Chapter IV: Part 4

Than when upon a platter, flanked by apples
and by pears,

You rose splashing full of cider up the dark old
cellar stairs.

I’m sure that the fruit that we sacrificed duly
Each fall to the cruel embrace of the press

Had quaffed of the honey of Nature and truly
Deserved from her hand a more tender
caress.

Pm sure that the sun kissed both fruit and the
flower

With all the devotion his warm heart could
bring,

Till Alcohol ceded his ominous power
And gall lost its bitter, the adder its sting,

For though round and round went the old pew-
ter pitcher,

And chucklingly filled for us horn after
horn,

We never saw dragon, blue goblin or witch, or
Required a hoop for our heads in the morn.

Here goes!

Here’s to those

Who sat and warmed their toes

Drowning cares and frets and woes.

No one knows
How memory glows
As I see that ancient nose

Gleaming blandly in the circle of the friends of
long ago

Within, the light; without, the night and the
wind and drifting snow.

Then the dented pewter pitcher poured for us
its amber stream

While the tinkling bubbles winked upon the
brink with dancing gleam,

Ah, there was no guile within you as there were
no gauds without

--Just a plain, old-fashioned fellow, with an
awful homely snout;

And you never left us headaches and you didn’t
stir the bile,

And no guest upon the threshold got a more
benignant smile

Than when, upon a platter, flanked by apples
and by pears,

You rose splashing full of cider up the dark old
cellar stairs.

OUR GOOD PREVARICATORS

OUR LIARS HERE IN MAINE

There was Sinon, he of Troy, and Ulysses, too,
and Cain,

Who preceded many centuries the liars here in
Maine.

There was Gulliver, Munchausen, there was
Ananias, too,

A very handsome job of it those gentlemen
could do.

Yet look at Ananias! Why, his story knocked
him dead,

But here in Maine the liar “does” the other
man instead.

And Sinon, he of Troy, had to plan and build
his lie,

But here in Maine the liar doesn’t even have
to try.

For the pure prevarication comes cascading
down his lip

And he never seems to falter or to stub his toe
and trip.

And he walks abroad with honor, and no mortal
will arraign

The pure and worthy motives of the liar here
in Maine.

His strongest hold is fishing, and he fixes with
his eye

The victim who must listen and who never
dares deny.

Each river and pellucid pond, each brooklet and
each stream,

Possesses fifty liars to preserve it in esteem.

And he that owns a yaller dog, and he that
owns a hoss

Will never see their laurels dimmed, if words
can add a gloss.

’Tis true the old inhabitant, narrating ancient
tales,

Occasionally soars to heights where homely
language fails.

So then, alas, he’s hampered some, but note
his kindling eye,

And as he gets his second wind, observe how
he can lie!

’Tis no invidious charge I bring against this
worthy crew,

We love the lies they tell to us and love the
liars too.

They hold to truth in business deals, they’d
never lie to cheat;

But when the “sport” comes down from town,
by gracious he’s their meat.

They “torch” him up with narrative until his
fancy steams

And swogons, yaps, and witherlicks go ramp-
ing through his dreams.

For when our solemn ruminants describe the
olden times

They stimulate a state of mind I can’t describe
in rhymes.

I pen this humble lyric and I bring a wreath of
bay,

For the good prevaricators doing business down
this way.

May their tongues be ever limber, and im-
agination free,

With no interloping infidel to ask how such
can be.

May the plug from which they nibble spice a
piquant, pungent tale,

May words to paint the details of their fiction
never fail.

Let the chips from which they whittle always
have an even grain,

And we’ll challenge all creation with our liars
here in Maine.

THE BALLAD OF DOC PLUFF

Doctor Pluff, who lived in Cornville, he was
hearty, brisk and bluff,

Didn’t have much extry knowledge, but in
some ways knowed enough;

Knowed enough to doctor hosses, cows an’ dogs
an’ hens an’ sheep,

When he come to doctor humans, wal, he wasn’t
quite so deep.

Still, he kind o’ got ambitious, an’ he went an’
stubbed his toe,

When he tried to tackle subjects that he really
didn’t know.

Doc he started out the fust-off as a vet’rinary
doc,

An’ he made a reputation jest as solid as a rock.

Doct’rin’ hosses’ throats or such like, why, there
warn’t a man in town

Who could take a cone of paper, poof the sul-
phur furder down.

He could handle pips an’ garget in a brisk an’
thorough style,

An’ there wan’t a cow’t would hook him when
he give her castor ile.

As V. S. he had us solid, but he loosened up his
hold

When he doctored Uncle Peaslee for his reg’lar
April cold.

Uncle Peaslee allus caught it when he took
his flannels off,

For a week or two he’d wheezle, sniff an’ snee-
zle, bark an’ cough.

An’ at last, in desperation, when the thing be-
came so tough,

He adopted some suggestions that were made
by Doctor Pluff.

Fust o’ March he started early an’ he reg’lar
ev’ry day

From his heavy winter woolens tore a little
strip away.

For the doc he had insisted that the change
could thus be made,
‘Cause the system wouldn’t notice such an easy,
steady grade.

Walsir,’bout the last of April, Uncle Peaslee
he had on

Jest the wris’ban’s an’ the collar--all the rest
of it was gone.

Then--with Doctor Pluff advisin’--on a mild
an’ pleasant day,

He took off the collar ‘n wris’ban’s, and he
throwed the things away.

An’ in lesser’n thutty hours he was sudden
tooken down

With the wust case of pneumony that we ever
knowed in town.

An’ he dropped away in no time; it was awful
kind of rough,

An’ we had our fust misgivin’s’bout the skill
of Old Doc Pluff.

Reckoned that ’ere scrape would down him an’
he’d stick to hens an’ cows,

But he’d got to be ambitious, an’ he tackled
Irai Howes.

Uncle Iral’s kind o’ feeble, but was bound to
wean a caff;

Went to pull him off from suckin’ when the
critter’d had his haff.

Caff he turned around an’ bunted--made him’s
mad’s a tyke, ye see--

An’ old Iral’s leg was broken, little ways above
the knee.
T’other doctor couldn’t git there’cause the
goin’ was so rough,

So they had to run their chances and they called
on Doctor Pluff.

