Chapter III: Part 3

Bring here to the woods your tobacco and cob,

The hemlocks above you will tenderly sigh

As the incense from pipe bowls drifts past to
the sky.

Ah, human magician, the secret is yours!

Would you work mystic charms in the world
out-of-doors?

Take you the alembic of chastened brown bowl.

Touch fire--and visions will comfort your soul,

As you gaze out at Life through the wreaths
from a junk

Of good plug tobacco at Sourdnahunk.

O’CONNOR FROM THE DRIVE

_Men who plough the sea, spend they may--and
free!

But nowhere is there prodigal among those
careless Jacks,

Who will toss the hard-won spoil of a year of
lusty toil,

Like the Prodigals of Pick-pole and the Ish-
maels of the Axe._

You could hear him when he started from the
Rapogenus Chutes,

You could hear the cronching-cranching of his
swashing, spike-sole boots,

You could even hear the colors in the flannel
shirt he wore,

And the forest fairly shivered at the way
O’Connor swore.

’Twas averred that in the city, full a hundred
miles away,

They felt a little tremor when O’Connor drew
his pay.

Though he drew it miles away,

When O’Connor drew his pay,

The people in the city felt the shock of it that
day.

And they said in deepest gloom,

“The drive is in the boom,

And O’Connor’s drawn his wages; clear the
track and give him room.”

He rode two giant spruces thro’ the smother of
the Chutes,

He rode them, standing straddled, shod and
spurred in spike-sole boots;

And just for exhibition, when he struck Che-
suncook Rip

He rolled the logs and ran them with never
miss or slip.

For a dozen miles thro* rapids did he balance
on one log,

And he shot the Big Seboomook at a mighty
lively jog.

He reached Megantic Landing where he nim-
bly leaped ashore,

And he bought some liquid fire at the Bemis
wangan store.

For, O’Connor’d drawn his pay,

He was then upon his way

For a little relaxation and a day or two of play.
The drive was in the boom,

Safely past Seboois flume,

And all O’Connor wanted was rum enough--
and room.

O’Connor owned the steamboat from Megantic
to the Cove:

Whatever there was stavable, he forthwith
calmly stove.

He larruped crew and captain when they
wouldn’t let him steer,

Sat down upon the smoke-stack--smoked out
the engineer.

Of course he was arrested when the steamer
got to shore;

A justice fined O’Connor and he paid the fine
--and more!

He had drawn his season’s pay,

He had cash to throw away,

He had cash to burn! O’Connor’d spurn for
clemency to pray.

The drive was safely down,

He was on his way to town;

He was doing up the section and proposed to
do it brown.

O’Connor owned the railroad, as O’Connor’d
owned the craft.

Pie cronched from rear to engine, and he
chaffed and quaffed and laughed.

He smashed the plate-glass windows, for he
didn’t like the styles.

He smashed and promptly settled for a dozen
stove-pipe tiles;

They took him into limbo right and left along
the line,

He pulled his roll and willingly kept peeling off
his fine.

With his portly wad of pay
He paved his genial way,

He’d had no chance to spend it on the far-off
Brass-u-a.

But now the drive was in,

As he’d neither kith nor kin,

There seemed no special reason why he
shouldn’t throw his tin.

O’Connor reached the city and he reached it
with a jar,

He had piled up all the cushions in the center
of the car.

--Had set them all on fire, and around the blaz-
ing pile

He was dancing “dingle breakdowns” in a
very jovial style.

And before they got him cornered they had
rung in three alarms,

And it took the whole department to tie his
legs and arms.

He had spent his last lone copper, but they sold
his spike-sole boots

For enough to pay his freightage back to Rapo-
genus Chutes.

They put him in a crate,

And they shipped him back by freight,

To commence his year of chopping up in Town-
ship Number Eight.

And earnestly he swore,

When they dumped him on the shore,

He had never spent his wages quite so pleas-
urably before.

_Men who plough the sea, spend they may--and
free!

But nowhere is there prodigal among those
careless Jacks,

Who will toss the hard-won spoil of a year of
lusty toil,

Like the Prodigals of Pick-pole and the Ish-
maels of the Axe._

JUST HUMAN NATURE

BALLAD OF OZY B. ORR

Here’s a plain and straight story of Ozy B.
Orr--

A ballad unvarnished, but practical, for

It tells how the critter he wouldn’t lie down

When a Hoodoo had reckoned to do him up
brown.

It shows how a Yankee alights on his feet

When folks looking on have concluded he’s
beat

Now Ozy had money and owned a good farm

And matters were working all right to a charm.

When he “went on” some papers to help his
son Bill

Who was all tangled up in a dowel-stock mill.

Now Bill was a quitter, and therefore one day

Those notes became due and his dad had to pay.

So he slapped on a mortgage and then buckled
down

To pay up the int’rest and keep off the town.

Oh, that mortgage, it clung like a sheep-tick in
wool,

And the more she sagged back, harder Ozy
would pull;

But a mortgage can tucker the likeliest man,

And Ozy he found himself flat on hard pan.

He dumped in his stock and his grain and his
hay,

He scrimped and he skived and endeavored to
pay;

He sold off his hay and his grain and his stock

Till the ricky-tick-tack of the auctioneer’s knock

Kept up such a rapping on Ozy’s old farm

That the auctioneer nigh had a kink in his
arm--

And it happened at last,’long o’ Thanksgiving
time,

Old Ozy was stripped to his very last dime.

And he said to his helpmeet: “Poor mummy,
I van

I guess them ’ere critters have got all they can.

For they’ve sued off the stock till the barns
are all bare,

’Cept the old turkey-gobbler, a-peckin’ out
there;

They’d’a’ lifted him, too, for those lawyers are
rough,

But they reckoned that gobbler was rather too
tough.

So they’ve left us our dinner for Thanksgivin’
Day;

Just remember that, mummy, to-night when
you pray.

Now chirk up your appetite, for, with God’s
grace,

We’ll eat all at once all the stock on the place.”

But Ozy he was a cheerful man,

A goodly man, a godly man--

He didn’t repine at Heaven’s plan, but he took
things as they came;

And cheerfully soon he whistled his tune

That he always whistled-- ’twas Old Zip
Coon,

And he whistled it all the afternoon with never
a word of blame.

