Chapter II: Part 2

But as soon as I noticed the quirk in his eye
I was over my bit of a scare.

’Twas a humorous look he was throwin’ to me
As there I continnered to sail,

While under me, finnin’ and grinnin’ in glee,
Was the jolly Jeehookibus Whale.

The great Jeehookibus, fan-fluke whale

He fanned and fanned with his big, broad
tail,

Till my petticuts filled and I floated there,

Like a thistle-balloon on the summer air.

’Twas the slickest performance, our doryman
swore,

That ever was seen on the Banks;

He lowered me back in my dory once more
And I giv’ him my heartiest thanks.

And I reckon he liked me and thought I was
game,

Because I wa’n’t yowlin’ in fear;

For over and over he’s done jest the same,
This many and many a year.

When dog-fish are gnawin’ and other men
swear

As they jerk at the sculch-loaded trawl,

I know I have some one to cuff away care,

If only I whistle a call.

Then up from his bed on the dulses he spins,
And I boost myself over the rail
For a sail on the tail of my friend of the fins--
The jolly Jeehookibus Whale.

--The great Jeehookibus, fan-fluke whale,
A jovial chap with a swivel tail;

Ready for larks and primed for pranks,
He drives away blues from the whole
Grand Banks.

May health and heartiness never fail
My friend the Whale--my friend the Whale!

“AS BESEEMETH MEN”

We heard her a mile to west’ard--the liner that
cut us through--

As crushing the fog at a twenty-jog she drove
with her double screw.

We heard her a mile to west’ard as she bel-
lowed to clear her path,

The grum, grim grunt of her whistle, a levia-
than’s growl of wrath.

We could tell she was aimed to smash us, so
we clashed at our little bell,

But the sound was shredded by screaming wind
and we simply rung our knell.

And the feeble breath, that screamed at Death
through our horn, was beaten back,

And we knew that doom rode up the sea to-
ward the shell of our tossing smack.

Then out of the fog she thundered, the liner,
smashing to east;

Her green and her red glared overhead and her
bows were spouting yeast.

The eyes of her reddened hawse-holes, her
dripping and towering flanks,

Flashed with no gleam of mercy for her quarry
on the Banks.

She scornfully spurned us under, the while her
whistle brayed,

Nor heeded the crash of our little craft nor the
feeble chirp we made;

And as down we swept, her folk that slept--
they slumbered serenely still,

And even the lookout on the bridge scarce felt
the thud and thrill.

But they jangled her bells and halted; and the
sullen sea they swept

With the goggling gleam of the searchlight’s
beam. A dozen of us had crept

On the mass of the tangled wreckage she con-
temptuously had tossed

A mile astern in the chop and churn. The
others were drowned--were lost!

There was never a whine nor whimper, only
some muttered groans,

As the ocean buffeted martyrs who clung there
with shattered bones,

And those whose grip was broken as the surge
reeled creaming high,

Went out from the ken of the searchlight with
a hoarse but brave “Good-by.”

In the great white light no sign of fright stole
wrinkling o’er a face,

For the men of the Banks know How to die
when Davy trumps their ace.

And better than simply dying--they can cheer-
fully, bravely give

Life, heart, and head in a comrade’s stead if
they deem that he ought to live.

For there in the searchlight’s glory, the night
that they cut us down,

Old Injun Joe gave up his cask that another
might not drown.

Old Joe was a lone world-rover, the other had
babes on land;

No word was said, but Joe went down with a
wave of his dripping hand.

And ere the lifeboats reached us and gathered
our scattered few,

We saw that night what so long we’d known,
that a Glo’ster fishing crew,

Rude and rough and grimed and gruff, had
calmly shown again

That on sea or sod they can meet their God in
the way that beseemeth men!

Then over her sullen bulwarks, as she stamped
and chafed and rolled,

From the night and wreck to her dazzling deck
climbed we--and our tale was told.

And the dainty folk from her staterooms lis-
tened and gazed and said,

As they tiptoed across our dripping trail,
“How awful!”--then went to bed.

And our half-score left, of all bereft--com-
rades and gear and smack--

Sat hoping our wreck would tell no tales till
our scattered few came back.

And haughtily unrepentant, the liner, insolent
still,

Through foam and spume and fog and gloom
drove on to wreak her will.

Were only her zeal less eager, her lust for her
prey less keen,

She must have sensed that horrid chill that
shuddered from One Unseen.

But onward she plunged unheeding that there
in the vast, black sea,

As grim as Fate there lay in wait One mightier
than she.

A ghost in white before her--the fog its som-
bre pall--

And she crushed herself like dead-ripe fruit
against the iceberg’s wall.

Then up from her perfumed cabins came pour-
ing the rich and proud,

And I--poor Glo’ster fisher--I blushed for
that maddened crowd.

There were men in silken night-gear who
fought frail women back,

There were pampered fools who, fierce as
ghouls, left murder in their track;

There were shrieking men whose jeweled
hands dragged children from a boat

And rode away in the babies’ stead when the
life-craft went afloat.

’Tis not for boast that I tell the rest: we’re
not of the boasting kind--

We folks that sail from Glo’ster town; but you
know you’ll sometimes find

A man who sneers at a tattered coat or a sun-
burned fist or face,

And believes that only blood or purse can
honor the human race.

Forlorn and few, our battered crew had stared
at Death that night;

Perhaps we’d known him so long and well his
mien did not affright.

Perhaps we hide here in our hearts, below the
rags and tan,

The honest stuff, unplaned and rough, that
really makes the man.

For we bared our arms and we stormed the
press--of safety took no care;

We dragged those wretches from the boats--
then placed the women there.

No time had we for the courtly “Please!” If
a poltroon answered “No,”

We gave him the thing that a man reserves for
the coward’s case--a blow.

It isn’t a boast, I say again; but we stayed till
all had passed,

Then the ragged coats of those Glo’ster men
went over her lee rail last.

And three of the few of our scattered crew,
who had twice dared Fate that night,

Went down in the rush of the whirlpool’s tow
when the liner swooped from sight.

We ask no praise, we seek no heights above
our chosen place,

But the men of the Banks know how to die
when Davy trumps their ace.

