Up in Maine: Stories of Yankee Life Told in Verse

Chapter II: Part 2

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That’s the reason I’m so mournful; that’s the

reason in the spring

I go feeling just like Nero or some other wicked

thing,

For I have to slash and slaughter; have to set

an iron heel

On the feelings of them mothers; I have got

them calves to veal.

Spring is happy for the poet and the lover and

the girl,

But the farmer has to do things that will make

his harslet curl.

And the thing that hits me hardest is to stand

the lonesome moos

Of that stanchion full of critters when they find

they’re going to lose

Little Spark-face, Little Brindle--when the

time has come to part,

And the calves go off a-blatting in a butcher’s

rattling cart.

Though the cash the butcher pays me sort of

smooths things up and salves

All the really rawest feeling when I sell them

little calves,

Still I’m mournful in the springtime; knocks

me off my even keel,

Seeing suffering around me when I have them

calves to veal.

THE OFF SIDE OF THE COW

Old Wendell Hopkins’ hired man is an absent-

minded chap,

He’ll start for a chair, and like as not set down

in some one’s lap.

I happened along where he stopped to bait his

hosses the other day,

--He’d given the hosses his luncheon pail and

was trying to eat their hay,

--A kind of a blame fool sort of a trick for even

a hired man,

But he tackled a different kind of a snag when

he fooled with Matilda Ann,

--When he fooled with Matilda Ann, by jinks,

he got it square in the neck,

And the doctors say, though live he may, he’s a

total human wreck.

He’s wrapped in batting and thinking now

Of the grief in insulting a brindle cow.

Matilda Ann gives down her milk and she

doesn’t switch her tail;

She gives ten quarts--week in, week out, and

she never kicks the pail.

She doesn’t hook and she doesn’t jump, but even

Matilda Ann

Ain’t called to stand all sorts of grief from a

dern fool hired man.

And when he stubbed to the milking-shed in

sort of a dream and tried

To make Matilda “So” and “Whoa” while he

milked on the wrong, off side,

She giv’ him a look to wilt his soul and pugged

him once with her hoof,

And I guess that at last his wits were jogged as

he slammed through the lintel roof.

He’s got a poultice on his brow

Of the size of the foot of a brindle cow.

Now study the ways of the world, my son; oh,

study the ways of life!

It’s the hustling chap that gets the cash, or the

girl he wants for a wife;

It’s the feller that spots the place to grab, when

Chance goes swinging by,

Who gets his dab in the juiciest place and the

biggest plum in the pie;

There’s always a chance to milk the world--

there’s a teat, a pail, and a stool;

There’s a place for the chap with sense and grip,

but a dangerous holt for a fool.

For while the feller that’s up to snuff drums a

merry tune in his pail,

The fool sneaks up on the left-hand side and

lands in the grave or in jail.

--It’s an awkard place, as you’ll allow,

The off-hand side of the world or a cow.

THE LYRIC OF THE BUCK-SAW

Ur-r rick, ur-r raw,

Ur-r rick, ur-r raw!

Have you buckled your back to an old buck-saw?

Have you doubled your knee on a knotty stick

And bobbed to the tune of ur-r raw, ur-r rick?

Have you sawed till your eye-balls goggled and

popped,

Till your heart seemed lead and your breath was

stopped?

Have you yeaked her up and yawked her down,

--As doleful a lad as there was in town?

If so, we can talk of the back-bent woe

That followed the youngsters of long ago.

Ah, urban chap, with your anthracite,

Pass on, for you cannot fathom, quite,

The talk that I make with this other chap

Who got no cuddling in Comfort’s lap.

You’ll scarcely follow me when I sing

Of the rasping buck-saw’s dancing spring,

For the rugged rhythm is fashioned for

The ear that remembers ur-r rick, ur-r raw.

Ur-r raw, ur-r rick.

Ur-r raw, ur-r rick!