While all unaware of his owner’s care,

The gobbler pecked in the sunshine there,

With a tip-toe, tip-toe Nancy air, and ruffled
like dancing dame;

Till it seemed to Ozy, whistling still
To the ripity-rap of the turkey’s bill,

That the prim old gobbler was keeping time

To the sweep and the swing of the wordless
rhyme:

Pickety-peck,

With arching neck,

The turkey strutted with bow and beck.

And a Yankee notion was thereby born
To Ozy Orr ere another morn.

A practical fellow was Ozy B. Orr,

As keen an old Yankee as ever you saw
A bit of a platform he made out of tin,

With a chance for a kerosene lantern within;
He took his old fiddle and rosined the bow
And took the old turkey--and there was his
show!

You don’t understand? Well, I’ll own up to
you

The crowds that he gathered were mystified,
too.

For he advertised there on his banner unfurled
“A Jig-dancing Turkey--Sole one in the
World.”

And the more the folks saw it, the more and
the more

They flocked with their dimes, and jammed
at the door;

For it really did seem that precocious old bird
At sound of the fiddle was wondrously stirred.
In stateliest fashion the dance would commence,
Then faster and faster, with fervor intense,
Until, at the end, with a shriek of the strings
And a furious gobble and whirlwind of wings,

The turkey would side-step and two-step and
spin,

Then larrup with ardor that echoing tin.

And widely renowned, and regarded with awe,

Was the “Great Dancing Turkey of Ozy B.
Orr.”

And the mortgage was paid by the old gobbler’s
legs--

Now Ozy is heading up money in kegs.

He would calmly tuck beneath his chin
The bulge of his cracked old violin,

He sawed while the turkey whacked the tin,
the people they paid and came;

For swift and soon to the lilting tune,

When he fiddled the measure of Old Zip
Coon,

The gobbler would whirl in a rigadoon--or
something about the same!

While under the tin, tucked snugly in,

Was the worthless Bill, that brand of Sin;

And’twas Bill that made the turkey spin with
the tip of the lantern flame;

For, as ever and ever the tin grew hot

The turkey made haste for to leave that spot,

Till it seemed that the gobbler was keeping time

To the sweep and the swing of the fiddle’s
rhyme.

Pickety-peck,

With snapping neck,

The gobbler gamboled with bow and beck!
Does a notion pay? It doth--it doth!

Just reckon what O. B. Orr is “wuth.”

THE BALLAD OF “OLD SCRATCH”

They have always called him “Scratchy,” Ezry
“Scratch” and “Uncle Scratch,”

Since the time he cut that ding-do in a certain
wrasslin’ match;

’Twas a pesky scaly caper; he deserved to get
the name

--If he lives to be a hundred he will carry it
the same.

He had vummed that he could wallop any feller
in the place,

He allowed that as a wrassler he could sort of
set the pace,

And he bragged so much about it that at last
we came to think.

If he’d lived in time o’ Samson--could have
downed Sam quick’s a wink.

And there wasn’t nary feller in the town nor
round about

Who had grit or grab or gumption to take holt
and shake him out.

And he set around the gros’ry keepin’ up his
steady clack

That there never was a feller who could put
him on his back.

So it went till Penley Peaslee’s oldest boy came
home from school

--And I tell you that’s a shaver that ain’t any-
body’s fool--!

He ain’t tall nor big nor husky and he isn’t
very stout,

But he’s nimble as a cricket and as spry as all
git out!

Well, he heard old Ezry braggin’ and at last
as cool’s could be

Boy says, “Uncle, shed your weskit; I will
take your stump,” says he.

Guess’twas jest about a minute’fore old Ezry
got his breath,

Then says he, “Scat on ye, youngster! I
should squat ye ha’f to death.

What ye think ye know’bout wrasslin’?
S’pose I’m go’n’ to fool with boys?”

But the crowd commenced to hoot him and they
made sech pesky noise

That at last they got him swearing and he
shed his coat and vest

And commenced to stretch his muscles and to
pound against his breast.

“S’pose I’ve got to if ye say so,” says he scorn-
ful as ye please,

“But I’ll throw that little shaver, one hand
tied and on my knees.

I can slat him galley-endways and not use one-
ha’f my strength.

What ye want bub? Take your ch’ice now;
side holts, back holts, or arm’s length?

Collar’n elbow if ye say so. Name yer pizen!
Take your pick!”

“Suit yourself,” the youngster answered;
“long’s ye git to business quick.”

As I’ve said the boy wam’t heavy;--he was
spry, though, quicker’n scat,

And he had old Ezry spinnin’’fore he knew
where he was at;

Hooked him solid, give a twister, doubled up
the old gent’s back

And Ez tumbled like a chimbly--smooth and
solid and ker-whack!

Well, he lay there stunned and breathless with
his mouth jam-full o’ dirt

And his both hands full o’ gingham, for he had
the youngster’s shirt.

When the crowd commenced to holler as he
staid there on the ground

Grocer Weaver’s old black tom-cat came on tip-
toe sniffin’ round.

He was just a-gettin’ ready for to gnaw off
Ezry’s nose

When the old man got his senses and he sud-
denly arose.

Then he grabbed that old black tom-cat good
and solid by the tail

And commenced to welt the youngster just as
hard as he could whale.

Ev’ry time he reached and raked him on that
bare white back of his--

Ow! them claws they grabbed in dretful and
they hurt him--ah, gee whiz!

There were howls and yowls and spittin’s; it
was rip and slit and tear,

And the air was full of tom-cat and of flyin’
skin and hair.

Final clip that Ezry hit him it was such a
tarnal clout

That the cat he stuck on solid till they pried
his toe-nails out.

So they’ve always called him “Scratchy” Ezry
“Scratch” and “Uncle Scratch.”

Since the time he cut that ding-do in a certain
wrasslin’ match;

’Twas a pesky scaly caper; he deserved to get
the name,

--If he lives to be a hundred he will carry it
the same.