And if need arise for a sacrifice we’ve shown,
and we’ll show again,

That on sea or sod we can meet our God in
the way that beseemeth men.

THE NIGHT OF THE WHITE REVIEW

The mandate that summons them nobody
knows,

Nor whose is the mystical word

That bids the vast breast of the ocean unclose,
When the depths are so eerily stirred.

There are omens of ocean and portents of sky
That the eyes of the banksman may read;
The wind tells its menace by moan or a sigh
To any one giving it heed.

Yet, fathom the whorl of a cloud though he
may--

Interpret the purr of the sea--

No weatherwise fisherman truly may say
When the Drift of the Drowned shall be.

_This alone we know:

Ere days of the autumn blow,

Up from the swaying ocean deeps appears the
grisly show.

And woe to the fated crew
Who behold it passing through--

Who gaze on the ghosts of the Gloucester fleets
on the Night of the White Review._

Whence issue these fleets for their grim ren-
dewous

And their hideous cruise, who may know?
Yet they traverse the Banks ere the winter
storms brew,

Their pennon the banner of woe.

We know that from Quero far west to the
Shoals.-

The prodigal bottom is spread

With bones and with timbers--“Went down
with all souls,”

Tells the story of Gloucester’s dead.

And up with those souls come those vessels
again

On that mystical eve in the fall;

Then out of the night to the terror of men
They sail with the fog for a pall.

_And down the swimming deep,

As the fishers lie asleep,

These craft loom out of the great, black night,
and past the living sweep.

And woe to that fated crew

Who behold them passing through--

Who gaze on the ghosts of the Gloucester fleets
on the Night of the White Review_.

Now here and now yonder some helmsman
sings hail

As the awful procession stalks past,

And the horrified crew tumbles up to the rail
To gaze on the marvel, aghast.

And then through that night, when the fishers
ride near,

There’s a hail and a husky halloo:

“Did you see”--and the voice has a quiver of
fear--

“Did you see the White Banksmen sail
through?”

There are those who may see them--and those
who may not,

Though they peer to the depths of the night;
Ah, ye who behold them, alas for the lot
That grants you such ominous sight.

_It augurs death and dole--

That the Gloucester bells will toll--
Means another stone on Windmill Hill: “Went
down with every soul.”

For it’s woe to that fated creva
Who behold them passing through--

Who gaze on the ghosts of the Gloucester -fleets
on the Night of the White Review._

’Tis a mournful monition from those gone
before--

That phantom procession of Fate;

But’tis only the craven that flees to the shore,
For the fisher must work and must wait--
Must wait for the storm that shall carry him
down,

Must work with his dory and trawl;

There are women and babies in Gloucester town
Who are hungry. So God for us all 1

Though mystic and silent and pallid and weird
Those ominous Banksmen may roam,
Though Death trails above them, where’er they
are steered,

We’ll work for the babies at home.

_The Banks will claim their toll,

And Fate makes up the roll
Of those with the humble epitaph: “Went
dozen with every soul.”

And it’s woe to that fated crew
Who behold them passing through--
Who gaze on the ghosts of the Gloucester fleets
on the Night of the White Review._

THE BALLAD OF ORASMUS NUTE

There once was a Quaker, Orasmus Nute,
With a physog as stiff as a cowhide boot,

And he skippered a ship from Georgetown, Maine,

In the’way-back days of the pirates’ reign.
And the story I tell it has to do
With Orasmus Nute and a black flag crew;
The tale of the upright course he went
In the face of a certain predicament.

For Orasmus Nute was a godly man

And he faithfully followed the Quaker plan
Of love for all and a peaceful life
And a horror of warfare and bloody strife.
While above the honors of seas and fleets
He prized his place on “the facing seats.”

Ah, Orasmus Nute,

Orasmus Nute,

He never disgraced his plain drab suit.

Now often he sailed for spice and teas
’Way off some place through the Barbary seas;
And once for a venture his good ship bore
Some unhung grindstones, a score or more.
Now, never in all of his trips till then
Had he spoken those godless pirate men.

But it chanced one day near a foreign shore
The sail of a strange craft toward him bore;
And as soon as the rig was clearly seen
The mate allowed’twas a black lateen.

Now a black lateen, as all men knew,

Was the badge of a bold, bad pirate crew.

So the mate he crammed to its rusty neck
A grim “Long Tom” on the quarter deck,
Then leaned on its muzzle a bit to pray
And waited to hear what the skipper would say.
For Orasmus Nute,

Orasmus Nute

Had stepped below for to change his suit.

He asked as he came on deck again,

“Does thee really think those are pirate men?”
“Yea, verily,” answered the Quaker mate,

“And they come at a most unseemly gait.”
Orasmus Nute looked over the rail
At the bulging sweep of the huge black sail;
Said he, “We are keeping our own straight
path,

And I’m sorry to harm those men of wrath
Yet, brother, perchance we are justified
In letting Thomas rebuke their pride.

We’ll simply give ’em a dash of fright.

So be sure, my friend, thee have aimed just
right.”

He squinted his eye along the rust,

“Now shoot,” said he, “if thee thinks thee
must.”

Ker-boomo! the old Long Thomas roared,
And the big lateen flopped overboard.

And Orasmus Nute,

Orasmus Nute,

Seemed puzzled to find that he could shoot.

“Now what are those sinful men about?”

He asked, as he heard a hoarse, long shout.
And the Quaker mate he answered, “Lo!
They’ve out with their oars, and here they
row!”

“Now, what in the name of William Penn,”
Cried Orasmus Nute, “can ail those men?
Perchance they are after our load of stones,
Will thee roll them up here, Brother Jones?
We’ll save them all of the work we can--

As a Quaker should for his fellow man.”

So as soon as the fierce, black pirate drew
Up’longside, that Quaker crew
Rolled those grindstones down pell-mell,

And every stone smashed through the shell
Of the pirate zebec, and down it went,

And all of the rascals to doom were sent,
While Orasmus Nute leaned over the side,

“No thanks, thee’rt welcome, my friends,” he
cried.