We pecked at our mountain stick by stick.

Our dad was a man who was mighty good

In getting the women-folks lots of wood.

And as soon as sledding came on to stay

Jack got all work and he got no play.

For daily the ox-sleds creaked and crawked

Till the yard was full and the buck-saws talked.

’Twas rugged toil and we humped our backs,

But we scarce kept pace with dad’s big axe.

There were bitter mornings of “ten below,”

There were days of bluster and days of snow,

But with double mittens, a big wool scarf,

And coon-skin ear-laps, we used to laugh

At the fussiest blast old Boreas shrieked,

And the nippingest pinches Jack Frost tweaked,

We were warm as the blade of the yanking saw

That steamed to the tune of ur-r rick, ur-r raw!

Ur-r raw, ur-r rick,

Ur-r raw, ur-r rick!

Ho, men at the desks, there, dull and sick!

You slap your hands to your stiff old backs

At thought of the days of the saw and axe;

And you press your palms to an aching brow,

And shiver to think of a saw-buck now.

But ah, old fellows, you can’t deny

You hanker a bit for the times gone by,

When the toil of the tasks that filled the day

Made bright by contrast our bits of play.

Oh, grateful the hour at set of sun,

When the tea was hot, and the biscuits “done;”

When chocking his axe in the chopping-block,

Dad sung, u Knock off, boys, five o’clock.”

Now tell me truly, ye wearied men,

Are you ever as happy as you were then,

When you straightened your toil-bent, weary

backs

At the welcome plop of dad’s old axe?

And tell me truly, can you forget

The sight of the table that mother set,

When dropping the saws in the twilight gloom,

We trooped to the cheer of the dear fore-room,

And there in the red shade’s mellow light

Made feast with a grand good appetite?

--Made feast at the sweet old homespun board

On the plum preserves and the “crab jell” stored

For demands like these; and made great holes

In the heaps of the cream o’ tartar rolls?

Ah, gusto! fickle and faint above

The savory viands you used to love,

What wouldn’t you give for the sharp-set tang

That followed those days when the steel teeth

sang?

--For zest was as keen as the bright, swift saw

When you humped to the tune of ur-r rick,

ur-r raw?

MISTER KEAZLE’S EPITAPH

Foster the tinker traversed Maine

From Elkins town to Kittery Point,

With a rattling pack and a rattling brain,

And a general air of “out of joint.”

A gaunt old chap with a shambling gait,

A battered hat, and rusty clothes,

With grimy digits in sorry state,

And a smooch on the end of his big red nose.

That was the way that Foster went,

--Mixture of shrewdness and folly blent,

Mending the pots and the pans as ordered,

But leaving the leak in his nob unsoldered.

But Foster the tinker was no one’s fool;

He fired an answer every time.

’Twas either a saw or proverb or rule,

Or else a bit of home-made rhyme.

And while he knocked at a pot or a pan

And puffed the coals of his little blaze,

He was ready and primed for the jocose man

Who thought that the tinker was easy to

phase.

It chanced that Foster stopped one night

With a man who thought a master sight

Of being esteemed as smart’s a weasel

--Man by the name of Obed Keazle.

And he pronged at Foster the evening through

While the folks were having a merry laugh;

And they laughed the most when he said, “Now

you

Compose me a good nice epitaph,

And your lodging here shan’t cost a cent.”

So Foster snapped at the chance and said

He would have it ready before he went,

And would make one verse ere they went to

bed.

So Keazle listened with deep delight

While he heard the guileless chap recite,

With his head a-cock like a huge canary,

This sample of his obituary:

Thus he begun

Verse number one:

“A man there was who died of late,

Whom angels did impatient wait,

With outstretched arms and smiles of love

To bear him to the Realms Above.”

Foster the tinker slept that night

On a feather tick that was three feet thick,

And Keazle attended in calm delight

To warm the bed with a nice hot brick.