Doc he found old Irai groanin’ where they’d
laid him on the bed,

An’ he took his old black finger, rolled up Iral’s
lip an’ said,

“Hay-teeth worn; can’t chaw his vittles!
Vittles therefore disagree,

It’s as tough a case of colic as I think I ever
see.”

Some one started then to tell him, but the doc
he had the floor,

An’ he snapped ’em up so spiteful that the}
didn’t say no more.

Then he wrinkled up his eyebrows, pursed his
lips as tight’s a bung,

Pried apart old Iral’s grinders an’ says he,
“Le’s see your tongue.”

“Why,” says he, “I see the trouble--you’ve
got garget of the blood,

An’ if symptoms hain’t deceivin’, you have also
lost your cud.”

“Blame yer soul,” groaned Uncle Irai, “can’t
ye see what’s ailin’ me?

That ’ere leg is broke!” “Oh, sartin,” says

the doc, “I see! I see!”

Then he pulled off Iral’s trousers, an’ he spit
upon his fist,

Grabbed that leg in good old earnest an’ com-
menced to twist an’ twist.

Irai howled an’ yowled an’ fainted, then come
to an’ howled some more,

He an’ doc they fit an’ wrassled on the bed an’
on the floor.

Doc, though, held him to the wickin’--let old
Irai howl an’ beg,

Said he’d got to do his duty, straight’nin out
his blamed old leg.

When the splints come off, though, later, wal-
sir, Irai was provoked,

Hain’t surprised it made him ugly, for he sar-
tinly was soaked.

Doc had set it so the kneejoint comes behind,
jest like a cow’s,

An’’twould make ye die a-laughin’, would that
gait of Irai Howes’.

If that case of Uncle Peaslee wasn’t damagin’
enough,

Bet your life that job on Irai made us shy of
old Doc Pluff.

THE BALLAD OF HUNNEMAN TWO

Now this is the story of Hunneman Two,

Old Hunneman Two from Andover town;

--A tub with the likeliest, heftiest crew
That ever hoorayed in a hot break-’er-down.
And I’ll give you the facts, for if any one knows
It’s me who was Hunneman’s foreman of hose:

Ev’ry feller we mustered was over six feet
And the gang that we brought to a fireman’s
meet

They never was licked and they never was
downed,

And a crowd up against us would likely get
drowned.

Ev’ry man in the forty was six feet and more
And their shirts was the reddest that ever men
wore;

Whenever they hollered they’d jump up a yard
And when they came down they came dreffully
hard.

Ev’ry man had a trumpet and some of them
tew

--And’twas safest to plug up your ears when
they blew.

They’d ballast the tub with a cart-load of stone
And stuff her with sody ontil she would groan
Then they’d spit on their fists and would gaffle
that beam

And whoop fa, la larry, my jinks what a
stream!

’Twas h’ist on the beam till your eyeballs gog-
gled,

Hump-jump-pump!

Give her the tar till her old sides woggled,
Pump-jump-hump!

Down with the beam till it sartin would seem

We were drowndin’ the sun in a hissin’, white
stream.

Oh, there never was anything up with the crew

That buckled the beam of old Hunneman Two.

One time we were playin’ at Andover fair

And old Uncle Boomer drove up with his mare.

She cocked up an eye for to see the stream sail

Then she up with her ears and her head and
her tail;

And whoosh! she was off down the Bunganuck
road

At as lively a clip as a mare ever hoed.

Now the Bunganuck road it was right straight
away,

And jest for a hector we started to play

Right over the tailboard, right into his team,

And we followed him up with old Hunneman’s
stream.

We followed him one mile, we followed him
tew

With the foreman a-swearin’ and all of the
crew

A-breakin’ her down and a-crackin’ their heels

Till we lifted her plum fair and square off the
wheels.

We followed him three miles, we followed him
four

--If he hadn’t shied off we’d a-followed him
more.

Old Boomer got rheumatiz out of wet feet

For we kept his old waggin full, clear to the
seat.

’Twas h’ist on the beam till your eyeballs gog-
gled,

Pump-jump-hump!

Give her the tar till her old sides woggled,
Hump-jump-pump!

Down with the beam till it sartin would seem

We were drownin’ the sun in a hissin’ white
stream.

Oh, there never was anything up with the crew

That buckled the beam of old Hunneman Two.

ORADUDOLPH MOODY, REPRESENTATIVE-ELECT

Bring on your speechifyin’ runts, yes, bring
your biggest gun;

Trot out your high-flown orators, we don’t bar
nary one.

From Quoddy Head to Caribou, from there to
sassy York,

Bring out your braggadosho chaps who think
that they can talk.

We’ve got our man--don’t want no odds’nd
warn you fair and true

So’t when the Legislatoor meets you’ll have
your men there, too.

He’s jest a’goin’ to sweep the floor, we’ll have
you recollect,

--Our Oradudolph Moody, reprusentertive-
elect.

When Mister Moody rises up ’nd ’hams ’nd
clears his thro’t

’Nd loosens up his gallowses ’nd lays aside his
co’t,

I guess he’ll fool the av’rage man, he looks so
cool ’nd carm,

A-dribblin out his words ’nd wavin’ careless-
like his arm.

But pretty soon that arm goes and quivers in
the air,

His hand a-wrigglin’ up a-top, seems ’sif ’twas
spinnin’ there.

It acts as sort of windmill, pumpin’ langwidge
I expect

From Oradudolph Moody, reprusentertive-elect.

When Oradudolph Moody speaks he has the
durndest knack

Of windin’ up opponents so they never an-
swer back.

When yearly meetin’ comes around he alwus
swings the town

On anything he advocates from new school-
houses down.

The elerquence just bubbles up without no
work at all,

He almost mesmerizes everybody in the hall.

’Nd down there to Augusty you’ll parceive the
strange effect

Of Oradudolph Moody, reprusentertive-elect.

Magnetic! He’s a dynamo, his pulley never
slips,

’Nd eelectricity!--It runs right off his finger-
tips.

We’ve tried to send him down before, but no,
he wouldn’t go;

He said he had no time to fool with Legisla-
tors, so

Our town ain’t never had a man to speak, ex-
cept Mulkearn,

Who managed once to stutter out a motion to
adjourn.

But now, by gosh jest set right back and wish-
fully expect

Our Oradudolph Moody, reprusentertive-
elect.