It chanced one wretch from the sunken craft
Made a clutch at a rope that was trailing aft,
And up he was swarming with frantic hope,
When Orasmus cried, “Does thee want that
rope? ”

So he cut it away with one swift hack
With a smile for the pirate as he dropped back.
And the Quaker skipper surveyed the sea
“God loveth the generous man,” quoth he.
Then Orasmus Nute,

Orasmus Nute

Went down and resumed his Quaker suit.

THE DORYMAN’S SONG

_Dory here an’ Dora there,

They keep a man a-guessin’;

An’ here’s a prayer for a full-bin fare,

--Then home for the parson’s blessin’!_

Ruddy an’ round as the skipper’s phiz, out of
the sea he rolls,

--The fisherman’s sun, an’ the day’s begun for
the men on the Grand Bank shoals.

With pipe alight an’ snack stowed tight under
a bulgin’ vest,

I’ll over with dory an’ in with the trawls for
the wind is fair sou’ west.

--The wind is fair sou’ west,

The fish-slick stripes the crest

Of every curlin’, swingin’ an’ swirlin’, billowin’
ocean-guest,

That sweeps to the wind’ard rail

An’ under the bulgin’ sail

Seems wavin’ its welcome with clots of foam
that are tossed by the roguish gale.

_Dory here an’ Dora there,

‘Way over yon at Glo’stcr;

Those clots of foam seem letters from
home

To pledge I haven’t lost her._

Friskily kickin’, the dories dance, churnin’ the
foamin’ lee,

With a duck an’ a dive an’ a skip an’ skive--
the bronchos of the sea.

Sheerin’ an’ veerin’ with painter a-flirt, like a
frolicsome filly’s tail,

--Now a sweep on the heavin’ deep, close to
the saggin’ rail,

--Close to the saggin’ rail,

Jump! If you cringe or fail,

You’re doin’ a turn in the wake astern in the
role of a grampus whale.

As she poises herself to spring,

--Nimble an’ mischievous thing,

There’s only the flash of a second of time to
capture her on the wing.

_Dory here an’ Dora there!

Sure, they drive me frantic.

For one she swims on the ocean of whims,
An’ one on the broad Atlantic._

Sowin’ the bait from the trawl-heaped tubs, I
pull at my old T. D.

An’ I dream of a pearl of a Glo’ster girl, who’s
waitin’ at home for me;

Statin’ she’s waitin’ is not to say she’s prom-
ised as yet her hand,

For she’s wild as my dory--she keeps me in
worry;--they’re hard to understand.

--They’re hard to understand,

But I’ve got the question planned,

Please God, I’ll know if it’s weal or woe as
soon as I get to land.

For a man who can catch the swing,

Of a dory--mischievous thing--

Has certainly grit to capture a chit of a maid
about to spring.

_Dory here an’ Dora there!

They keep a man a-guessin’,

An’ here’s a prayer for a full-bin fare,
Then home for the parson’s blessin’._

WE FELLERS DIGGIN’ CLAMS

Pluck, pluck,

Pluck, pluck!

Stubbin’ acrost the clam-flat muck!

Ev’ry time I lift my huck,

--Hearin’ the heel of my old boot suck,

It seems to me that a word plops out,

And I’ve listened so often there ain’t no
doubt

It’s pluck, pluck, pluck.

And pluck and the job they jest agree
--Dig clams, my lad, for a while and see!

It’s a stiddy kind of bus’ness an’ it ain’t for
shiny boots,

But still--ye know,’tain’t bad!

It ain’t an occurpation for the millionaire ga-
loots,

But’tain’t so mighty wuss, my lad.

It’s a stiddy kind of bus’ness where there ain’t
no room for doubt

As to what’ull be the profit and where ye’re
cornin’ out.

For there ain’t no books and ledgers, and no
botherin’ with deals,

No dodgin’ law and lawyers and no stock con-
trivin’ steals.

Simply take a leaky dory and a basket and a
hoe,

And you’re fixed for doin’ bus’ness--ev’ry fel-
ler has a show.

When the old Atlantic ocean pulls away his
swashin’ tide

Why, the bank is there ‘before you and the
doors are opened wide;

The flats are there etarnal and you never find
the sign

Sayin’, “Bank has shet up business--pres’-
dent’s skipped acrost the line.”

Shuck away yer co’t and weskit, grab the clam-
hoe’s muddy haft,

And endorsed by grit and muscle you’ll get
cash on ev’ry draft.

For yer check-book’s there, the clam flat; and
yer pen, sir, is the hoe,

And accounts are balanced daily by the ocean’s
ebb and flow.

Then the climbin’, crawlin’ water rubs the dig-
gin’ marks away,

And the clams are jest as plenty when you
come another day.

And the sleep that follers labor kind of smooths’-
us, as the tide

Smooths the nickin’s on the clam-flats where
our busy hoes have pried.

So the nights are nights of comfort and I
mostly can forget

That the days are days of diggin’,--cold and
muddy, lame and wet.

For Fd rather have a backache than a rattled,
burnin’ brain,

And I guess I’m fair contented with the clam
flats here in Maine.

For I’m thinkin’ worried critters in the rushin’,
pushin’ jams

Likely’nough ain’t nigh so happy as we fellers
diggin’ clams.

DAN’L AND DUNK

Dan’l and Dunk and the yaller dog were the
owners and crew of the Pollywog,

A hand-line smack that cuffed the seas’twixt
’Tinicus Head and Point Quahaug.

Dunk owned half and Dan owned half, and the
yaller dog was also joint,

They fished and ate and swapped their bait and
always agreed on every point.

--Dunk to Dan and Dan to Dunk,--
Whenever he chawed would pass the
hunk;

Never a “hitch” more friendly than
That of the dog and Dunk and Dan.

They labored steady and labored square, fairly
dividing every fare,

And never could anything break their bonds,
each to the other would often swear.

But alas, one day in a joking way they fell on
the topic of years and age,

And tackled the subject of boughten teeth, and
spirited argument they did wage.

For Dan insisted that sets of teeth were glued
to the sides of the wearers’ jaws,

--Never had seen ’em, he frankly owned, but
he knew ’twas so, “wal, jest because.”
While Dunk, with notions fully as firm, clawed
at his frosty whisker fringe,

And allowed that he knew that sets of teeth
were hitched together with spring and
hinge.