And the tinker sat at the breakfast board

And blandly smiled and ate and ate,

Then piled on his back his motley hoard

And took his stand at the front yard gate.

He said, “I’ll give ye the other half

Of that strictly fust-class epitaph.”

There are doubts you know as to how it

suited,

But the tinker didn’t wait--he scooted.

For thus ran--whew!

Verse number two:

While angels hovered in the skies

Disputing who should bear the prize,

In slipped the devil like a weasel

And Down Below he kicked old Keazle.”

PLAIN OLD KITCHEN CHAP

Mother’s furnished up the parlor--got a full,

new haircloth set,

And there ain’t a neater parlor in the county,

now, I’ll bet.

She has been a-hoarding pennies for a mighty

tedious time;

She has had the chicken money, and she’s saved

it, every dime.

And she’s put it out in pictures and in easy

chairs and rugs,

--Got the neighbors all a-sniffin’ ’cause we’re

puttin’ on such lugs.

Got up curtains round the winders, whiter’n

snow and all of lace,

Fixed that parlor till, by gracious, I should never

know the place.

And she says as soon’s it’s settled she shall give

a yaller tea.

And invite the whole caboodle of the neighbors

in to see.

Can’t own up that I approve it; seems too much

like fubb and fuss

To a man who’s lived as I have--jest a blamed

old kitchen cuss.

Course we’ve had a front room always; tidy place

enough, I guess,

Couldn’t tell, I never set there, never opened it

unless

Parson called, or sometimes mother give a party

or a bee,

When the women come and quilted and the men

dropped round to tea.

Now we’re goin’ to use it common. Mother

says it’s time to start,

If we’re any better’n heathens, so’s to sweeten

life with art.

Says I’ve grubbed too long with plain things,

haven’t lifted up my soul.

Says I’ve denned there in the kitchen like a

woodchuck in his hole.

--It’s along with other notions mother’s getting

from the club;

But I’ve got no growl a-comin’, mother ain’t let

up on grub!

Still I’m wishin’ she would let me have my

smoke and take my nap

In the corner, side the woodbox; I’m a plain old

kitchen chap.

I have done my stent at farmin’; folks will tell

you I’m no shirk;

There’s the callus on them fingers, that’s the

badge of honest work.

And them hours in the corner when I’ve stum-

bled home to rest

Have been earnt by honest labor and they’ve

been my very best.

Land! If I could have a palace wouldn’t ask no

better nook

Than this corner in the kitchen with my pipe

and some good book.

I’m a sort of dull old codger, clear behind the

times, I s’pose;

Stay at home and mind my bus’ness; wear some

pretty rusty clothes;

‘Druther set out here’n the kitchen, have for

forty years or more,

Till the heel of that old rocker’s gouged a holler

in the floor;

Set my boots behind the cook stove, dry my old

blue woolen socks,

Get my knife and plug tobacker from that dented

old tin box,

Set and smoke and look at mother clearing up

the things from tea;

--Rather tame for city fellers, but that’s fun

enough for me.

I am proud of mother’s parlor, but I’m feared

the thing has put

Curi’s notions her noddle, for she says I’m

underfoot;

Thinks we oughter light the parlor, get a crowd

and ontertain,

But I ain’t no city loafer,--I’m a farmer down in

Maine.

Course I can’t hurt mother’s feelin’s, wouldn’t

do it for a mint,

Yet that parlor business sticks me, and I guess

I’ll have to hint

That I ain’t an ontertainer, and I’ll leave that

job to son;

I’ll set out here in the kitchen while the folks

are having fun.

And if marm comes out to get me, I will pull

her on my lap,

And she’ll know--and she’ll forgive me, for I’m

jest a kitchen chap.

TAKIN’ COMFORT

I wouldn’t be an emp’ror after supper’s cleared

away;

I wouldn’t be a king, suh, if I could.

So long as I’ve got health and strength, a home

where I can stay,

And a woodshed full of dry and fitted wood.