WHEN ’LISH PLAYED OX

Grouty and gruff,

Profane and rough,

Old’Lish Henderson slammed through life;
Swore at his workers,

--Both honest and shirkers,
Threatened his children and raved at his wife.
Yes,’Lish was a waspish and churlish old man,
Who was certainly built on a porcupine plan,

In all of the section there couldn’t be found
A neighbor whom Henderson hadn’t “stood
‘round.”

And the men that he hired surveyed him with
awe

And cowered whenever he flourished his jaw.
Till it came to the time that he hired John Gile,
A brawny six-footer from Prince Edward’s
Isle.

He wanted a teamster, old Henderson did,

And a number of candidates offered a bid,

But his puffy red face and the glare in his eyes,

And his thunderous tones and his ominous size

And the wealth of his language embarrassed
them so

Their fright made them foolish;--he told them
to go.

And then, gaunt and shambling, with good-
natured smile,

Came bashfully forward the giant John Gile.

“Have ye ever driv’ oxen?” old Henderson
roared.

Gile said he could tell the brad-end of a goad.

Then Henderson grinned at the crowd stand-
ing’round

And he dropped to his hands and his knees on
the ground.

“Here, fellow,” he bellowed, “you take that
’ere gad,

Just imagine I’m oxen; now drive me, my
lad.

Just give me some samples of handlin’ the stick,

I can tell if I want ye and tell ye blame quick.”

Gile fingered the goad hesitatingly, then

As he saw Uncle’Lish grinning up at the men

Who were eyeing the trial, said, “Mister, I
swan,

‘Tain’t fair on a feller--this teamin’ a man.”

“I’m oxen--I’m oxen,” old Henderson cried,

“Git onto your job or git out an’ go hide.”

Then Gile held the goad-stick in uncertain pose

And gingerly swished it near Uncle’Lish’s
nose.

“Wo hysh,” he said gently; “gee up, there,
old Bright!

Wo hysh--wo, wo, hysh,”--but with mischiev-
ous light

In his beady old eyes Uncle’Lish never stirred

And the language he used was the worst ever
heard.

“Why, drat ye,” he roared “hain’t ye got no
more sprawl

Than a five year old girl? Why, ye might as
well call

Your team ‘Mister Oxen,’ and say to ’em,
‘please!’”

And then Uncle’Lish settled down on his
knees.

And he snapped, “Hain’t ye grit enough, man,
to say scat?

Ye’ll never git anywhere, drivin’ like that.

I’ll tell ye right now that the oxen I own

Hain’t driven like kittens; they don’t go alone,

There’s pepper-sass in ’em--they’re r’arin’ an’
hot, .

An’ I--I’m the r’arin’est ox in the lot.”

Then Uncle’Lish Henderson lowered his head

And bellowed and snorted. John Gile calmly
said,

“Of course--oh, of course in a case such as
that--”

He threw out his quid and he threw down his
hat,

Jumped up, cracked his heels, danced around
Uncle’Lish

And yelled like a maniac, “Blast ye, wo hysh!”

Ere Uncle’Lish Henderson knew what was
what

His teeth fairly chattered, he got such a swat

From that vicious ash stick--though that
wasn’t as bad

As when the man gave him two inches of brad,

--Just jabbed it with all of his two-handed
might,

“Wo, haw, there,” he shouted, “gee up there,
old Bright!”

Well, Uncle’Lish gee-ed--there’s no doubt
about that--

Went into the air and he squalled like a cat,

Made a swing and a swoop at that man in a
style

That would show he proposed to annihilate
Gile.

But Gile clinched the goad-stick and hit him a
whack

On the bridge of his nose--sent him staggering
back,

And he reeled and he gasped and he sunk on
his knee,

“Dad-rat ye,” yelled Gile, “don’t ye try to
hook me!

Gee up, there--go’long there; wo haw an’ wo
hysh!”

And again did he bury that brad in old’Lish,

Then he lammed and he basted him, steady and
hard,

He chased and he bradded him all’round the
yard,

Till’Lish fairly screamed, as he dodged like a

fox,

“For heaven’s sake, stranger, let’s play I hain’t
ox.”

Gile bashfully stammered, “Why,’course ye
are not!

But ye’ll have to excuse me--I sort o’ forgot!”

With a twisted smile
‘Lish looked at Gile,

Then he lifted one hand from the place where
he smarted;

And he held it out,

--Gripped good and stout,

“Ye’re hired,” said he; “I reckin I’m
started!”

OLD “TEN PER CENT”

His mouth is pooched and solemn and he’ll
never squeeze a smile,

He’s yeller ’em saffron bitters’cause he’s col-
ored so by bile;

No organ in his system seems to run the way
it should,

--He never has a hearty shake or says a word
of good.

He’ll soften, though, a crumb or so if money’s
to be lent

And some poor strugglin’ devil comes to time
with ten per cent.

He is flingin’ and is dingin’ first at this and
then at that,

And to ev’ry reputation gives a cuff or kick or
slat;

Pretty lately he was spewin’ sland’rous gossip
he had heard,

And our minister was passin’. Wal, the elder
he was stirred

And he says, “Ah, Brother Bowler, if you’d
lived in Jesus’ time

When they brought to him the woman whom
they’d taken in her crime,

That story in the Scriptures would have took
a diff’rent tone,

For I s’picion if you’d been there you’d’a’ up
and thrown the stone.

Yes, I reckon that the woman would have sartin
been a goner,

For you’d thrown the rock--and that hain’t
all! You’d’a’ thrown one with a corner!”

Wal, ye’d think a dig of that sort would have
shamed him ha’f to death,

But, Land o’ Goshen, neighbor,--hain’t no mor-
tifyin’ Seth!

--Jest a waste of breath
To jab at Uncle Seth,

He’s holler where the soul should be--hain’t
got no human peth.

He’s deef to ev’ry cry of want and don’t know
what is meant,

But--bet he’ll hear for ha’f a mile the whisper,
“Ten per cent!”

It took a lot of practicin’ to work his hearin’
down

To where he’s never bothered by the troubles in
our town.

He never hears the sorrows of some woman
who is left

With orphans and a morgidge’bout a thousand
times her heft.

He hain’t the one that worries when she says
she cannot pay,

The morgidge holds her anchored--the farm
can’t git away.