So, still perverse, they argued on--the quarrel,
you see, was their very first;

’Twas as though they had taken a sip of brine;
the more they quaffed, the worse their
thirst.

They argued early and argued late and the dog
surveyed them with wistful look
For, the more they talked the worse they
balked, and forgot to fish or eat or cook.

Dan at Dunk and Dunk at Dan,

--On contention ran and ran,

And rancor spread its sullen fog
‘Twixt Dunk and Dan and the yaller
dog.

At last old Dunk uprose and cried, “Say old
hoss-mack’ril, blast yer hide,

I’m sick of clack and fuss and gab; it’s time, I
reckin, that we divide.

An’ seein’ as how I’ve spoke the fust, I’ll take
the starn-end here for mine.”

With chalk he zoned the dingy deck and roared,
“Git for’rard acrost that line!”

He lighted his pipe and twirled the wheel and
calmly then he crossed his knees.

“Go for’rard,” said he, “this end is mine an’
I’ll steer jest where I gol-durn please.”
For’rard went Dan with never a word, never
protested, never demurred,

But as soon as he reached the cat-head bolt the
sound of hammer on steel was heard.
Splash! went the anchor, and there they swung,
fast to the bottom on Doghead shoal;

“The bow-end’s mine,” yelled Dan to Dunk,
“now steer if ye want to, blast yer soul!”

Dunk to Dan, and Dan to Dunk--
Swore they’d sit there till she sunk.
Neither to compromise would incline,
And the dog stood straddling the mid-
dle line.

I’ll frankly own I cannot state how long en-
dured that sullen wait,

I only know they never returned and no one
ever has learned their fate.

Perhaps a gale with a lashing tail, champing
and roaring and frothing wild,

Clawed them tinder, as there they rode, or a
hooting liner over them piled.

But known it is that for days and weeks the
schooner swayed and sogged and tossed,
Straining her rusty cable-chains, before all
trace of her was lost.

No one knows how they met their death, but
certain it is that Dunk and Dan,

Each decided he’d rather die than surrender a
point to the other man.

Perhaps, at the end of a month or so, Dunk de-
cided he’d sink his half,

Or Dan touched match and burned his end,
then went to death with a scornful laugh.
However it was, this much is sure, that out
from the Grand Banks’ sombre fog,

Never came back the Pollywog smack, or
Dunk or Dan or the yaller dog.

THE AWFUL WAH-HOOH-WOW

_She’s ashore in Gloucester harbor, with a
weary, lear y list,

An’ the mud is creepin’, creepin’ to her rail;

She’s sound in ev’ry timber--is the Mary of
the Mist,

But the broom is at her mast-head as a sign
that she’s for sale.

Yet no one wants to try her,

She cannot find a buyer--

The Hoodoo is upon her, an’ here I give the
tale.

(The story has a warnin’ that’s as plain as
plain can be,

An’’tis: Never go to triflin’ with the secrets
of the sea.)_

Peter Perkinson, a P. I. from Prince Edward
Island, signed

With Foster’s folks of Gloucester for a
“chancin’ trip,” hand-lined;

An’ when we counted noses as we rounded
Giant’s Grist

We found the chap among us on the Mary of
the Mist.

An’ we sized him for a “conjer” ere we’d
fairly got to sea;

The wind was whiffin’ crooked, jest as mean as
mean could be;

“_P. I.” is colloquial term for Prince Edward
Islander_.

Then the skipper spied the P. I. fubbin’ secret
at the mast,

An’ at once he got suspicious an’ he overhauled
him fast.

The chap had made some markin’s an’ he’d
driven in a nail--

Oh, we understood him perfect--he was raisin’
up a gale.

The skipper gave him tophet, but the damage
then was done--

The gale came up a-roarin’ with the settin’ of
the sun.

Then we wallered to the west’ard an’ we wal-
lered to the east,

An’ we seemed the core an’ bowels of a gob of
wind an’ yeast.

We smashed our way to suth’ard, an’ we clawed
an’ ratched to west,

There was scarcely time for eatin’; there was
never chance for rest,

With the liners slammin’ past us through the
fog an’ spume an’ rain,

An’ the Mary dodgin’ passers like a puppy in a
lane.

The third day found us flappin’ with a mighty
ragged wash,

The lee rail runnin’ under an’ the trawl tubs all
a-swash,

An’ at last the plummet told us we were backin’
to’ards the shoals,

Yet we couldn’t ratch an’ leave ’em with our
canvas rags an’ holes.

T ack--tack--tack--

Still a-slippin’ back;

‘Twas a time for meditatin’ on the prospects
for our souls.

Then up spoke Isaac Innis, with a starin’,
glarin’ glance,

An’ he says: “My friends, I’m lookin’

where I look!

I hain’t a saint in no way, an’ I’ll give a man a
chance,

But I think I see a Jonah if I hain’t a lot
mistook.

I reckon ye discern him,

Now over goes he, durn him,

Unless he squares the Hoodoo that he’s
brought, by hook or crook.”

(We stood there, grim an’ solemn, an’ we
bent our gaze upon

The stranger “conjer” sailor, that P. I.--
Perkinson.)

He never flinched nor quivered, though we’d
reckoned that he would,

He simply turned an’ faced us, an’ he says: “I
meant ye good.

I asked a breeze from suth’ard, but it slipped
an’ got away;

Still, you needn’t worry, shipmates! When I
owe a debt I’ll pay.”

He reeved a coil of hawser that the Mary car-
ried spare,

An’ fastened on a gang-hook an’ baited it with
care.

Then he took a magic vial an’ he sprinkled on
the bait

A charm that Splithoof gave him, it is safe to
calkerlate.

He hitched a dagon-sinker an’ he let the line
run free,

An’ overboard he fired it, kersplasho, in the
sea,

We didn’t get the language of the secret spells
he said,

But we gathered he was fishin’ on the deepest
ocean bed.

We heard him as he muttered an’ it seemed
that he could tell

What kind of fish was bitin’, with an eyesight
straight from hell.

“Ah, brim,” he sort o’ chanted as he gave the
line a twig--

An’ must pay his lawful tribute to the awful
Wah-hooh-wow.