TRIBUTE TO MR. ATKINS’S BASS VOICE

E. Perley Atkins had a low--deep--bass.
The noise came out of his face,

But the place

Whence the sound sprung
And bubbled toward the bung,

When he sung,

To come lolloping up to his tongue,

In long fortissimo hoots,

Or staccato toots,

--That place was suttin’ly down in his boots.
Omp, omp!

That was the kind of a bass

That oozed from the face

Of E. Perley Atkins who lived in our place.

He sung at all the paring bees, the quilting teas,
and parti-ees

He sung at all the shindigees we had for miles
around.

He opened his lip and let her rip and folks were
never obliged to tease,

For he allowed
That he was proud

As well as the rest of the awe-struck crowd
Of the deep, profundo timbre of that sound.
Boomp, boomp!

He wended thus on his deep, bass way
Ready to omp, omp night or day.

He sung in the choir Sunday forenoon
And an hour later furnished a tune
For the Sabbath school and the Bible class,
With a voice that was meller’n apple sass.

At evenin’ meetin’ he came around

Full to the neck with that cream-rich sound,

And the way he would lead Coronation hymn
Would lift ye off’n your pew, by Jim.

On Monday nights he had a call
To sing for the Maltys at Jackson’s Hall.
Tuesdays the Masons and Wednesdays he
Sung like blazes for the I. G. T.

Thursdays, class-meetings, Fridays, sings
With Saturdays open for rackets and things.

A busy week? Well, I guess, but wait,

I mustn’t forget, my friend, to state
There warn’t no fun’ral for ten miles’round,
No dear departed tucked under ground,

No mourners jammed in a settin’ room,

Sozzled in grief and soaked in gloom,

But Perley was there with his rich, cream bass
To trickle like salve on the wounded place.
And the tears would dry on each mourner’s
nose,

They’d perk right up and forget their woes
And nudge each other and say, “Suz me,

What a beautiful funeral voice that be.”

And in time, though he sang for all who asked,
For saint and sinner, still he basked
In especial favor as one whose ease
And voice gave a tone to obsequies.

It’s whispered around, and I guess it’s so
That when he hinted he thought he’d go
To Rome and Paris to train that bass,

A widow and three old maids in the place,

Who were living along, no man knew why,
Decided they’d hurry up and die.

They just stopped breathing and died from
choice

For the sake of having that funeral voice
Draw copious streams from the mourner’s eyes
And give them a send-off toward Paradise.

--No man who’s monkeyed with bass B-flat
Got ever a compliment higher’n that.

He sung at all the paring bees, the quilting teas,
the parti-ees,

He sung at all the shindigees for twenty miles
around.

He opened his lip and let her rip,

Admirers had no need to tease,

And he sprung a bass that joggled the roof and
fairly shook the ground.

While the echoes of his “funeral voice”

Made even the cherubim rejoice,

As the melody pulsed against the skies
And ushered a soul into Paradise.

JIM’S TRANSLATION

Couldn’t speak of nothin’ smart--no one strong
or spry--

’Thout old Talleyrand B. Beals to grab right
in an’ lie!

All the thing he’d talk about was chap by name
of Jim,

Ev’ry story that he told was sort of hung round
him.

--Said the critter’d worked for him twenty
years before,

--Yarn at last it got to be the by-word down
t’ th’ store,

When we’d hear of biggish things, “That,”
we’d say, “I swan,

Beats tophet, taxes, time an’ tide an’ Bealses’
hired man.”

Beals, though, clacked right on an’ on; would
set an’ chaw an’ spit,

An’ tell us’bout that hired man--couldn’t make
him quit!

Champyun jump or heft or swim-- ’twas all the
same to him,

He’d wait till all the rest had shot, then plug
the mark with Jim.

Had to laugh the other day--boys were down
t’ th’ store,

Talleyrand got started in--the dratted, deef
old bore!

Silas Erskine’s boy spoke up--that’s Ez; wal,
Ez says he,

“Say, Tal, what ever come o’ Jim?” Old
Beals uncrossed his knee,

Said he, “A master cur’us chap, that Jim was,
I must say,

--Seemed to like us fine as silk, but off he
went one day,

--Went right off without a yip--didn’t take his
clothes;

Hank’rin’ struck him all to once--couldn’t
wait, don’t s’pose.

Didn’t even take his pay, which was some sur-
prise,

--Prob’ly, though, a lord or dook, trav’lin’ in
disguise.”

Beals he stopped an’ gnawed his plug; chawed
an’ chawed a while,

Then Ben Haskell hitched around an’ smole a
sing’lar smile.

“Told that hired man,” said he, “I’d never let
it out,

Guess I’d better tell it, though, an’ settle all
this doubt.

Want to say right here an’ now, to back up
Beals,” says Ben,

“His Jim did sartin wear the crown amongst
all hired men.”

S’prised us all when Ben said that,’cause he
us’al planned

All the hector, tricks an’ jokes’t were put on
Talleyrand.

Ben, though, kept right on his talk. Ben says,
then says he,

“Here’s the secret how he went for I’m the man
that see.

Happened down in Allen’s field day he disap-
peared,

Jim came’crost the intervale; straight as H he
steered

To’ards that silver popple tree; up that tree he
dim’,

--Set there, sort o’ lost in thought, a-straddle
of a limb.

Jest as I’d got underneath he sighed an’ took a
piece

Of mutton taller--give his boots a heavy co’t
of grease,

Greased his fingers nice an’ slick an’ then--an’
then, I swear,

Grabbed them boot-straps, give a pull an’ up
he went in air.”

--Ought to heered us critters laugh--gre’t big
“Haw, haw, haw-w-!”

Jason Britt he dropped his teeth, Erskine gulped
his chaw,

Talleyrand jest set there grum--fin’ly snorted
“Sho!

Think ye’re smart, ye pesky fool! Lemme tell
ye, though,

’Tain’t so thund’rin’ big a stretch ye made then
when ye lied,

Bet ye Jim could lift himself, providin’ he had
tried.

Stout? I see’d him boost a rock--” “Minit,

Tal,” says Ben,

“Hain’t got done my story yit! Jest ye wait
till then.

--Soon’s I see’d that critter start, hollered
loud’s a loon,

’Jeero cris’mus, Jim,’ said I, ‘startin’ for the
moon?’