For Jimmy brings the bootjack, and mother trims

the light,

And pulls the roller curtains, shettin’ out the

stormy night.

And me and Jim and mother and the cat set

down--

Oh, who in tunket hankers for a crown?

Who wants to spend their ev’nin’s sittin’

starched and prim and straight,

A-warmin’ royal velvet on a throne?

It’s mighty tedious bus’ness settin’ up so

thund’rin’ late,

With not a minit’s time to call your own.

I’d rather take my comfort after workin’ through

the days

With my old blue woolen stockin’s nigh the

fire’s social blaze,

For me and Jim and mother and the old gray cat

Come mighty near to knowin’ where we’re at.

EPHRUM KEPT THREE DOGS

Ephrum Eels he had to scratch durned hard to

keep ahead,

--But he always kept three dogs.

He couldn’t keep a dollar bill to save his life,

they said,

--But he always kept three dogs.

He said he might have been some one if he’d

had half a chance,

But getting grub from day to day giv’ Ephrum

such a dance,

He never got where he could shed the patches

off his pants;

--But he always kept three dogs.

Ephrum’s young ones never looked as though

they was half-fed,

--But he always kept three dogs.

The house would be so cold his folks would

have to go to bed;

--But Ephrum kept three dogs.

One was sort of setter dog and two of ’em was

houn’s,

Their skins was full of Satan; they was always

on their roun’s,

Till people durned their pictures in half a dozen

towns,

--But Ephrum kept his dogs.

They ’bated Ephrum’s poll-tax’cause he was too

poor to pay,

--But Ephrum kept his dogs.

How he scraped up cash to license ’em it ain’t

in me to say,

--But I know he kept his dogs.

And when a suff’rin’ neighbor ambuscaded ’em,

Eph swore--

Then in a kind of homesick way he hustled

round for more;

He struck a lucky bargain and, by thunder, he

bought four!

--Jest kept on a-keepin’ dogs.

LAY OF DRIED-APPLE PIE

Sunning themselves on the southern porch,

Where the warm fall rays from the towering

torch

Of the great sun flash in the glowing noons,

The drying apples, in long festoons,

Drink the breath of the crisp fall days,

Borrow the blush of the warming rays;

Storing their sweetness, their rich bouquet,

Against that savage and wintry day

When the housewife’s fingers shall by and by

Mould them into dried-apple pie.

There they mellow and there they brown,

Homely enough to a man from town,

Merely strings of some shrunken fruit,

Swung in the sun. And yet they’re mute

Memory-ticklers to those who know

The ways of the farm in the long-ago:

--The kitchen table, the heaping store

Of round, red apples upon the floor.

The purr of the parer, the mellow snip

As the busy knives thro’ the apples slip.

The merry chatter of boys and girls,

The rosy clutter of paring curls,

As hurrying knives and fingers fly

O ’er the luscious fruit for dried-apple pie.

I’m idly thinking it sure must be

That the rollicking sport of the apple-bee,

--The sweetness of smiles, the touch of the

white

Hands flashing there in the candle-light,--

Must all in a mystic way be blent

In one grand flavor;--that such was lent

To those mellowing strings, those festoons dun

Swinging there in the late fall sun.

For lo, as I look I seem to see

A dream of the past, a fantasy,

--A laughing, black-eyed roguish girl

Whirling a writhing paring curl;

Chanting the words of the old mock spell

That all we children knew so well:

“Three times round and down you go!

Now who is the one that loves me so?”

Merely a fancy, a passing gleam

Of the old, old days;--a sudden dream

Beguiled by some prank of a blurring eye

And the tricking song of a big, blue fly;

--Merely a fancy, and yet, ah me,

How often I’ve wondered where she can be.

There they mellow and there they brown,

Homely objects to folks from town;

Only some apples hung to dry

And doomed to be finally tombed in a pie.