We saw Its neck a-curvin’ an’ we heard Its red
tongue lick

As It drooled an’ swoofed the drippin’s, and
then, as one might pick

A ripe an’ juicy cherry, It grabbed that “con-
jer” man

An’ sank with coils a-flashin’ in the light from
old Cape Ann,

An’ we--we towed with dories till we got to
Gloucester shore--

An’ you’ll never get a Banksman on the Mary
any more.

No--no--no!

Not a man will go,

For her towage fee hain’t settled till the Wah-
hooh-wow takes four.

She’s ashore in Gloucester harbor with a
weary, leary list,

An’ the mud is creepin’, creepin’ to her rail;

She’s sound in ev’ry timber--is the Mary of
the Mist,

But the broom is at her mast-head as a sign
that she’s for sale.

Yet no one wants to try her,

She cannot find a buyer--

The Hoodoo is upon her, an’ I’ve given you the
tale.

(The story has a Warnin’ that’s as plain as
plain can be,

An’’tis: Never go to triflin’ with the secrets
of the sea.)

SKIPPER JASON ELLISON

His nose was like a liver hung against a Hub-
bard squash,

--That nose of Jason Ellison, the skipper of
the “Hanks.”

His nose was like a liver and the color wouldn’t
wash,

But the men that “chanced” on trips with him,
they always got the dosh,.

For there wa’n’t another skipper who could
touch him on the Banks.

Whether biz was tight or slack,

--When Jase came sailin’ back

A gang was always coaxin’ for a berth upon
his smack.

Not another Gloucester skipper
Had sech easy job to ship a

Topper-notcher fishin’ crew, with ev’ry man a
crack.

For, you see, he was a wizard;--he did won-
ders with that nose,

He could sniff and tell the weather-sign of ev’ry
gust that rose;

You could figure from its color’twas a most
uncommon snoot,

And whenever he predicted no one ventured to
dispute.

His eye could nail a fish-slick off a league or so
away,

--He could look around a corner, so his fel-
lows used to say;

But the thing’twas most uncommon--where
our whole dependence hung,

Was his long and round and peak-ed champion
taster of a tongue.

’Twas always out and chasin’ round the edges
of his lip;

When a nasty time was brewin’

It was always out and doin’

Like as though it felt responsible for helpin’
handle ship.

It had tasted ev’ry bottom soil from Quero to
the Cow,

It knew the taste and savor, the place and where
and how.

--Darkest night or wildest hurricane that ever
ramped or blew,

We never lost our bearin’s, for old Jason always
knew.

We would take some mutton taller and we’d
fill the hollowed head

Of the plummet, smooth and even, then a man
would throw the lead.

And we’d pass her back to Jason and he’d turn
the plummet up,

Taste the scrimp of soil that stuck there on the
taller in the cup,

And he’d tell us where we headed, though the
night be black’s a coal,

For he knew the taste of bottoms from the Cow
to Quero Shoal.

--Told us easy, off the reel,

What was underneath our keel,

--Didn’t need the sun or quadrant with old
Jason at the wheel;

He was only once mistaken in the memory of
men,

--And we’ve always kept insistin’ that he
wa’n’t mistaken then.

The storm came down upon us from the nor’-
nor’east by east,

--’Twas an equinoctial pealer,

A reg’lar ring-tail squealer,

The sky was hasty puddin’ and the sea beneath
was yeast.

When the Hanks went tossin’ up’ards it really
seemed we flew,

And the sky seemed splittin’ open for to let
our vessel through;

When we wallowed down wher-rooshin’ in the
gulf that gawped beneath,

We’d’a’ left our hearts behind us if we hadn’t
clinched our teeth.

We’d really seem to feel
Old Hankses’ battered keel

Go bumpin’ on the bottom when she made her
downward reel.

But the more she blew and blew,

Old Jason cheered his crew,

--His whiskers whipping snappin’ as the wind
went screamin’ through.

So we hung to brace and riggin’ and we let her
roar and roll,

While each man pinned to Ellison the safety of
his soul.

Then at last we knew’twas night-time by the
thick’nin’ overhead,

And Jason licked his taster and he yelled:
“Now throw the lead!”

An’ we--we blinked to watch him from the
darkness where we clung,

And waited for the verdict, of that long and
peak-ed tongue.

He tasted--then he waited, and he smacked his
lips a spell,

He tasted--tasted--tasted, then he gave an
awful yell:

“My God, ye critters, pray!”

--He slung the lead away,--

And howled: “The world is endin’! It’s the
final Judgment Day!

That plummet, there, has brought us up a hand-
ful of the loam

From the Widder Abbott’s garden on the Neck
ro’d, back at home.

A tidal wave has lifted us--the Hanks has run
away!

--It has tossed’er over Glo’ster,

And we sartin sure have lost’er,

’Less ye pray, ye sin-struck critters,’less ye
pray, pray, pray!”

Each clung to rope and stanchion, each hung to
stay and brace,

Each prayed up at the heavens while the spin-
drift lashed his face;

We prayed and prayed till mornin’

Till the early, yaller dawnin’

Lit up the sea around us, and it also lit our
case;

Then we found an explanation
Of the sing’lar situation

That was figgered in the darkness of the night
by Uncle Jase.

For we noticed there was settin’ up against the
le’ward rail

Some lavender and other yarbs, a-growin’ in a
pail.

--They’d been brought aboard by Jase
Who had worn a meechin’ face,

For his sparkin’ of the widder was the gossip
of the place.

He knowed a flower-garden looked peecooliar
on the Hanks,

But he wanted some momentum of the widder
on the Banks.

Now, the plummet bein’ handled in the dark-
ness of that night

Somehow cuffed that dirt in passin’--as ye
might say, took a bite.

And Jason knew the flavor of that scrimp of
garden loam,

--There wa’n’t a soil to fool him’twixt Quero
Shoal and home.

By the flavor and the feel
He could tell us off the reel,

The name of any bottom that was underneath
our keel.

He was only once mistaken in the memory of
men,

And his crew will keep insistin’ that he wa’n’t
mistaken then.

