maker came. - - But out of such manhood’s successes of which - - I’ve a right to be proud - - There never was one I’ve uncovered, with such - - a delight, to the crowd - - As that pail with its bountiful dinner, each - - cake and each jelly-tipped tart - - A dumb but an eloquent voucher of a thoughtful - - and true mother-heart. - - And, neighbors, from things I have noted, I - - think it’s a pretty good rule - - To size up a mother’s devotion by the grub her - - child carries to school. - - Those savors that float from my childhood dull - - all the delights of my board; - - The good things from mother’s old kitchen my - - dollars can never afford, - - And I’d trade all these delicate dishes--a clean - - unconditional sale-- - - For the tang of the infinite gusto from the depths - - of that old dinner pail. - - - - -THE PADDYWHACKS - - - - Mother says it’s something fearful--way this - - pesky young one acts, - - And she’s called the Johnson children by the - - name of “Paddywhacks.” - - And she keeps a-givin’ orders that I musn’t have - - ’em round; - - But she thinks that Satan’s in me, for she says - - I’m always bound - - To go mixing with ’em somehow when she lets - - me out to play; - - And you bet I’m going to see ’em if I have to - - run away. - - - I’ll never wear them blamed dude clothes - - Nor boots with patent leather toes. - - I like to stomp and scoff and kick - - And holler round. It makes me sick - - To have that Reynolds youngster call, - - He’s primped up like a big wax doll., - - My mother says he’s just too sweet, - - He always keeps his clothes so neat, - - And wishes I’d spruce up a bit; - - What! Look like that? Well, I guess not, - - --They’ve duty mugs and ragged backs, - - But just give me them Paddywhacks. - - They can catch ye lots of suckers--know the - - brook and shortest cut; - - They have got a robber’s dungeon and a nice - - browse Injun hut. - - They can scrape ye lots of sly ver--juicy stuff - - from little pines, - - They can make a willow whistle, and they’re - - posted on the signs - - Of woodchucks, coons, and squirrels; and they - - own a brindle houn’, - - And they get to going barefoot first of any boys - - in town. - - - That’s the stuff--oh, that’s the stuff, - - Let a kid kick up and scuff! - - Not go round with mouth all screwed - - Goody, like that Reynolds dude. - - Say, I’ll push him once, if he - - Comes a-making mouths at me. - - Yah, yah! See them corkscrew curls! - - That’s right, let him play with girls. - - Let him wear his ruffled shirt - - --Give me one that won’t show dirt. - - I’m the chap, you bet, that stacks - - Up ’long-side them Paddywhacks. - - - - -THAT MAYBASKET FOR MABEL FRY - - - - Mother rigged the little basket, for I’d teased a - - day or so, - - --I was just a little shaver, and ’twas years and - - years ago,-- - - And I blushed while I was teasing; I was young, - - so mother said, - - To be running ’round with baskets when I ought - - to be in bed. - - But she trimmed me up the basket and she asked - - me whom ’twas for; - - Ah, I didn’t dare to tell her; thought I’d better - - hold my jaw, - - For I wanted it for Mabel, not for Minnie on the - - Hill; - - --For a maid in rags and tatters, not a maid in - - lace and frill. - - Minnie rode behind her ponies; Mabel had a - - wooden cart, - - But to Mabel went the homage of my foolish - - boyish heart. - - True, her gown was frayed and ragged, and her - - folks were sort of low, - - And her brothers swore like demons,” and they - - tagged where ’er we’d go, - - And my father always scolded me and drove - - them all away - - Whene ’er they followed Mabel if I asked her np - - to play. - - But I saw not Mabel’s tatters; for I loved her - - sun-browned face, - - And I’d lick the kid that didn’t say she was the - - handsomest girl in the place. - - ‘Tis a tricksy prank that memory plays - - Taking me back to those early days; - - But the purest affection the heart can hold - - Is the honest love of a nine-year-old. - - It isn’t checked by the five-barred gate - - Of worldly prudence and real