Upon the shattered door-steps of his racked
old tenements

He crowds the wolf of hunger when he goes
to git his rents.

But he never hears the wailin’ of the troubled
folks within,

He simply wants his money and’tis tenant, trot
or tin!

He never hears entreaties of his neighbors in
the lurch

Unless there’s good endorsers. He never hears
the church,

He never hears the knockin’ of a fist upon his
door

Unless he knows the thuddin’ means his ten
per cent--or more.

(His auditory organs sense no waves from
wails of sorrow

But they hear the faintest zephyr from the man
who wants to borrow.)

Now, with ears in that condition, when they’re
extry dulled by death,

On the Resurrection mornin’ I’ll have fears for
Uncle Seth.

When Gab’rel toots his trump
And risen spirits jump,

And up before the Throne of Light forthwith
proceed to hump,

I reckin Seth will slumber on, not knowin’ what
is meant
‘Cause Gab’rel won’t take’special pains to hol-
ler, “Ten per cent!”

DIDN’T BUST HIS FORK

He could tell ye what he’d done,

--He was eloquent, my son,

In puttin’ all his doin’s into mighty lively talk.

But I’ve follered him around,

And, by gosh, I never found

That he ever lifted hard enough to
Bust

His

Fork!

Pie was always full o’ brag
‘Bout how he could lift a jag
That would double up a hossfork and make
the horses balk.

But I never see’d no signs
That he ever bent the tines
Or ever bruk’ the handle of his
Old

Pitch

Fork!

MEAN SAM GREEN

Old Sam Green!

What? Mean?

I reckin that a meaner man was skercely ever
seen.

People said he’d skin a fly for sake of hide an’
grease;

He wouldn’t grin--it stretched the skin, an’
he begredged the crease.

Sort o’ squirmed when asked to set--didn’t
want the chance!

We wondered why; we found at last’twas
jest to save his pants.

Never used to shave himself, never combed his

hair;

Used to sort o’ hate to wash, account o’ wear
and tear.

Never beau-ed the wimmen’round, never spent
a cent,

’Cept the time he bought a girl an ounce of
pepperment.

Alius kind o’ groaned o’ that; said the dratted
dunce

Set an’ chawnked an’ chawnked an’ chawnked
an’ et it all to once.

Said he learned a lesson then to last him all
through life;

Said’twould take a millionaire to feed a hearty
wife.

So he planned an’ worked an’ saved an’ grubbed
his little patch,

Allowed he’d ruther plug along, jest like he
was, “old bach.”

Sam, though, shifted later on--the pesky mean
old goat--

He struck a find; she’d had a shock that par-
alyzed her throat! .

Still, she worked most dretful spry--didn’t
need no spurs--

Only “out” that woman had was that ’ere
throat of hers. 1

Married her? you bet he did! Straight--right
off the reel!

Reckoned that she couldn’t eat a reel, good
hearty meal.

Figgered he’d git lots of work an’ only feed her
slim;

Wife, though, wopsed it t’other way an’ got
the laugh on him!

I reckin that a madder man was skercely ever
seen,

Than Green,

Old mean Sam Green.

Soon’s she fairly placed her feet, she called the
doctors in,

An’ they commenced to work on her an’ tap
old Green for tin.

He swore an’ howled, but she was boss--she
run the whole concern--

She said she’d morgidge all he owned to cure
that throat of her’n.

The high-priced doctors far an’ near come
hustlin’ to the place,

An’ fubbed an’ fussed an’ then discussed that
reely puzzlin’ case.

An’ each performed his little stunt with all his
skill an’ will,

An’ said that time would do the rest--an’ then
put in his bill.

Wal, Land o’ Goshen, Sam took on as though
they drawed his blood.

He’d hitch and hunch his wallet out as though
’twas stuck in mud.

Their nuss was quite a hand to tog; she used
to say to us

She wished that corsets laced as tight’s the
straps on that old puss.

Mis’ Green at last got down reel slim; one
night--so nuss, she said,

Old Sam come creepin’, creakin’ in; set down
‘longside the bed.

He stooped an’ poked around a spell, picked up
Lucindy’s shoe,

An’ then--wal, nuss she vums an’ vows this
’ere is honest true:

He routed’round the fireplace an’ got a cinder-
coal,

An’ went to figgerin’ up expense, right there
on ’Cindy’s sole.

He talked the items right out loud, but ’Cindy
didn’t kick

So long’s he only reckoned things she’d had
while she was sick.

But when he got to projickin’’bout what
’twould prob’ly cost

To bury her in decent shape, he sort o’ up an’
crossed

The “mean-man” line, the “tarnal mean” an’
even “gaul-durned mean”--

He formed a brand-new class himself; jest
him alone, Sam Green,

Stands serene!

“Green mean,”

Signifies the meanest man that ever ye have
seen.

Die? What! ’Cindy up an’ die? You bet
she didn’t die!

Got so mad to hear him talk she flew right up
sky-high.

Hopped like sixty out o’bed, as hearty’s Paddy’s
goat,

An’ that ’ere kink--whatever’twas--it came
right out her throat.

An’ talk? She hadn’t talked for years, but
soon’s she got her breath,

I swan to man, I reely b’lieve she talked old
Green to death.

For ’fore she’d trod around enough to wear the
coal marks out,

Old Sam curled up an’ passed away. Some
said there wa’n’t much doubt

He’d reely died two years before, but hadn’t
let folks know,

Because these undertakin’ chaps tuck on ex-
penses so.

Perk Todd was tellin’ down t’ the store he had
a dream las’ week--

He dreamed he got in Paradise! Must been
a denied close’ squeak!

Wal, Perk he says an angel there was showin’
him around,

“At last,” says Perk, “I ups an’ asks how
’twas I hadn’t found

No people there from where I’d lived. The
angel says, says he:
‘Here bub!’ A cherub scooted up. ‘Go git
the storehouse key.’”

Says Perk: “The angel took me in. An’
where we were, it’peared

That’bout a billion boxed-up things was there
all nicely tiered.

The angel said, ‘When folks on earth do any-
thing that’s small

Their souls git squizzled bit by bit; an’ when
they die, then all

The little, teenty souls that come are packed in
here, ye know,

Jes’ same’s they box tomater plants to giv’ ’em
time to grow.’