BALLADS OF DRIVE AND CAMP

THE RAPO-GENUS CHRISTMAS BALL

There had been no social doings since the drive
had passed the flume,

And the section from Seboomook to the
Chutes was rather blue;

So the folks at Rapo-genus, where there’s rum
enough and room,

Arranged a Christmas function and invited
Murphy’s crew.

The folks at Rapo-genus hired Ezra Hewson’s
hall,

And posted up the notice for “Our Yearly
Christmas Ball.”

Now Murphy’s crew was willing and they
walked the fifteen miles,

And arrived at Rapo-genus wearing most be-
nignant smiles.

The genial floor director waited near the outer
door,

And pleasantly suggested they remove the
boots they wore.

He said that Rapo-genus wished to make of
this affair

An elegant occasion, “reshershay and day-
bonair;”

So it seemed the town’s opinion, after many
long disputes,

That’twas time to change the custom and ex-
clude the spike-sole boots.

He owned’twas rather drastic and would cause
a social jar

’Twixt Upper Ambejejus and the Twin Deps-
connequah,

“But ’tis settled,” so he told them, “that nary
lady likes

To do these fancy dances with a gent what’s
wearin’ spikes.

So I asks ye very kindly, but I asks ye one and
all,

To leave your brogan calkers on the outside of
this hall.”

“This ’ere is sort o’ sudden,” said the boss of
Murphy’s crew,

“Jest excuse us for a minute, but we don’t
know what to do.

We’ve attended social functions at the Upper
Churchill Chutes,

An’ the smartest set they had there was
a-wearin’ spike-sole boots.

Excuse us for the mention, but we feel com-
pelled to say,

’Tisn’t fair to shift a fashion all a sudden, this
’ere way;

An’ the local delegation, when it came with the
in-vite,

Omitted partunt leathers in its mention of to-
night.

So I guess ye’ll have to take us with these
spikes upon our soles,

We can’t appear in stockin’s,’cause the most of
us have holes.”

But the genial floor director guarded still the
outer door

And declared that “gents with spikers weren’t
allowed upon the floor.”

He said’twas very awkward that special guests
should thus

Be kept in outer darkness, and he didn’t want a
fuss.

But so long as Rapogenusites had issued their
decree

He hadn’t any option, “as a gent with sense
could see.”

So he passed his ultimatum, “Ye must shed
them spike-sole boots!

For we hain’t the sort of humstrums that ye’ll
find at Churchill Chutes.”

Then up spoke Smoky Finnegan, the boss of
Murphy’s crew,

Said he, “The push at Churchill sha’n’t be
slurred by such as you.

We’re gents that’s very gentle an’ we never
make a fuss,

But in slurrin’ folks at Churchill ye are also
slurrin’ us.

We have interduced the fashions up at Church-
ill quite a while,

An’ no Rapo-genus half-breeds have the right
to trig our style.

If ye’ve dropped the vogue of spikers at the
present Christmas ball

We will start the fashion over, good and solid,
that is all!

So, mister, please excuse us, but ye’ll open up
your sluice,

Or God have mercy on ye if I turn these gents
here loose!”

Then the genial floor director shouted back
within the room,

“Ho, men of Rapo-genus, here is trouble at
the boom!”

But even as he shouted, with a rush and crush
and roar,

Like a bursting jam of timber Murphy’s angels
stormed the door.

Then against them rose the sawyers of the
Rapo-genus mill,

Who rallied for the conflict with a most in-
trepid will,

But by new decree of fashion they were wear-
ing boughten suits

And even all the boomsmen had put off their
spike-sole boots.

So that gallant crew of Murphy’s simply trod
upon their feet,

And backward, howling, cursing, they com-
pelled them to retreat.

The air was full of slivers as the spikers chewed
the floor,

And the man whose feet were punctured didn’t
battle any more.

“Now, fellers, boom the outfit,” shouted Fin-
negan, the boss,

His choppers formed a cordon and they swept
the room across;

The people who were standing at the walls in
double ranks,

Were pulled and thrown to center at the order,
“Clear the banks!”

Then they herded Rapo-genus in the middle of
the room,

And slung themselves around it like a human
pocket-boom.

All the matrons and the maidens were as
frightened as could be

When Finnegan commanded, “Now collect the
boomage fee!”

At a corner of the cordon they arranged a sort-
ing-gap

And one by one the women were escorted from
the trap,

And without a word of protest, as they drifted
slowly through,

They paid their tolls in kisses to the men of
Murphy’s crew.

And at last when all the women had been sorted
from the crowd,

The men were “second-raters,” so the boss of
Murphy’s vowed.

“We will raft them down as pulp-stuff!” and
he yelled to close about,

“Now, my hearties, start the windlass,” or-
dered he, “we’ll warp ’em out!”

Through the doorway, down the stairway, grim
and struggling, thronged the press,

--All the brawn of Rapo-genus fighting hard
without success,

They were herded down the middle of the
Rapo-genus street,

--If they tried to buck the center they were
bradded on the feet;

They were yarded at the river; Murphy’s pea-
vies smashed the ice,

Though the men of Rapo-genus couldn’t smash
that human vise

That held them, jammed them, forced them!
When the water touched their toes,

Then at last they fought like demons for to
save their boughten clothes.

But as fierce were Murphy’s hearties, and their
spikers helped them win,

For they kicked and spurred their victims and
they dragged them shrieking in.

Then with water to their shoulders there they
kept them in the wet

While they gave them points on breeding and
the rules of etiquette.

And at midnight’twas decided by a universal
vote

That the strict demands of fashion do not call
for vest or coat;

That’twixt Upper Ambejejus and the Twin
Depsconnequah

BALLADS OF DRIVE AND CAMP

Shirts of red and checkered flannel are the
smartest form, by far.

And that gents may chew tobacco was declared
in all ways fit

If they only use discretion as to when and
where they spit.

And above all future cavil, sneer or jeer or vain
disputes,

High was set this social edict: “Gents may

wear their spike-sole boots.”

Then the men of Rapo-genus and the men of
Murphy’s crew

They dissolved their joint convention--they
were near dissolving, too!

And to counteract the action of the water on
the skin

They applied some balmy lotion to the proper
parts within.

Then they danced till ruddy morning, and their
drying garments steamed,

And awful was the shrinkage of those seven-
dollar suits!