estate. - - And that, my friend, was the reason why - - I hung my basket to Mabel Fry, - - She’d a tattered dress, and a pink great toe - - Stuck out through her shoe, but--I loved - - her so--. - - Though that was years and years ago. - - -[Illustration: 0235] - - - I sat down and looked at mother while she - - trimmed the pasteboard box, - - While she crimped the crinkly paper till it fluffed - - like curly locks; - - Till she fastened on the streamers, red and - - yellow, white and blue, - - And she held it up and twirled it, saying, “Sonny, - - will that do?” - - Would it do? It was a beauty! ’Twas a gem - - in basket art; - - And I piled it full of candy, put on top a big - - red heart. - - Then as soon as dusk could hide me I escaped - - my mother’s eyes, - - And I hung the grand creation on the door-latch - - of the Frys. - - How my youthful limbs were shaking! how my - - dizzy noddle rocked! - - And my heart was pounding louder than my - - knuckles when I knocked. - - So she caught me at the corner, for you see I - - didn’t fly, - - --Might have been I was so frightened; then - - perhaps I didn’t try. - - When I swung around to meet her, neither of - - us dared to stir. - - Mabel stood and watched the sidewalk and I - - stood and gawked at her, - - While those little imps of brothers gobbled every - - blessed mite - - Of the candy in that basket--Mabel didn’t get a - - bite. - - But I saved the little basket, gave each kid a - - hearty cuff, - - And I tried to comfort Mabel; told her she was - - sweet enough, - - --Said she didn’t need the candy; but my little - - Mabel sighed, - - Blushed and whispered that she wondered how - - I knew--I hadn’t tried-- - - To-day--to-day from a long-gone May - - This tricksy memory strays my way. - - Just for a moment I close my eyes - - And see that cracked old door of Fry’s. - - And my heart is brushed, as the noon day - - trees - - Are touched with the whisp of the strolling - - breeze. - - Alas, that the heart mayn’t always hold - - The honest love of the nine-year-old. - - - I haven’t a doubt you’re dreaming now - - Of some frank maid with an honest brow - - Who chose you out for she loved you so, - - When Worth got “Yes,” and Wealth got - - “No.” - - But that was years and years ago. - - - - -THE MYSTIC BAND - - - - I’ve joined the orders that came our way, - - --Been sort of a “jiner,” as one would say,-- - - And I’ve bucked the goat, and trudged the sands, - - And taken the oaths in most secret bands, - - Till now at last I seldom slip - - On test or password, sign or grip. - - And every day when I walk the street - - I give the signs to the men I meet. - - There’s the S. of T. and the K. of P. - - And the League of the Order of Liberty; - - Masons and Odd Fellows string along, - - Thicker than flies in the moving throng. - - Till it seems that every fellow could - - Give you a sign of a brotherhood. - - Oh, I like to meet them, every one, - - From the Daughter of Peace to a Son of a Gun. - - But I can’t quite feel the same delight - - As I used to when, some summer night, - - I’d take a few of the high degrees - - In the O. K. K. B. W. P’s. - - - We had no lodge-room with locks and bars - - --Our hall was the dome ’neath the winking - - stars; - - No lofty dais and tufted throne, - - No crown or symbol or altar stone, - - No velvet carpets or flashing lights - - Were needed there in those old-time rites; - - There was only the light from some honest eyes - - Up-raised to the velvet evening skies; - - And the only crown was the flower wreath - - Set light on the curling locks beneath, - - And the mystic grip was the tender squeeze - - Of our hands as we roamed past the orchard - - trees; - - And the head of the lodge was an elfin chap - - With roses heaped in his dimpled lap. - - --With wings a-spread and his locks a-blow, - - And the wand of his office a silver bow. - - He welcomed the timid neophytes. - - And into the hearts of his pure delights - - He led each happy candidate - - Who breathed Love’s password at the gate, - - And happy he who sought degrees - - In