He hunted’round an’ found a box. ‘There,’
finally said he,

‘We’ve got about as sing’lar thing as ever ye
will see.’

Inside that box was nested dus’ a dozen boxes
more;

The last box was the smallest box I ever saw
before,

An’ in it was a teenty speck. ‘Is that a soul?’
says I.

‘Oh, no,’ said he, ‘the thing you see’s the eye-
brow of a fly.

You couldn’t see the soul that’s there, to save
your blessed neck,

Because it’s one ten-millionth part as big’s
that leetle speck.

In fact it is the smallest soul that we have ever
seen;

The label says’--he squinted hard--‘it’s one
old Sam’wel Green.’

All serene,

Sam Green

Is ticketed ‘The Limit; Number billion-umpty
steen.’”

DICKERER JIM

That Dickerer Jim--Shenanigan Jim.

I never see’d hoss jockey equal to him.

He’d rather swap hosses than eat a good meal,

He’d take all the chances--and Jim wouldn’t
squeal!

He’d talk like a cyclone on any old skate

--Take a wheezy old pel ter with hopity gait

And he’d make you believe--would that Dick-
erer Jim--

There were all kinds of pedigrees tied up in
him.

And you bet your old boots, if he got you in
range

He could touch you all right for a sale or a
“change.”

--As keen as a brier, as sharp as a knife

He never got phazed except once in his life.

And that was a corker, by ginger, on him,

On Dickerer Jim--Shenanigan Jim.

He loaded a breather--a reg’lar old rip

On a man from the city--just did it by lip.

Talked the man dumb and silly and giv’ him the
hooks

Till the chap forked his money just simply on
looks.

And he went back to town with a big double
cross

In the shape of a whoofity plug of a boss.

Jim--Jim,

Shenanigan Jim,

Didn’t you--didn’t you soak it to him!

Jim--Jim,

As a sample of “trim”

That feller was pruned to the very last limb.

Now Dickerer Jim--Shenanigan Jim--

Was down in the city. His eyesight was dim;

So he couldn’t keep lookout, and first thing he
knew

Right plumb up against him that city chap
blew.

He recognized Jim--Jim hadn’t seen him--

Till the feller grabbed holt; then the chances
seemed slim

For avoidin’ a scrimmage, for seldom is seen

A chap that’s so mad that his face is pea green.

But his tongue wasn’t ready as quick as his
sight;

Now Jim couldn’t see, yet his tongue was all
right,

And away he went, lickity-whizzle! Talk,
talk!

While the feller was still scoring down in a
balk

With his mouth propped apart; oh, he’d plenty

to say,

But Jim, goin’ steady, had levelled away.

And he told that ’ere feller he’d hunted for him,

--Did Dickerer Jim--Shenanigan Jim.

The feller allowed he’d been huntin’ some, too,

But Jim didn’t hesitate--slam-banged it
through!

Says he, “I’ve been sorry I sold you that hoss

And the minit I sold him I knew’twas a loss.

For the very same day that you took him away

I met with a chap that I figger will pay

A clean and cool hundred above what you giv’,

--I can load that ’ere hoss on that chap, sure’s
you live.

That feller he wants him--lie’s anxious to pay;

Now what shall I say to him--what shall I
say?”

Then the sucker he tore and he swore, and says
he,

“Go tell him the same blasted lie you told me!

He’ll buy, don’t you worry! You’ll tag him--
he’s It,

--That’s a lie you can never improve on a bit!”

Jim--Jim,

Shenanigan Jim,

That was a side-windin’ answer for him.

Jim--Jim,

Jest turned and he “clim’”

For he see’d there warn’t stretch in the chap’s
t’other limb.

BALLAD OF BENJAMIN BRANN

Oh, a positive man--a positive man,

So the people discovered, was Benjamin Brann.

With his household and neighbors and children
and hoss

Old Brann allowed he would always be boss.

And the most of the people they’d ruther kow-
tow

To his notions than live in the midst of a row.

And whenever you’d see in a faint-hearted
crowd,

A man who was hollerin’’specially loud,

You could calculate suttin that positive man

Was the uncontradicted old Benjamin Brann.

For after a while all the folks stood in awe

Of the roar of his voice and the build of his
jaw;

He was lookin’ for trouble and carried a chip

And chance for a tussle he never let slip;

He hated to think that the world could still go

When he stood at one side and kept hollerin’
“whoa!”

One day he was teamin’ his oxen to town;

He set on the cart tongue., his feet hangin’
down.

And bein’ a positive kind of a chap,

--Pokin’ out o’ his way for the sake of a
scrap--

Whenever he noticed a boulder or stump

He’d gee. and ride over the critter ker-bump!

But it happened one boulder that he came
across

Gave Benjamin’s ox-cart too lively a toss;

He was under the broad-tired wheels, s’r. before

He’d gathered his voice for his usual roar.

But just as the ox-cart rolled over him--oh,

You’d a-fallen down stunned at the way he
yelled “whoa!”

’Twas so loud and so threat’nin’ that Brindle
and Haw

Who bowed to that voice as their Gospel and
Law

Were so eager to stop that they backed, s’r,
and then

The wheel it rolled over the old man again.

There’s a moral to this as you notice, no doubt,

But I haven’t the patience to ravel it out.

I’ll say to reformers and dogmatists, though,

It’s safest to holler a moderate “whoa!”

THE HEIRS

They hastened to the funeral when Aunt Sa-
brina died.

Nephews, nieces, relatives--they came from
far and wide.

They hurried in by boat and train; they came
by stage and team,

In breasts a jealous bitter greed, in eyes a hun-
gry gleam.

I knew the most as decent men, their wives as
honest dames,

Who in the common run of things were careful
of their names.

And yet, alas, we sadly find that many who be-
have

As cooing doves in daily life are buzzards at
the grave.

So while the choir softly purred, and while the
parson prayed,

The lids of mourning eyes were raised and
sneaking glances strayed

From old-style clock to pantry shelf, from par-
lor set to rug,

And knitted brows weighed soberly how much
each heir could lug.