Jim looked down an’ said, says he, ‘Don’t
know where I’ll fetch,

Ner care a rap so long’s I dodge old Beals, the
mean old wretch!

Trouble is, consarn his soul, his feed has been
so slim

I’ve fell away till northen’s left’cept clothes an’
name o’ Jim.

Reckin then I’ll h’ist myself,’cause, ye see, I’ve
found

It’s blame sight easier raisin’ up than holdin’
to the ground.’

“Then he give them straps a tug an’ up he went
from sight,

--Stood an’ watched him till he growed to jest
a leetle mite!

He’s the champyun hired man, sartin sure, be-
cause

Critter went to Paradise, prob’ly jest’s he
was.”

Talleyrand he got so mad he actyal wouldn’t
speak,

Didn’t come t’ th’ store agin for more’n a solid
week. .

Soon’s he edged around some more wa’n’t no
talk from him

’Bout no hired men, you bet! Clack was shet
on Jim.

ELIPHALET JONES--INVENTOR

Inventor Jones--Eliphalet Jones,

Ah, he was the fellow for schemes!

Though critics might carp and his rivals throw
stones,

They never vexed Uncle Eliphalet Jones,

Or troubled his radiant dreams.

He calmly asserted that every day
One hundred inventions, or so, came his way;
They flocked through his mind in such myriad
rout

He hadn’t the leisure to figure them out.

But he said if a fellow should chase him around
With a pencil and notebook’twould surely be
found

That projects prolific were shed from his brain
As a wet bush, when shaken, will scatter the
rain.

When he plowed, when he hoed, when he
sowed, when he mowed
He was steadily throwing off load after load
Of notions, he stated--each notion a mint
For the chap who would take and develop the
hint.

But Eliphalet Jones--Eliphalet Jones
Was so busy with farmwork and clearing off
stones,

So busy with milking and errands and chores
He scattered inventions by dozens and scores
With a liberal hand, but with barren effect,
For they dried on the cold, arid sands of
neglect.

But for all he forgot he would cheerfully say
There were always as many the very next day.
And he figured it up; though enormous it
seems

He had fashioned and fired some ten thousand
schemes.

Now, out of that number a limited few
Eliphalet tackled and engineered through;

A few little notions right out of his head
To help out the farmwork, he carelessly said.
One patent, a holder to hitch a cow’s tail
So she couldn’t keep swatting the man with the
pail;

A few dozen scarecrows of hellish design,

Real impish constructions to jig on a line
That was jerked by a water-wheel down in the
brook;

All the horses that passed, if they got a good
look

Tumbled down stiff and dead or else, frantic
with fear,

Kicked the wagon in bits and spun’round on
one ear.

And he rigged a contrivance by which ev’ry
morn

His old Brahma rooster descending for corn,
Stepped down on a lever that flipped up a lock

And down came the fodder in front of the
stock.

Still, these were but puerile notions beside

The thing that he hoped for--his spur and his
pride,

His climax of schemes ere he went back to
dust--

For he vowed that he’d fathom the secret or
“bust;”

That if motion perpetual ever could be

Discovered by mortal, that man should be he.

So he fussed with his springs and his wee-jees
and wings

And all sorts of queer little duflicker things,

And he builded queer whiz-a-jigs, then with a
frown

He ruthlessly, scornfully cuffed them all down.

Well, the years hurried by, as the years surely
will,

But Eliphalet Jones he was confident still,

For he constantly vowed that some thingumy
spring

Put somewhere “would settle the dad-ratted
thing.”

Yet the years skittered past and his head was
snow-white

And he almost had solved it, but never “jest
quite;”

So the neighbors employed some satirical tones

When they chanced to refer to Perpetual Jones.

But hail to his name and remember his fame!

At the last--at the last, friends, he won the
great game!

He died at the birth of his triumph,’tis true,

And he left only words--yet I give them to
you,

Convinced they’re a gift to the world, without
doubt,

Or will be as soon as the thing is worked out.

He sat in his chair by the window one day

While his grandson was out with a puppy at
play;

And the boy hitched some meat to the tail of
that pup,

Then he gave him a twirl and the puppy “gee-
ed up,”

And he spun and he spun and he spun and he
spun

Just as fast at the last as when he begun,

But the tail and the meat ever kept just ahead

Of the clamorous jaws as the puppy dog sped.

“There she is,” cried Eliphalet, “darned if she
ain’t!

There’s perpetual motion!” and pallid and faint

He fell prone and dying. They lifted him up

And his eyes, glazed with death, looked their
last on that pup.

And through the dark shade of mortality’s fog

He gasped, “All you need is the right kind of
dog.”

Inventor Jones--Eliphalet Jones,

Ah, he was the fellow for schemes;

Though critics might carp and his rivals throw
stones

They never vexed Uncle Eliphalet Jones,

Or troubled his radiant dreams.

THE PANTS JEMIMY MADE

Aunt Brown--Jemimy Brown--

Was a spinster, spinner-weaver of merited re-
nown;

Our town set it down

As a fact beyond disputing there was never
any suiting

Like the suiting that was made by Spinster
Brown.

She raised the wool she made it of, she even
raised the sheep,

She fed ’em on the toughest straw the hired
man could reap

She spun the thread with double-twist and
made a warp and woof

So tarnal tough it really seemed’twas almost
bullet-proof.

And when the cloth was shrunk and dyed and
ready for a suit

The men in town would almost fight, they’d
get in such dispute

Concerning who had spoken first--the farthest
in advance--

And therefore had the prior claim on Aunt
Jemimy’s pants.

The cloth that folks make nowadays is slimpsy,
sleazy stuff;

It’s colored up in fairish style and fashionable
enough!

But blame the goods! It’s made to sell--it
isn’t made to wear--

These trousers here I’ve worn five year, and
that is merely fair.

But when you bought a cut of cloth of Aunt
Jemimy’s weave,

You got some stuff to last you through, you’d
better just believe!

Why, ’bout the time that modern pants are get-
ting worn and thin

A pair of Aunt Jemimy’s pants were scarcely
broken in.

I’ve got a pair up attic now, made forty years
ago

They’re just as tough as iron still and Time
has made no show.

They’ve stood the brunt of honest work and
dulled the tooth of moth,

And there they stand, as stiff’s a slab, good,
plain, old-fashioned cloth.