ONLY HELD HIS OWN

Now there’s Hezekiall Adams--nicest man you

ever saw!

Never had a row with no one; never once got

into law;

Always worked like thunderation, but to save

his blessed life,

Never seemed to get forehanded--and I’ve laid

it to his wife,

For she always kept him meechin’; calls him

down with sour tone,

Till the critter hasn’t gumption for to say his

soul’s his own.

T’other day

Happened to ride along his way;

Heseki’,

Like a gingham rag hung out to dry,

Peak-ed and pale,

Lopped on the gate ’cross the upper rail.

“Howdy!” says I,

“Blamed if I know,” says Heseki’.

“Don’t feel sick,

But marm’s kept my back on a big hot brick

Till I can’t tell

Whuther I’m ailin’ or whuther I’m well.”

“Think,” says I,

“It’s too early to hoe when the ground’s so dry?”

Says he, “’Bout all

I’m sartin’ of is, I shall dig come fall.”

Says I, “Things look

Like we farmers can fatten the pocket-book.”

“Mebbe,” says he,

“But inarm vows there ain’t much she can see.”

“Ye can’t jest crawl,”

Says I, “but there’s money for folks with

sprawl.”

Old Hezekiah shifted legs and give a lonesome

groan;

“I begun with these two hands,” said he,

“And I’ve only held my own.”

He has always worked like blazes, but, has

always seemed to fail;

--Made his grabs at prancin’ Fortune, but has

caught the critter’s tail;

Never jumped and gripped the bridle--wouldn’t

darst to on his life;

Always acts too blasted meechin’--and I’ve laid

it to his wife.

GRAMPY SINGS A SONG

Row-diddy, dow de, my little sis,

Hush up your teasin’ and listen to this:

’Tain’t much of a jingle, ’tain’t much of a tune,

But it’s spang-fired truth about Chester Cahoon.

The thund’rinest fireman Lord ever made

Was Chester Cahoon of the Tuttsville Brigade.

He was boss of the tub and the foreman of hose;

When the ’larm rung he’d start, sis, a-sheddin’

his clothes,

--Slung cote and slung wes’cote and kicked off

his shoes,

A-runnin’ like fun, for he’d no time to lose.

And he’d howl down the ro’d in a big cloud of

dust,

For he made it his brag he was allus there fust.

--Allus there fust, with a whoop and a shout,

And he never shut up till the fire was out.

And he’d knock out the winders and save all the

doors,

And tear off the clapboards, and rip up the

floors,

For he allus allowed ’twas a tarnation sin

To ’low ’em to burn, for you’d want ’em agin.

He gen’rally stirred up the most of his touse

In hustling to save the outside of the house.

And after he’d wrassled and hollered and pried,

He’d let up and tackle the stuff ’twas inside.

To see him you’d think he was daft as a loon,

But that was jest habit with Chester Cahoon.

Row diddy-iddy, my little sis,

Now see what ye think of a doin’ like this:

The time of the fire at Jenkins’ old place

It got a big start--was a desprit case;

The fambly they didn’t know which way to turn.

And by gracious, it looked like it all was to burn.

But Chester Cahoon--oh, that Chester Cahoon,

He sailed to the roof like a reg’lar balloon;

Donno how he done it, but done it he did,

--Went down through the scuttle and shet

down the lid.

And five minutes later that critter he came

To the second floor winder surrounded by

flame.

He lugged in his arms, sis, a stove and a bed,

And balanced a bureau right square on his head.

His hands they was loaded with crockery stuff,

China and glass; as if that warn’t enough,

He’d rolls of big quilts round his neck like a

wreath,

And carried Mis’ Jenkins’ old aunt with his

teeth.

You’re right--gospel right, little sis,--didn’t

seem

The critter’d git down, but he called for the

stream.