Anon the lustful glances crossed and scowl re-
plied to scowl,

And spoke as plain as though the look were
voiced in sullen growl:

Thus when the parson prayed, “Oh, Lord, take
Thou this way-worn soul,”

I caught a look that plainly spoke: “I’ll take
that china bowl.”

And this look said, “I speak for that,” and
that look spoke for this,

The while the parson droned of love and told
them of the bliss

That cometh after struggles here; “The peace
of rest,” he said,

And then each woman claimed through looks
her aunt’s goose-feather bed.

’Twas thus the kindred flocked to town when
Aunt Sabrina died,

Ostensibly to bury her, but really to divide.

No will was left,’twas catch as can; and each
and every heir,

Came in with desperate intent to scoop the big-
gest share.

They passed around with creaking shoes and
kissed the silent lip,

And pressed the limp, old, withered hand from
out whose jealous grip

The goods of earth had slipped away to heap a
funeral pyre,

A tinder pile where torch of Greed would start
a roaring fire.

They rode behind in solemn show and stood
around the grave,

Until the coffin sank from sight; and then each
jealous knave

Hopped back with great celerity in carriage and
in hack,

And folks who saw averred those heirs raced
horses going back.

This is no fairy tale, my friend! I’m giving
you the facts,

’Tis just an instance where the heirs came
round and brought an axe;

Where folks of pretty honest stripe could
hardly bear to wait

To decently inter the corpse ere carving the
estate;

--All ready at the prayer’s “Amen” to scratch
and haul and claw

With nails of jealous rancor and the talons of
the law.

My brother, I’ve a notion, that it is sinful pride

When we pose before the heathen as a highly
moral guide.

For here in old New England are some capers
that would--hush!--

This is strictly on the quiet--put a savage to
the blush.

You know that when a savage leaves his rela-
tives bereft,

There isn’t any scrapping over what the heathen
left.

They bury all his queer stone tools, his arrows
and his bow,

They stuff his pack with grub for snack; put
in his wampum “dough;”

They kill his horse and slay his dog and then
they sing a song,

And kill off all his weeping wives and send
them right along.

There’s no annoying probate court, no long,
litigious fuss,

No lawyer’s fees, no family row, no will-de-
stroying cuss.

The estate is executed in a brisk and thorough
style

And though some certain features suit all right
a heathen isle,

Some squeamish person might arise and prop-
erly complain

There’s too much execution for adoption here
in Maine.

So I’ll not commend the custom, yet I firmly
will abide

In the notion that we have no right to pose as
moral guide

To the heathen; for it’s evident, untutored
though they are,

The heirs at least show manners in Borrioboola
Gha.

A. B. APPLETON, “PIRUT”

Abbott B. Appleton went to the fair

_(Sing hey! for the wind among his whiskers)_,

Saw curious “dewin’s” while he was down
there

‘Mongst the gamblers, the sports and the frisk-
ers.

He carried his bills in a wallet laid flat--

An old-fashioned calf-skin as black as your hat;

He was feeling so well he was easy to touch--
Then he hadn’t as much; no, there wasn’t as
much.

He noticed a crowd’round a pleasant-faced
man

Whose business seemed based on a curious plan;
He asked for a quarter from each in the crowd,
Put the coin in his hat, and he forthwith al-
lowed

That simply to advertise he would restore
His quarter to each, adding three quarters
more.

Now Abbott B. Appleton he did invest--
Anxious to share in these spoils with the rest.
Man asked for ten dollars, and Abbott, said he:
“Why, sartin! And then we’ll git thutty back
free.”

But the man who was running the charity
game

Informed him it didn’t work always the same,
And Abbott B. Appleton got for his ten
A smile--and the man didn’t play it again.
Then Abbott, in order to make himself square,
Got after the rest of the snides at the fair.

He hunted the pea, but he never could tell
When “the darned little critter” was under
the shell.

He shot at a peg with a big, swinging ball,
Five dollars a shot--didn’t hit it at all.

And he finally found himself “gone all to
smash,”

With wisdom, a lot--and two dollars in cash.

Abbott B. Appleton cursed at the fair
_(Sing fie! for a man who ’tended meetin’)_,
And he said to himself, “Gaul swat it, I swear
Them games is just rigged up for heatin’.

I thought they was honest down here in this
town;

I swow if I hadn’t I wouldn’t come down;

But if cheatin’s their caper I guess there’s idees
That folks up in Augerville have, if ye please.
I’m a pretty straight man when they use me all
square,

But I’m pirut myself at a Pirut-town fair.

I won’t pick their pockets to git back that
dough,

But I reckin’ I’ll giv’ ’em an Augerville show.”

Abbott B. Appleton “barked” at the fair
_(Sing sakes! how the people they did gather)_,
And his cross-the-lot voice it did bellow and
blare

Till it seemed that his lungs were of leather.

He said that he had there inside of his pen
Most singular fowl ever heard of by men:

“The Giant Americanized Cock-a-too,”

With his feathers, some red and some white,
and some blue.

He promised if ever its like lived before
He’d give back their money right there at the
door.

Then he vowed that the sight of the age was
within.

“’Twill never,” he shouted. “be seen here agin..
’Tis an infant white annercononda, jest brought
From the African wilds, where it lately was
caught.

The only one ever heern tell of before,

All wild and untamed, that far foreign shore.”

Abbott B. Appleton raked in the tin.

_(Sing chink! for the money that he salted.)_
Then he opened the gates and he let ’em all in,
And then--well, then Abbott defaulted.

It was time that he did, for the people had
found

Just a scared Brahma hen squatting there on
the ground;

Her plumage was decked in a way to surprise,
With turkey-tail streamers all colored with
dyes;

And above, on a placard, this sign in plain
sight:

“There’s nothin’ else like her. I trimmed her
last night”

In a little cracked flask was an angle-worm
curled--

“Young annercononda, sole one in the
world.”

And another sign stated, “He’s small, I sup-
pose,

But if he hain’t big enough, wait till he grows.”

And Abbott B. Appleton, speeding afar,

Was counting his roll in a hurrying car,

Saying still, “As a general rule I’m all square,

But I’m pirut myself at a Pirut-town fair.”