And so I think it’s only right that tribute
should be paid

To those old sturdy pioneers--the pants Je-
mimy made.

The day I first put on those pants I held a
break-up plough--

The farmers of these later days don’t have
such wrassles now;

I drove six oxen on ahead, a pretty hefty team,

For farming in those old, old days took mus-
cle, grit and steam;

You didn’t stop for rocks and stumps, nor
dodge and skive and skip,

Or else you’d have to lug your meals on ev’ry
furrow’s trip,

And so the only thing to do was make the oxen
tread

And hold the ploughshare deep and true, and
plunk ’er straight ahead.

So back and forth and back and forth I
ploughed and ploughed that day;

I tackled ev’ry rock and snag that dared dispute
my way,

Until the only critter left was one old maple
stump,

And I?--I gave the team the gad--and took
’er on the jump!

She split in halves and through I went, but
back she slapped, ker-whack,

And gripped Jemimy’s pantaloons right where
she’d left the slack.

The team was going double-quick--the oxen
plunged along--

I held the old oak handle-bars, I gripped ’em
good and strong--

And there I was, the living link’twixt stump
and plough, because

The cloth it stuck there good and tight between
those maple jaws.

Jemimy never planned on that, in making pants
for me;

She made ’em solid, yet of course she gave no
guarantee

That they would stand a yank like that--but
still I clung and yelled,

Those oxen plunged and tussled and--Je-
mimy’s pants, they held!

And the stump came out a-kicking, roots and
dirt and stones and all,

But those pants weren’t even started by that
most tremendous haul,

And to prove this ’ere is truthful, should some
scoffer cast a doubt,

I have saved the chips and hewings where they
came and chopped me out.

Aunt Brown--Jemimy Brown--

Was a spinster, spinner-weaver of merited re-
nown;

Our town set it down

As a fact beyond disputing there was never
any suiting

Like the suiting that was made by Spinster
Brown.

BALLADS OF “CAPERS AND ACTIONS”

BALLAD OF ELKANAH B. ATKINSON

Elkanah B. Atkinson’s tarvun was run
On a plan that was strictly his own;

And he “reckoned that dudified sons of a gun”
Would far better leave him alone.

He allowed that he always had plenty to eat
For folks that liked vitt-u-als plain;

An’ when ye came down to pettaters and meat
His house was a credit to Maine.

The garding truck they raised themselves,
They killed their pork; and the but’ry shelves
Jest fairly groaned with jells and jams;

--In a shed out back they smoked their hams.
And old Elkanah used to brag
They laid down pickles by the kag;

And they had the darndest hens to lay
--Got fifty eggs most ev’ry day--

And ev’ry egg was big’s your fist
And fresher’n a whiff of mountain mist.

The whole blamed house it used to shake
When old Elkanah pounded steak,

For he used to say what made meat tough
Was ’cause some cooks warn’t strong enough.

And he piled the grub right on sky-high:
Soup and meat and fish and pie
--All the courses on first whack--

And then Elkanah he’d stand back
And say: “There, people, now hoe in;

When ye’ve et that grub, pass up ag’in;

Of course we hain’t no big hotel,

But some few things, why, we dew well.”

P. Mortimer Perkins came down from New
York,

--A salesman for corsets and things;

With his trousers all creased and a lah-de-dah
walk,

As if he were jiggered by strings;--
Arrived at the Atkinson tarvun one night
And says to Elkanah, says he:

“I want to be called just as soon as it’s light,
For I’m going first train, don’t ye see.

It’s very important I go by first train,

But I find in these country hotels
The service ye get gives a fellah a pain
--They don’t even answer the bells.

Now I want to be called for that train, me good
man,

For it’s very important I go;

Now weally, old chappie, please see if you can
Just do a thing right once, y’ know-

Ye may call me at four, and at half after four
I’ll bweakfast; now recollect, please!

Before I wetire I’ll tell you once more;

--You’ll get the idea by degwees.”

Elkanah B. Atkinson lowered his specs
To the very tip-end of his nose;

Says he: “When a feller he really expec’s
To go by that train, wal--he goes.

Jest fall right asleep and don’t worry a mite;

This hain’t -no big city hotel,

But we’ll git ye to goin’ termorrer all right,
For there’s some things we dew fairly well.”

Elkanah B. Atkinson sat all night
And kept the office fire bright.

He nodded some and yawned and smoked,

And at half-past three he went and poked
The kitchen fire; then pounded steak
And set potatoes in to bake.

Started the coffee and all the rest
And then went up to call his guest.

Bangity, whang! on the cracked old door!
Whangity, bang! It checked a snore.

P. Mortimer Perkins opened his eyes
In the cold dark dawn with much surprise,

And under the coverlet warm and thick
On the good, old-fashioned feather tick,

Felt the cold on his nose like a frosty knife

And was never so sleepy in all his life.

But still bang, whang on the cracked old door!
And Elkanah shouting, “Mos’ ha’f-pas’ four!”
But the louder the old man pounded and yapped
The more the drummer garped and gapped.

At last says he: “Is it stormy--oh-h-h?”

“Wall,” says Elkanah, “she’s spittin’ snow.”

P. Mortimer Perkins snuggled down

And says he, “This isn’t a blamed bad town;

I say, old man, now please go’way,

I’ve changed my mind, and I guess I’ll stay.”
Elkanah B. Atkinson then says he:

“This changin’ minds is a bad idee;

I’ve set in that office there all night
So’s I could git ye up all right.

An’ breakfus’ is on, an’ the coffee’s hot;

Now, friend, ye can go on that train or not,
But I tell ye now, right off- the reel,

Ye’re goin’ to git up and eat that meal.”

P. Mortimer Perkins cursed and swore,

But Elkanah slammed right through that door,
And he pulled that drummer out of bed
And brandished a chair’round over his head;
He poked his ribs and made him dress
So sleepy still that his gait cut S
As he staggered down to the dining-room
And ate his meal in the cheerless gloom,
While over him stood the grim old man
With a stick and a steaming coffee can.