the O. K. K. B. W. P’s. - - - ’Tis just a page from the dear conceit - - That makes the volume of school life sweet; - - --A bit of a jest from the callow days - - When we bashfully trudged the self-same ways - - As the girls from the evening meeting took, - - And we carried their capes and the singing-book. - - --Sauntered along the dim old lanes - - With chirrup and chatter and gay refrains, - - Shouting “Good-nights” as here and there, - - Pausing by gate or stile, a pair - - Loitered a bit on the threshold’s stone - - For a sweet and fond good-night of their own. - - It irks me, friend, that I must profane - - The oath of the order and voice that chain - - Of mystic letters: yet ’twere not kind - - To take you thus far and leave you blind. - - - And I’ll whisper, you know, just heart to heart, - - ’Twas “One Kind Kiss Before We Part,” - - The mystic grip was a warm hand-press, - - The sign and the test a swift caress, - - And the dearest and sweetest of Used-to-be’s - - Were the O. K. K. B. W. P’s. - - - - -AT THE OLD “GOOL” - - - - “Ten, ten and a double ten, forty-five and then - - fifteen!” - - Stand you here, old friend of mine, close your - - eyes the while you lean - - Your silvered hair against the wood that’s silvered - - too, by sun and rain, - - --The butt of storms as well as we,--old aliens - - crawling back to Maine. - - The driving sleet, the drifting snows have filched - - away the vivid red - - That matched, as I remember it, the flaming top- - - knot on your head. - - And this--so gaunt, so bent, so small--it seems, - - alas, a wooden ghost - - Of what it was when it was “gool”: the school- - - house’s old red hitching-post! - - And ah, old friend, to lean your brow upon its - - crest you have to stoop; - - --You had to stretch to reach its top in those - - old days of hide-and-coop. - - “Ten, ten and a double ten,” - - That’s the way we counted then; - - --Counted hundreds rapidly, - - Begged the happy days to flee. - - Moments were not precious then. - - What we hoard to-day as men, - - Then we flung in careless way; - - Counting life as when at play; - - “Blinding” at the old red post, - - We strove to see who’d count the most. - - “Forty-five and then fifteen,--” - - Lavish then: ah, now we glean - - On our bended knees as men - - What we flung uncounted then. - - Friend, old friend, the past troops back - - With all its smiles and all its sighs, - - When I was “It,” - - And the world was lit - - By the star-shine of two soft brown eyes. - - - “Ten, ten, and a double ten, forty-five and then - - fifteen!” - - That talisman of boyhood days has brought a - - sorrow that is keen. - - And yet there’s joy along with pain; let me bow - - my head here too, - - And here with brow upon this wood I’ll tell you - - what you never knew. - - You’ve asked me many times, old friend, the - - secret of an unwed life; - - I’ll tell you now: I loved but once; that girl - - loved you; she was your wife. - - - I loved her in those boyhood days, but in Life’s - - game of counting out - - Fate’s happy finger stretched to you, and I-- - - poor awkward, bashful lout-- - - Just stepped aside. But ’twas all right! I’m - - not the sort to curse and whine, - - My joy has been that she was yours, so long as - - she could not be mine. - - --My joy, old friend, is now to say, as here we - - clasp this worn old post, - - There is no heart-burn in my past, no shimmer of - - a jealous ghost. - - For boyhood’s lesson taught me this: ’Tis only - - some egregious fool - - Who rails at Fate and storms the skies because - - some better man “tags gool.” - - I’ve been content to stand there, friend, while - - one by one the eager troop - - Of boyhood’s chums have won their goal in Life’s - - more earnest hide-and-coop. - - Thank God, old chum, we still clasp hands and - - pledge again our boyhood ties. - - Though I’ve been “It,” - - And your world is lit - - By the star-shine of her soft brown eyes. - - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Up In Maine, by Holman F. 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