NEXT TO THE HEART

WITH LOVE--FROM MOTHER

There’s a letter on the bottom of the pile,

Its envelope a faded, sallow brown,

It has traveled to the city many a mile,

And the postmark names a’way up country
town.

But the hurried, worried broker pushes all the
others by,

And on the scrawly characters he turns a glis-
tening eye.

He forgets the cares of commerce and his anx-
ious schemes for gain,

The while he reads what mother writes from
up in Maine.

There are quirks and scratchy quavers of the
pen

Where it struggled in the fingers old and bent,

There are places where he has to read again

And think a bit to find what mother meant.

There are letters on his table that inclose some
bouncing checks;

There are letters giving promises of profits on
his “specs.”

But he tosses all the litter by, forgets the
golden rain,

Until he reads what mother writes from up in
Maine.

At last he finds “with love--we all are well,”

And softly lays the homely letter down,

Then dashes at his eager tasks pell-mell,

--Once more the busy, anxious man of town.

But whenever in his duties as the rushing mo-
ments fly

That faded little envelope smiles up to meet
his eye,

He turns again to labor with a stronger, truer
brain,

From thinking on what mother wrote from up
in Maine.

All through the day he dictates brisk replies,

To his amanuensis at his side,

--The curt and stern demands and business
lies,

--The doubting man cajoled, and threat de-
fied.

And then at dusk when all are gone he drops
his worldly mask

And takes his pen and lovingly performs a wel-
come task;

For never shall the clicking- type or shorthand
scrawl profane

The message to the dear old home up there in
Maine.

The penmanship is rounded, schoolboy style,

For mother’s eyes are getting dim, she wrote;

And as he sits and writes there, all the while

A bit of homesick feeling grips his throat.

For all the city friendships here with Tom and
Dick and Jim

And all the ties of later years grow very, very
dim;

While boyhood’s loves in manhood’s heart rise
deep and pure and plain.

Called forth by mother’s homely words from
up in Maine.

THE QUAKER WEDDING

Without, the summer silence lies--
Within, the meeting-house is still;

The hush of First Day hovers o’er
All human-kind on Quaker Hill.

The tethered Dobbins doze and blink
In stolid calm beneath the shed;

In First Day, Quaker attitude,

With half-closed eyes and drooping head.
The cheeping birds, abashed and mute,
Have skittered off to search for shade.

Just one lone roysterer, a bee,
Embarrassed at the noise lie’s made,
Whirrs up against a staring pane
And folds his wings and sits him down,

To gaze with apiarian mirth

On strange drab poke and shining crown.

The elders sit in sober rows,

Upon the long, prim, facing-seats;

--Each visage like an iron mask;

No look of recognition greets
The softened landscape out of doors.

--The shimmer of the summer falls
On unresponsive eyes; The God
Of Nature all unheeded calls.

Their half-veiled gaze droops coldly down,
Fixed on the dusty, worn, old floor,
Unnoting that the gracious Lord
Smiles in God’s sunshine at the door.

The Spirit has not moved the tongue;

Each contrite soul has conned its own;
And in the hush of silent prayer,

Each worshipper has bent alone.

And some are sad and some are stern

And some are smug and others bow
As though, with furtive stealth, to hide
What conscience writes upon the brow.

But hark! the Meeting lifts its eyes
And he who’s sitting at the head
Breaks on the hush with reverent tone:

“If friends,” says he, “have planned to wed
’Tis meet that now they do proceed.”
Forthwith upon the women’s side
A blushing youth stands forth in view
And with him shrinks his Quaker bride.

With trembling hand in shaking palm,

They face the Meeting’s awful hush,

--No minister to question them,

No kindly shield to hide a blush.

Alone they stand, alone must they
Swear matrimony’s solemn oath;

A hundred noses point their way,

Two hundred eyes stare hard at both.

Then twice and thrice the youth’s parched lips
Strive hard to frame the longed-for word;
And twice and thrice he tries again,

Yet not a single sound is heard.

There’s just an upward flash of eyes
Like starlight in a forest pool,

--She may have said, “Take heart, dear
one!”

--She may have said, “Go on, thou fool!

His cheeks flush dark, his lips are gray,
His knees drum fast against the pew.

But by a mighty gasp he speaks,

The dry lips part, a croak comes through:
“Here in the presence of the Lord,

And in the First-Day meeting, I
Take thee, my friend, Susannah Saul
To be my wife. My loving eye
Shall rest on thee, and till the Lord
Is pleased by death to separate
Our lives and loves, I’ll be to thee
An honest, faithful, loving mate.”

As one an echo of a song
Thrums thinly on a single string,

The Quaker maid in trembling tones
Vows to her lord to likewise bring
Love, truth and trust to grace their home.
Their voices cease and side by side
They stand abashed. One honest voice
Rolls out, “Amen;” the knot is tied.

THE MADAWASKA WOOING

Petit Pierre of Attegat,

--Peter, the Little, round and fat,

Balanced himself on the edge of a chair
And gazed in the eyes of Father Claire.
Without on the porch, defiant sat
The prettiest maiden in Attegat.

And here was trouble; for Zelia Dionne
Had vowed to the Virgin she’d be a nun;
But Peter, who loved her more than life,
Was fully as bound she should be his wife.
Yet as often as Peter pressed to wed
The pretty Zelia tossed her head.

“I’m not for the wife of man,” she said.

“I’ve dreamed three times our Mary came
And pressed my brow and spoke my name.

I know she means for me to kneel
And take the vows at St. Basil.”

Though Peter stormed, yet Zelia clung
To her belief and braved his tongue.

“Je t’aime, mon cher,” she shyly said,

And drooped her eyes and bent her head;

“But when our Virgin Mother calls
A maiden to her convent walls,

How shameless she to disobey
And follow her own guilty way!”

“But dearest,” Peter warmly plead,

“’Twould not be guilty if it led
To our own home and our own love!

Our Holy Mother from Above,

Will pardon us--I know she will--”

And yet the maid responded still,

“I dare not, Peter, disobey,

And follow my own guilty way.”

So thus it chanced that Zelia Dionne
Had vowed herself to be a nun.