And the feet of Murphy’s woodsmen gashed
and slashed and clashed and seamed,

Till a steady rain of slivers rained behind
those bradded boots.

--And all disputes of etiquette were buried once
for all,

At that Christmas social function, the Rapo-
genus Ball.

WHEN THE ALLEGASH DRIVE GOES THROUGH

We’re spurred with the spikes in our soles;

There is water a-swash in our boots;

Our hands are hard-calloused by peavies and
poles,

And we’re drenched with the spume of the
chutes.

We gather our herds at the head

Where the axes have toppled them loose,

And down from the hills where the rivers are
fed

We harry the hemlock and spruce.

We hurroop them with the peavies from their
sullen beds of snow;

With the pickpole for a goadstick, down the
brimming streams we go;

They are hitching, they are halting, and they
lurk and hide and dodge,

They sneak for skulking eddies, they bunt the
bank and lodge.

And we almost can imagine that they hear the
yell of saws

And the grunting of the grinders of the paper-
mills because

They loiter in the shallows and they cob-pile at
the falls,

And they buck like ugly cattle where the broad
deadwater crawls.

But we wallow in and welt ’em with the water
to our waist,

For the driving pitch is dropping and the
Drouth is gasping “Haste!”

Here a dam and there a jam, that is grabbed
by grinning rocks,

Gnawed by the teeth of the ravening ledge that
slavers at our flocks;

Twenty a month for daring Death; for fighting
from dawn to dark--

Twenty and grub and a place to sleep in God’s
great public park;

We roofless go, with the cook’s bateau to fol-
low our hungry crew--

A billion of spruce and hell turned loose when
the Allegash drive goes through.

My lad with the spurs at his heel
Has a cattle-ranch bronco to bust;

A thousand of Texans to wheedle and wheel
To market through smother and dust.

But I with the peavy and pole

Am driving the herds of the pine,

Grant to my brother what suits his soul,

But no bellowing brutes in mine.

He would wince to wade and wallow--and I
hate a horse or steer!

But we stand the kings of herders--he for
There and I for Here.

Though he rides with Death behind him when
he rounds the wild stampede,

I will chop the jamming king-log and I’ll match
him, deed for deed.

And for me the greenwood savor and the lash
across my face

Of the spitting spume that belches from the
back-wash of the race;

The glory of the tumult where the tumbling
torrent rolls

With a half a hundred drivers riding through
with lunging poles.

Here’s huzza for reckless chances! Here’s
hurrah for those who ride

Through the jaws of boiling sluices, yeasty
white from side to side!

Our brawny fists are calloused and we’re mostly
holes and hair,

But if grit were golden bullion we’d have coin
to spend, and spare!

Here some rips and there the lips of a whirl-
pool’s bellowing mouth,

Death we clinch and Time we fight, for be-
hind us gasps the Drouth.

Twenty a month, bateau for a home, and only
a peep at town,

For our money is gone in a brace of nights
after the drive is down;

But with peavies and poles and care-free souls
our ragged and roofless crew

Swarms gayly along with whoop and song
when the Allegash drive does through.

THE KNIGHT OF THE SPIKE-SOLE BOOTS

They had told me to’ware of the “Hulling
Machine,”

But a tenderfoot is a fool!

Though the man that’s new to a birch canoe
Believes that he knows, as a rule.

They had told me to carry a mile above
Where the broad deadwater slips

Into fret and shoal to tumble and roll
In the welter of Schoodic rips;

But knowing it all, as a green man does,

And lazy, as green men are,

I hated to pack on my aching back
My duffle and gear so far.

So, as down the rapids there stretched a strip
With a most encouraging sheen,

I settled the blade of my paddle and made

For the head of the “Hulling Machine.”

It wasn’t because I hadn’t been warned
That I rode full tilt at Death--

It was simply the plan of an indolent man
To save his back and his breath.

For I reckoned I’d slice for the left-hand shore
When the roar of the falls drew near,

And I braced my knees and took my ease--
There was nothing to do but steer.

(_There are many savage cataracts, slavering
for prey,

’Twixt Abol-jackamcgus and the lower Brass-
u-a,

But of all the yowling demons that are wicked
and accurst,

The demon of the Hulling Place is ugliest and
worst._)

Now the strip in that river like burnished steel
Looked comfortable and slow,

But my birch canoe went shooting through
Like an arrow out of a bow.

And the way was hedged by ledges that
grinned

As they shredded the yeasty tide
And hissed and laughed at my racing craft
As it drove on its headlong ride.

I sagged on the paddle and drove it deep,

But it snapped like a pudding-stick,

Then I staked my soul on my steel-shod pole,
And the pole smashed just as quick.
There was nothing to do but to clutch the
thwarts

And crouch in that birchen shell,

And grit my teeth as I viewed beneath
The boil of that watery hell.

I may have cursed--I don’t know now--

I may have prayed or wept,

But I yelled halloo to Connor’s crew
As past their camp I swept.

I yelled halloo and I waved adieu

With a braggart’s shamming mien,

Then over the edge of the foaming ledge
I dropped in the “Hulling Machine.”

(_A driver hates a coward as he hates diluted
rye;

Stiff upper-lip for living, stiff backbone when
you die!

They cheered me whcn I passed them; they
followed me with cheers,

That, as bracers for a dying man, are better far
than tears._)

The “Hulling Place” spits a spin of spume
Steaming from brink to brink,

And it seemed that my soul was cuffed in a
bowl

Where a giant was mixing his drink.

And ’twas only by luck or freak or fate,

Or because I’m reserved to be hung,

That I found myself on a boulder shelf

Where I flattened and gasped and clung.
To left the devilment roared and boiled,

To right it boiled and roared;

On either side the furious tide
Denied all hope of ford.

So I clutched at the face of the dripping ledge
And crouched from the lashing rain,
While the thunderous sound of the tumult
ground

Its iron into my brain.

I stared at the sun as he blinked above
Through whorls of the rolling mists,

And I said good-by and prepared to die
As the current wrenched my wrists.

But just as I loosened my dragging clutch,

Out of the spume and fogs
A chap drove through--one o’ Connor’s crew--
Riding two hemlock logs.