“Now, mister,” allowed Elkanah, “sence
It’s a special breakfus’ it’s thutty cents.”
When the feller paid, as meek’s a pup,

And stuttered “Now, can I be put up?”
“Why, sartin, mister,” Elkanah said;

“Ye can go to tophet or back to bed;

There hain’t hard feelin’s, no, none at all,
But when a feller he leaves a call
At the Atkinson House for an early meal,
He gits it served right up genteel,

An’ when it’s served, wal, now you bet
There hain’t no peace till that meal’s been et.
Of course we hain’t no big hotel,

But some few things we dew quite well.”

BALLAD OF OBADI FRYE

’Twas a battered old, double-B, twisted bass
horn,

With a yaw in the flare at its end;

A left-over veteran, relic forlorn
Of the halcyon days when a band had been
born

To the village of Buckleby Bend.

The band was dismembered by time and by
death

As the years went a-scurrying by,

And only one player was left with his breath

And that was old Obadi’ I.

P. Frye.

Old Obadi’ Isaac Pitt Frye.

With a glow in his eye

He would plaintively try

To puff out the tune that they marched to at
training;

But the tremolo drone

Of the brassy old tone

Quavered queerly enough with his scant breath
remaining.

Ah, the years had been many and bent was his
back,

And caved was his chest and departed his
knack;

So, though he was filled with musicianly pride

And huffed at the mouthpiece and earnestly
tried

To steady his palsied old lip and control

The old-fashioned harmonies stirring his soul--

There was nothing in Buckleby quite so for-
lorn

As the oomp-tooty-oomp of that old bass horn.

To the parties and sociables, quiltings and sings
They invited old Obadi’ Frye;

He’d give ’em doldrums of old-fashioned
things

With occasional bass obligato for strings
--Or at least he would zealously try.

The minister coaxed him to buy a cornet
And chirk up a bit in his tune,

But none could induce him to ever forget
His love for that old bassoon,

Whose tune

Was the solace of life’s afternoon.

So he’d splutter and moan
With his thin, gusty tone
But his empty old lungs balked his anxious en-
deavor.

He hadn’t the starch
For a jig or a march,

And with double-F volume he’d parted forever.
For he hadn’t the breath for a triple note run,
’Twas a whoof and a pouf! and alas, he was
done;

But the pride of his heart was that old double-
bass,

He was happy alone with its lips at his face.

So he sat in his old leather chair day by day
And whooped the one solo he’d power to play,

An anthem entitled, “All Hail Christmas
Morn,”

As rendered by gulps on an old bass horn.

“All hail--hoomp--hoomp--bright Christmas
morn,

Hail--hoomp, hoomp--hoomp--fair

hoomp--hoomp--dawn;
Turn--hoomp--hoomp, eyes

Hoomp--hoomp,

HOOMP--skies,

When--hoomp--hoomp,

hoomp--H O O M P--born.’’

While a-tooting one morning his breath flick-
ered out

With a sort of a farewell purr;

Of course there are many to scoff and to scout,
But’twas sucked by that cavernous horn with-
out doubt,

At least, so the neighbors aver.

They laid him away in the churchyard to rest
And with grief that they sought not to hide,
They placed the old battered B-B on his breast
And that Christmas hymn score by his side--

His pride,

‘Twas the tune that he played when he died.

Now, who here denies
That far in the skies

He is probably calmly and placidly winging;
That his spirit new-born
With his score and his horn
Takes flight where the hosts are triumphantly
singing.

Yet it irks me to think that he’s far in that
Land

With only the score of one anthem in hand.
For the music Above must be novel and
strange--

Too intricate far for that double-B range,

But at last when the Christmastide rings in the
skies

There’ll be some queer quavers in fair Para-
dise,

For an humble old spirit will calmly allow
“I reckin I’ll give ’em that horn solo now.”
Up there we are certain there’s no one to carp
Because Obadiah won’t tackle a harp--
Seraphs and cherubs will hush their refrain
When a new note of praise intermingles its
strain,

And he’ll add to the jocund delight of that
morn

With his anthem, “All hail,” on that old bass
horn.

“All hail--hoomp--hoomp--bright Christmas
morn,

Hail--hoomp, hoomp--hoomp--fair

hoomp--hoomp--dawn;
Turn--hoomp--hoomp, eyes

hoomp--hoomp,

HOOMP--skies,

When--hoomp--hoomp,

hoomp--HOOMP--born.”

AT THE OLD FOLKS’ WHANG

Flappy-doodle, flam, flam--whack, whack,
whack!

Balance to the corners and forward folks and
back;

Gaffle holt an’ gallop for an eight hands round,

While the brogans and the cowhides they pessle
and they pound;-

No matter for the Agger providin’ there’s the
time.

Jest cuff’er out and jig’er;--jest hoe’er down
and climb!

No matter’bout your toes or corns; let rheu-
matiz go hang,

For we’re weltin’ out the wickin at the old
folks’ whang.

--At the old folks’ whang
Hear the cowhides bang,

When we “up and down the center” at the old
folks’ whang.

Yang, tangty, yee-yah!--yang, yang, yang!

Old Branscomb plays the fiddle at the old folks’
whang;

And he puts a sight o’ ginger in the chitter of
the string,

--It isn’t frilly playin’ but he makes that fiddle
sing.

He slashes out promis’cus, sort o’ mixin’ up
the tune,

--Takes the _Irish Washerivoman_, slams’er up
agin _Zip Coon_;

And he _Speeds the Plough_ a minute, then he’ll
sort o’change his mind

And go off a-gallivantin’ with the _Girl I left
Behind._

Oh, he mixes up his music queerest way I ever
saw,

For he shifts the tune he’s playin’ ev’ry time
he shifts his chaw;

But we never mind the changes for he keeps us
on the climb,

--He may twist the tune a little but he’s thun-
der on the time!

So line up and choose your pardners--we’re
the old ones out for fun,

You’ll forgit your stiff rheumaticks jest as soon
as you’ve begun.

’Course we ain’t so spry and spiffy as we used
to be, but yet

We can show them waltzy youngsters jest a
thing or two, you bet.

We will dance the good old contras as we used
to years ago,

Jest as long as Uncle Branscomb has the
strength to yank the bow.

There is no one under sixty--we’ve shet out
the youngster gang

And we’re goin’ to welt the wickin’ at the old
folks’ whang.

--At the old folks’ whang
Hear the cowhides bang,

When we canter up the center at the old folks’
whang.

IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD

O, the sleddin’s gettin’ ragged and it’s dodge
and skip and skive,

Till it’s jest an aggravation for to try to start
and drive.

Fust to this side, then to t’other--here some
ice and there some snow,

--Just continyal gee and holler; fust “Gid-
dap,” and then it’s “Whoa!”

Takes a half a day to git there, round by way
o’ Robin Hood;

Like as not ye’ll bust your riggin’ haulin’ out
your hay and wood.

’Tain’t no way o’ doin’ bus’ness; ’tain’t no
way to haul a load,

--You must do your hefty haulin’ in the mid-
dle of the road.

If ye want to keep a-hoein’

Better wait for settled goin’,

For twice the heft goes easy in the middle of
the road.

O, in dealin’s with your neighbors, brother,
sure as you’re alive,

It’s better to go straight ahead and never skip
or skive.

For the man who keeps a-dodgin’ back and
forth across the way

Like enough will find his outfit in the gutter,
stuck to stay.

Till the road is clear and settled, till with can-
dor in your heart

You can see your way before you, guess ye
hadn’t better start;

For to get there square and easy; and to lug
your honest load,

You’ll find it’s best to travel in the middle of
the road.

--So’s to make an honest showin’
Better wait for settled goin’,

Then, s’r, hustle brisk and stiddy in the mid-
dle of the road.

DRIVIN’ THE STAGE

Drivin’ the stage,

Oh, drivin’ the stage,

With the wind fairly peelin’ your hide with its
aidge!

Jest got to git through with the’Nited States
mail

For the contract provisions don’t have the
word “Fail.”

So it’s out and tread drifts while the snow
howls and sifts

For a dollar a trip--and no extrys--no gifts.

For them star-route contractors they figger it
fine

And take it right out of the chaps on the line.

They set in an office and rake in their slice

While the drivers are tusslin’ the snow and the

ice.

It may howl, it may yowl, it may snow, it may
blow

But that’Nited States mail, wal, it jest has to
go.

So it’s out and unhitch, leave the pung where
it’s stuck,

Lo’d the bags on the hosses and then, durn ye,
huck!

And it’s waller and struggle, walk stun’-walls
and rails

For they don’t stand no foolin’--them’Nited
States mails.

And at last when ye git there, jest tuckered
and beat,

And sling in the bags and crowd up to the
heat,

The gang round the stove they don’t give ye
no praise

But set there and toast themselves’side of the
blaze;

And ev’ry old, wobble-shanked son of a gun

Sets up there and tells ye how he would have
done!

--If there’s any one job gives your temper an
aidge,

It’s drivin’ the stage,

--It’s drivin’ the stage.

“DOC”

In his big, fur coat and with mittens big as
hams,

With his string of bells a-jingling, through the
country side he slams.

There are lots of calls to make and he’s always
on the tear,

A-looming in his cutter like an amiable bear.

And it’s hi-i-i, there!

Johnny don’t ye care,

Though’tis aching something awful and is
most too much to bear.

Just--be--gay!

As soon as it is day,

That pain will go a-flyin’, for the doctor’s on
the way.

There are real, true saints; there are angels all
around,

But there isn’t one that’s welcomer than he is,
I’ll be bound.

When he bustles in the bed-room and he dumps
his buff’ler coat,

And sticks a glass thermometer a-down the
suff’rin throat.

And it’s chirk, cheer up!

Mother, bring a cup!

You’re going to like this bully when you take
a little sup.

There--there--why,

There’s a twinkle in your eye!

You’ll be out again to-morrow, bub; gid-dap,
gid-dap, good-bye!

ANOTHER “TEA REBELLION”

When Mis’ Augusty Nichols joined the Tufts
Minerva Club,

She polished up on manners and she then com-
menced to rub

At the hide of Mister Nichols who, while not
exactly rude,

Was hardly calculated for a howling sort of
dude.

Now when Augusty Nichols got to see how
style was run,

You bet she went for Nichols and she dressed
him down like fun;

And the thing in all his actions that she couldn’t
bear to see

Was to have him fill his saucer and go whoof-
ling up his tea.

After more’n a month of stewing;--making
mis’able his life,

She taught him not to shovel all his vittles
with his knife.

And after more’n a volume of pretty spicy talk

She got him in the hang of eating pie with just
his fork.

She trained him so’s he didn’t slop the vittles
round his plate,

She plagued him till he wouldn’t sit in shirt-
sleeves when he ate,

And then she tried her Waterloo, with faith in
high degree

That she could revolutionize his way of drink-
ing tea.

He drank it as his father always quaffed the
cheering cup,

He poured it in his saucer, raised the brimming
puddle up

And gathered in the liquid with a loud re-
sounding “Swoof”

That now at last inspired Mrs. Nichols’ fierce
reproof.

But here was where the victim--ah, here was
where the worm

Arose and fairly scared her by the vigor of his
squirm,

--Sat down his steaming saucer and with a
dangerous light

A-gleaming in his visage, he upbore a Yan-
kee’s right.

From the days of Boston’s party up to now I
think you’ll see

That a Yankee’s independent when you bother
with his tea.

“Consarn your schoolmarm notions,” thun-
dered Mrs. Nichols’ spouse,

“You’ve kept a’dingin’ at me till I’m meechin
round the house.

I’ve swallered that and t’other for I didn’t like
to row

But ye ain’t a-going to boss me in the thing
ye’ve tackled now.

I’m durned if I’ll be scalded all the time I’m
being stung

So I’ll cool my tea, Mis’ Nichols, while ye jab
me with your tongue.”

There are rights ye cannot smother, tyrants,
whoso’er ye be,

And the good, New England Yankee’s mighty
touchy, sir, on tea.

“LIKE AN OLD COW’S TAIL”

When I was a youngster and lived on the farm
It sickened my heart--did that morning alarm!
When dad came along to the foot of the stairs
And summoned me back to my duties and
cares;

--Put all of my glorious visions to rout
With “Breakfast is ready! LP h’ist out there,
h’ist out!”

And when I came yawningly, sleepily down,
My eyes “full of sticks” and my face all
a-frown,

I got for a greeting this jocular hail,

“Wal, always behind like an old cow’s tail.”

I’ll own to you, neighbor, that work on the
farm

Had features not wholly surrounded by charm.
And when I am fashioning lyrical praise
For matters bucolic of earlier days,

You’ll note that my lyre, sir, operates best
When I tune up and sing of the blessings of
rest.