And when it comes strong and big round as my

wrist

He stuck out his legs, sis, and give ’em a

twist;

And he hooked round the water jes’ if ’twas a

rope

And down he come easin’ himself on the slope,

--So almighty spry that he made that ’ere

stream

As fit for his pupp’us’ as if ’twas a beam.

Oh, the thund’rinest fireman Lord ever made

Was Chester Cahoon of the Tuttsville Brigade.

UNCLE MICAJAH STROUT

Guess that more’n a dozen lawyers, off and on,

from time to time,

Tried to settle down in Hudson, but they

couldn’t earn a dime.

Never got a speck of business, never had a single

case,

Said they never in their travels struck so

blimmed-blammed funny place.

People did a lot of hustling, town was flourish-

ing enough,

--Everybody but the lawyers had his fingers

full of stuff.

Lawyers stayed till they got hungry, then they’d

pull their shingles down

And go tearing off to somewhere, damning right

and left the town.

Told the lawyers round the county, “Hudson’s

bound to starve you out

Till some patriot up and poisons one old cuss

down there named Strout.

’Cause they won’t fork up a fee,

Long’s he’s round to referee.

’Case of difference or doubt

Folks say, 6 Wal, we’ll leave her out

To Uncle Micajah Strout.’”

If a farmer bought a heifer and she didn’t run

to milk,

If a dickerer in horse trades struck a snag or

tried to bilk,

If two parties got to haggling over what a farm

was worth,

Or if breeders split in squabbling over weight or

age or girth;

If a stubborn line-fence quarrel, right-of-way dis-

pute, or deed,

Claim of heirship or of debtor, honest error,

biassed greed,

Rose to foster litigation, no one scurried to the law,

No one belched out objurgations, sputtered oaths,

or threatened war,

For there was a ready resource in a certain plain

old gent,

Unassuming, blunt, and honest. When he said

a thing it went.

So there was no chance for wrangle, disputations,

snarls, or fray,

When the people of the village universally could

say,

“Oh, what’s the use to fuss?

We shall only make a muss.

We can fix it in about

Half a minute. Leave it out

To Uncle Micajah Strout.”

So no wonder all the lawyers banned and cursed

the place, and left;

For contention was but fleeting and the town

was never cleft

By a quarrel or dissension. Rows were always

settled young

By the pacifying magic of. Micajah’s ready

tongue.

When at last his days were ended and he passed

--well, now you bet

That he had the biggest funeral ever seen in

Somerset.

Miss him? Guess we miss Micajah, but if ever

dreams come true,

I’ve a sort of sneaking notion that he hasn’t yet

got through

Settling things for us in Hudson; for I dreamed

--and this is straight--

That I died and went to Heaven, but was yanked

up at the gate.

Peter showed me facts and figures, all the

records, and allowed

That I’d have to take my chances down below

with t’other crowd;

--Said the thing was pretty even, but he had to

draw it fine,

Then commenced to hunt the index for the next

shade in the line.

I protested, and we had it, this and that, and pro

and con,

And I hung and begged and argued when he

told me to move on.

Till at last he called a cherub, sent the little

chap inside,

Owning up that he was bothered as to how he

should decide.

“But I’ll give you all the show.

That I can,” said he. “You know,

I’ve arranged, in case of doubt,

--When it’s close,--to leave it out

To Uncle Micajah’s trout.”

THE TRUE STORY OF A KICKER

There lived two frogs, so I’ve been told,

In a quiet wayside pool;

And one of those frogs was a blamed bright frog,

But the other frog was a fool.

Now a farmer man with a big milk can

Was wont to pass that way;

And he used to stop and add a drop

Of the aqua pure, they say.

And it chanced one morn in the early dawn,

When the farmer’s sight was dim,

He scooped those frogs in the water he dipped,

--Which same was a joke on him.

The fool frog sank in the swashing tank

As the farmer bumped to town.

But the smart frog flew like a tug-boat screw,

And he swore he’d not go down.