He was holding his pick-pole couched at Death
As though it were lance in rest,

And his spike-sole boots, as firm as roots,

In the splintered bark were pressed.

If this be sacrilege, pardon me, pray;

But a robe such as angels wear
Seemed his old red shirt with its smears of dirt,
And a halo his mop of hair;

And never a knight in a tournament
Rode lists with a jauntier mien
Than he of the drive who came alive

Through the hell of the “Hulling Ma-
chine.”

He dragged me aboard with a giant swing,
And he guided the rushing raft
Serenely cool to the foam-flecked pool

Where the dimpling shallows laughed.
And he drawled as he poled to the nearest
shore,

While I stuttered my gratitude:

“I jest came through to show that crew
I’m a match for a sportsman dude.”

There are only two who have raced those falls
And by lucky chance were spared:

Myself dragged there in a fool’s despair
And he, the man who dared!

I make no boast, as you’ll understand,

And there’s never a boast from him;

And even his name is lost to fame--

I simply know’twas “Jim.”

If Jim was a fool, as I hear you say
With a sneer beneath your breath,

So were knights of old who in tourneys bold
Lunged blithesomely down at Death.

And if I who was snatched from the jaws of
hell

Am to name a knight to you,

Here’s the Knight of the Firs, of the Spike-
S’ole Spurs,

That man from Connor’s crew!

’BOARD FOR THE ALLEGASH”

A hundred miles through the wilds of Maine
You soon may ride on a railroad train.

Some Yankee hustlers have planned the scheme
To take the place of the tote-road team.

They have the charter, the grit and cash
To stretch their tracks to the Allegash.

Along the length of the forest route
The woodland creatures will hear the hoot
Of the bullgine’s whistle, where up to now
The big bull moose has called his cow.

And old Katahdin’s long fin-back
Will echo loud with the clickity-clack
Of wheels that merrily clatter and clash
Through the sylvan wastes toward the Allegash.

Sing hey! for the route to Churchill Lake,

But oh, for the chap who twists the brake.

His buckskin gloves will save the wear
On his good stout palms, you know, but where
Will he find relief when his throat is lame
With the wrench of a yard-long Indian name?
’Tis something, friend, of a lingual trick
To say “Seboois” and “Wassataquoick,”

“Lunksoos,” is tame and “Nesourdneheunk,”
But what do you say to a verbal chunk
To chew at once of the size of this:

“Pok-um-kes-wango-mok-kessis”?

I don’t believe’twould phase a man
To bellow out “Lah-kah-hegan
His windpipe scarcely would get a crook
By spouting forth, “Pong-kwahemook,”

And even “Pata-quon-gamis”

Is easy. But just look at this:

Ah, where is he who wouldn’t run
From “Ap-mo-jenen-ma-ganun”?

E’en “Umbazookskus” scratches some,

But doesn’t this just strike you dumb?

“Nahma-juns-kwon-ahgamoc”?

Just think of having that to sock
Athwart the palpitating air
Straight at a frightened passengaire.

Hot bearings can be swabbed with oil,

And busted culverts yield to toil,

One can replace a broken rail
But larynxes are not on sale.

So, while it’s hey for Churchill Lake
It’s oh, for the chap who twists the brake.

THE WANGAN CAMP

_The wangan camp! *

The wangan camp!

Did ye ever go a-shoppin’ in the wangan
camp?_

You can get some plug tobacker or a lovely
corn-cob pipe,

* _The wangan is the woods store that most of the
Maine lumber camps maintain._

Or a pair o’ fuzzy trowsers that was picked
before they’s ripe.

They fit ye like your body had a dreadful
lookin’ twist;

There is shirts that’s red and yaller and with
plaids as big’s your fist;

There are larrigans and shoe-packs for all
makes and shapes of men,

As yaller as the standers of a Cochin China
hen,

The goods is rather shop-worn and purraps a
leetle damp,

--But you take ’em or you leave ’em--either
suits the wangan camp.

_The wangan camp!

The wangan camp!

There is never any mark-downs at the
wangan camp._

The folks that knit the stockin’s that they sell
to us, why say--

They’d git as rich as Moses on a half of what
we pay.

I haven’t seen the papers, but I jedge this
Bower war

Is a-raisin’ Ned with prices--they are wust I
ever saw.

I was figg’rin’ t’other ev’nin’ what I’d bought,
--by Jim, I’ll bet

That a few more pairs o’larrigans will fetch me
out in debt.

For I’ve knowed a stiddy worker to go out as
poor’s a tramp
‘Cause he traded som’at reg’lar at the com-
p’ny’s wangan camp.

_The wangan camp!

The wangan camp!

They tuck it to you solid at the wangan
camp_.

PLUG TOBACCO AT SOURDNAHUNK

Now just for a moment I’ll let the machine,
Grind lyrical praise of the base nicotine.

--An ode of a sort of a commonplace stripe
Addressed to plebeian cut-plug and the pipe.
Oh, answer me now, gentle friends of the line,
Who have sought the blest haunts of the
spruce and the pine,

Have you found in the woods that a fragrant
cigar

Tastes worse than an elm-root slopped over
with tar?

Queer thing, that, my friend, but it’s none the
less true,

--This quirk of tobacco--I’ll leave it to you!

But there’s savor in wreaths from the brier and
cob,

In the depths of the forest afar from the mob;

And an incense that’s sweet to ecstatic degree

Curls up from the bowl of the ancient T. D.

While choicest Perfectos smell ranker than
punk

In the shade of the hemlocks of Sourdnahunk.

Ah, here do the tables most wondrously turn!

The city olfactories sniff if you burn

Aught else than the finest Havana in rolls;

Folks turn up their noses at cut-plug in bowls;

You may roam where you like with the base
cigarette

But you can’t smoke your pipe in the house,
now you bet.

For curtains and pictures and hangings and
lace

All flutter rebukingly there in your face;

And wife and the daughters and neighbors all
cough

And wish that the pipe-smoking man would
break off.

But ah, gentle fisher, the woods shout to thee,

With fervent request that you bring the T. D.

For the reek that the flavored tobacco roll pours

Belongs back in town and not here out-of-
doors.

Leave there city manners, creased trousers,
your “job,”