Though Peter teased for many a day
She pressed her lips and said him nay,

And when he begged that she at least
Would leave the question to the priest,
Although she grudged her faint consent
As meaning doubt, at last she went,
Overpersuaded by Peter’s prayer,

To take the case to Father Clair.

Peter, the Little, of Attegat
Fumbled with trembling hands his hat,

As breathlessly he tried to trace

The thoughts that crossed the father’s face.

“My son,” at length the priest returned,

--How Peter’s heart within him burned--

“If truly by the maid the Queen
Of Most High Heaven hath been seen,

--If only in her maiden dreams--

You must allow it ill beseems
My mouth to speak. It may be sin,

For--well, my son, bring Zelia in!”

She stood before him half abashed
Yet boldly, too;--her dark cheek dashed
With ruddy flame; for all her soul
Burned holily. For now her whole
Rich nature stirred. She was not awed
For had she not been called of God?

And little Peter sat and stared
And marvelled how he’d ever dared
To lift his eyes to such a maid,

Or strive to wreck the choice she’d made.
She told in simple terms the tale.

“And do you wish to take the veil?”

The father asked. “Think long, think twice
And never mourn the sacrifice.”

She quivered, but she said, “I’ve thought;
Our Mary wills it and I ought.”

“And can you gladly say farewell
To earth and love and friends; to dwell
With perfect peace nor ever sigh

For things behind?” She said, “I’ll try.”
But even as she spoke the word,

The old time love for Peter stirred;

And mingling with her quick regret,

There came a sob and Peter’s wet,

Sad eyes peered at her through a rain
Of honest tears. She tried in vain
To choke her grief, but Zelia Dionne
Forgot her vow to be a nun,

And crying, “Pierre, I love you best!”

She flung herself upon his breast.

A moment thus--and then in prayer
Both knelt before good Father Clair.

“My daughter, did that vision speak
That night when motherly and meek,

She pressed her hand upon thy brow?

No? Then, my child, she spoke just now;
And in the promptings of thy heart
Her word is clear. My child, thou art
Blest in this choice, for that caress
Upon thy brow was but to bless
And not to call thee from thy choice.

Depart in peace, wed and rejoice.”

Peter, the Little, of Attegat,

Clapped on his curls, his fuzzy hat,

And clasping the hand of his promised bride

He trudged back home with one at his side,
--No longer the self-vowed, mournful nun,

But laughing, black-eyed Zelia Dionne.

THE SONG OF THE MAN WHO DRIVES

Here’s a toast to the kings and the health of
the queens

Of the echoing oval course;

And a song of the steel that is forged for the
wheel

And the hoof of the blue-blood horse!

There’s the song of the steel that is forged for
the wars--

The song of the long, bright sword;

The chant of the weapon the patriot draws

In defence of his land, in support of its laws--

In the cause that his heart has adored.

But the sword that is bared to the glint of the
sun,

--Who knows when that sword will be
sheathed?

For strife plunges hotly when once’tis begun,

So the steel of the sword I forswear and I
shun,

And the horrors its edge has bequeathed.

No, I vaunt the honest circlet to a worthy use
applied--

The steel that flashes swiftly in the broad two-
minute stride;

The steel that clinking hammers in the forges’
clang and heat

Have shaped with merry music for a trotter’s
twinkling feet.

You may choose the glint of sabres or the gleam
of martial arms,

As for me the vibrant flashing of those hoofs
has greater charms,

As I ride the swaying sulky and we cleave the
singing air,

And I hear the merry rick-tack of the trotting
of my mare.

Now what are the prizes of war, my boy,

Or the honors of kingdom and court
To a chap that’s contented with honester joy
Than desperate ventures that crush and de-
stroy

In the din of the battlefield’s sport?

I envy no prowess of warriors of old
Astride of a mail-clad steed.

And I challenge the right of the furious might
That forces an innocent victim to fight
For human ambition or greed.

But ho, for the rush of the steel-shod feet

When the clink of the bright shoe rings--

When the flickering hoofs down the home-
stretch beat

And I on the perch of the sulky seat

Drive hard in the Sport of Kings.

I pledge to you the honor of the ringing, sing-
ing course,

When the tautened reins are throbbing with the
motion of the horse,

When the glossy shoulders glisten with the
twitching muscles’ play,

Beating time in swift staccato to the slender
sulky’s sway.

Let the roaring stand go crazy as we finish at
the pole--

’Tis no human acclamation that avails to stir
my soul,

’Tis the batter and the clatter of those hoofs
that ring and beat,

’Tis the rhythm and the music of those flashing
little feet--

’Tis the sympathy between us, all a-quiver in
the reins,

Till I almost feel the pulsing of the current in
her veins,

And I have no eye or hearing for the vain ac-
claim of man

When my heart and soul are throbbing with
her hoof-beats’ rataplan.

To the king of the course! To the queen of
the track! .

What matter their breeding or name?

To all that have battled the second-hand back

Here’s tribute in measure the same.

Here’s a toast to the king and the health of the
queen,

Who reign on the oval course,

--To the stout, stout steel! forged true for the
wheel

Or the hoof of the blue-blood horse.

THE OLD PEWTER PITCHER

I festoon for Bacchus no chaplet of roses,

I will vaunt not the vat--I’ve no homage for
wine;

Panegyric of paint for convivial noses
Shall never find place in a lyric of mine.
Unseemly indeed were such rank exhibition
Of scorn for the statutes that seek to restrain,
By beneficent mandate of stern Prohibition,

The lust for the grape in the good State of
Maine.

So a truce to the bowl and its fervid excitement,
And down with the flagon, the goblet and
stein!

My lyric exalts the more balmy enticement
Of a certain old humble companion of mine.
’Tis addressed
With a zest

Springing out of vague unrest
Stirring underneath my vest.

I’m obsessed
By a guest

Who has come at my behest

From the misty days of boyhood, borne se-
renely in the van

Of the friends that I’d forgotten in the cares
that grind the man.

--You were just a pewter pitcher, a demure
and dull old pot--

With a yee-yaw to your nozzle like the grimace
of a sot.

The knob upon your cover had a truly rakish
cant,

Your paunch was apoplectic and your handle
had a slant

Of a most.convivial nature. But despite your
seedy style

Not a guest upon the threshold got a more
benignant smile