I’ve stood in the stow-hole and “tread” on the
load,

And waltzed with a bush scythe and worked
on the road,

But somehow or other the language won’t
spring

When prowess of muscle I venture to sing.

But when I am piping of “resting” or fun

Or lauding the time after chores are all done,

Why, somehow--why, blame it, as sure as
you’re born,

I mentally feel that my trolley is on!

And a trolley, you know, would be certain to
fail,

Unless’twas behind like an old cow’s tail.

PASSING IT ALONG

The elephant he started in and made tremen-
dous fuss

Alleging he was crowded by the hippopotamus;

He entertained misgivings that the earth was
growing small,

And arrived at the conclusion that there wasn’t
room for all.

Then the hippo got to thinking and he was
frightened too

And so he passed the word along and sassed the
kangaroo.

The kangaroo as promptly took alarm and
talked of doom

And ordered all the monkeys off the earth to
give him room.

And the monkeys jawed the squirrels and the
squirrels jawed the bees,

While the bees gave Hail Columby to the
minges and the fleas,

--In the microscopic kingdom of the microbes,
I will bet

That word of greedy jealousy is on its travels
yet;

All just because the elephant got scared and
made a fuss

Alleging he was crowded by the hippopotamus.

A SETTIN’ HEN

When a hen is bound to set,

Seems as though ’tain’t etiket
Dowsin’ her in water till
She’s connected with a chill.

Seems as though ’twas skursely right
Givin’ her a dreadful fright,

Tyin’ rags around her tail,

Poundin’ on an old tin pail,

Chasin’ her around the yard.

--Seems as though ’twas kind of hard
Bein’ kicked and slammed and shooed
’Cause she wants to raise a brood.

I sh’d say it’s gettin’ gay
Jest’cause natur’ wants its way.

--While ago my neighbor, Penn,

Started bustin’ up a hen;

Went to yank her off the nest,

Hen, though, made a peck and jest
Grabbed his thumb-nail good and stout,
Almost yanked the darn thing out.

Penn he twitched away and then
Tried again to grab that hen.

But, by ginger, she had spunk
’Cause she took and nipped a junk
Big’s a bean right out his palm,

Swallered it, and cool and calm
Hi’sted up and yelled “Cah-dah,”

--Sounded like she said “Hoo-rah.”

Wal, sir, when that hen done that
Penn he bowed, took off his hat,

--Spunk jest suits him, you can bet,

“Set,” says he, “gol darn ye, SET.”

BALLAD OF DEACON PEASLEE

There was Uncle Ezry Cyphers and Uncle
Jonas Goff,

And Deacon Simon Peaslee, with his solemn
vestry cough;

Mis’ Ann Matilda Bellows and Aunt Almiry
Hunt,

--At all the social meetings they performed
their earnest stunt.

They were strong in exhortation, and pro-
foundly entertained

The belief that talking did it if a Heavenly
Home were gained.

So they rose on Tuesday evening, at Friday
meeting, too,

And informed their friends and neighbors what
the sinners ought to do;

They explained the route to Heaven and ex-
horted all to go

In the straight and narrow pathway through
the blandishments below;

They were good and they were earnest, but,
alas, a little tame,

For month by month and year by year their
talks were just the same,

Until the folks who’d listened all those many
years could start

And declaim those exhortations, for they had
’em all by heart.

And those old folks talked so constant there
was scarcely time to sing,

For they just let in regardless and monopolized
the thing.

Now, benign old Parson Johnson died at last.
There’s scarcely doubt

That those prosy dissertations sort of wore
the old man out.

And he promptly was succeeded ere the church
had dried its tears

By a cocky, youthful pastor, who was full of
new ideas.

Now, he sized the situation ere he’d been in
town a week,

And he set to work to fix it by a plan that was
unique,

For he saw unless he did so--and the Lord
allowed them breath,

Those devoted saints would surely talk that
wearied church to death.

So he came to Tuesday meeting and upon his
desk he placed

A nickeled teacher’s call-bell and blandly then
he faced

An astonished congregation and explained he
thought it best

To condense the exhortations so as not to
crowd the rest;

For he said that in the worship all the members
ought to share,

And monopoly of talking by the elders wasn’t
fair;

Therefore, each could have five minutes, and
he’d ring to let each know

When ’twas time to cut the discourse and give
t’other one a show.

There were scowls from Uncle Ezry--there
were grunts from Uncle Goff,

And Deacon Simon Peaslee gave a scornful
vestry cough.

Then he laid his cane beside him and he strug-
gled to his feet

And commenced his regular discourse in re-
gard to tares and wheat.

He was scarcely fairly going on the punish-
ments of hell

When the pastor smiled and nodded and ding-
clink-ling went the bell!

All the old folks gasped in horror and a titter
soft and low

Ran along the youthful sinners who were back
on Devil’s Row;

And for just a thrilling instant Deacon Simon
lost his force,

With astonished jaws a-gaping--then continued
on his course.

To the pastor’s youthful visage swept a sudden
flush of wrath,

As the obstinate old deacon brushed him calmly
from his path,

And with all the college muscle that he had at
his command

The parson cuffed the call-bell with a swift
and steady hand.

There was riot in the vestry--deacon vieing
with the bell,

As he strove to paint the terrors of the hot,
John Wesley hell,

Till at last he balked and stuttered, gasped a
while and tried to speak,

Then sat down with tears a-dropping through
the furrows on his cheek.

There he bent in voiceless anguish with his old
gray head bowed low,

While the hushed and pitying people mourned
to see him grieving so;

And the parson left the platform and contritely
crept across

To the side of Deacon Simon and expressed his
deep remorse.

But the deacon raised his visage, and, with tears
still streaming down,

Glared upon his trembling pastor with a fierce
and scornful frown.

“Drat yer hide,” roared Deacon Simon, “do
ye think that leetle bell

Scart a warrior sech as I am out of talking
truths on hell?

’Tain’t no passon sets me down, sah! ’Tain’t
no bell ye ever saw,

But ye went and got me narvous and ye’ve
made me eat my chaw.”

Then the deacon, stern and angry, arm in arm
with Jonas Goff,

And with Uncle Cyphers trailing, stalked in
righteous dudgeon off,