So he kicked and splashed and he slammed and

thrashed,

And he kept on top through all;

And he churned that milk in first-class shape

In a great big butter ball.

Now when the milkman got to town,

And opened the can, there lay

The fool frog drowned; but, hale and sound,

The kicker he hopped away.

MORAL.

Don’t fret your life with needless strife,

Yet let this teaching stick:

You’ll find, old man, in the world’s big can

It sometimes pays to kick.

ZEK’L PRATT’S HARRYCANE

‘Twould make an ox curl up and die

To hear how Zek’l Pratt would lie.

--Why, that blamed Zeke

Could hardly speak

Without he’d let some whopper fly.

Come jest as natchrul to him, too,

--’Twas innocent, and them as knew

Zeke’s failin’s never took great stock,

But jest stood back and let him talk;

Jest let him thrash his peck o’ chart,

Then got behind his back to laugh.

Why, Zeke would--jest hold on and see

What that old liar told to me.

Last fall while gettin’ in his grain

He said he see’d a harrycane

--A cikerloon, as they say West--

A-boomin’ on like all possesst.

And Zekel see’d to his consarn

’Twas bound plumb straight for his new barn.

“’Twas crickitul,” says he. “Thinks I,

I’ve got to be almighty spry.

If somethin’ ain’t done kind o’ brash

That barn will get chawed inter hash.

It don’t take long for me to think,

And what I done was quicker’n wink.

Jest gafflin’ up a couple boards

I sashayed out deerectly to’ards

That howlin’, growlin’ harrycane

That come a-raisin’ merry Cain.

“When I’d got out as fur’s my wind

Would take me, I slacked up and shinned

That cob-piled monnyment o’ stones

Between my land and Bial Jones.

Though I don’t scare

I’ll own, I swear,

It sent a twitter through my bones

When I got where that I could see

The thing ’twas goin’ to tackle me.

’Twas big and round and blacker’n Zip,

--And powerful? My sakes, ’twould grip

A tree or bam or line o’ fence

And make ’em look like thirty cents.

While all the time it growled and chawed

And spit the slivers forty rod.

--As things looked then a bob-tailed darn

Was too much price for Pratt’s new barn.

“But let me tell ye this, my son,

Me’n them boards warn’t there for fun.

I held one underneath each arm;

The ends stuck out

In front about

Ten feet. I held ’em aidge to aidge

And made a fust-class kind of wedge.

I grit my teeth. There was a calm

For jest a minit, kind o’ ’s ef

That harrycane had stopped itse’f

And snickered, snorted, laughed, and yelled,

Then stopped again and sort o’ held

Its breath; then swellin’ up its breast

Swooped down to knock me galley-west.

“It grabbed them boards and then ’twas fight!

But scare me? Not a gol-durned mite!

It pulled and tugged and yanked and hauled

And tooted, howled, and squealed and squalled;

It picked up sculch and dirt, and threw,

And followed with a tree or two;

It hit me with a rotten squash,

And give me fits with Marm Jones’ wash.

But ’twarn’t no use, suh, Zek’l Pratt

Ain’t built to scare at things like that.

I jest let into that air tyke

And punched its innards reg’lar-like

With them ’ere boards, and honest true,

I split her square and plumb in two.

One half went yowlin’ by to right

And one to left--and out’ of sight.

While Zek’l Pratt was still on deck

With Marm Jones’ night-gown round his neck.”

THOSE PICKLES OF MARM’S

It doesn’t need eyesight to tell that it’s fall,

Up here in Maine.

Though the glamor of yellow is over it all,

And the cold, swishing rain

Comes peltering down and goes stripping the

leaves,

And smokes in cold spray from the edge of the

eaves.

All, it’s wild out of doors, but come in here with

Where mother’s as busy as busy can be.

And you need not your eyes, sir, to know it is fall

In this stifle and stirring and steam like a pall.

For there’s savor of spices and odorous charms

When your nose gets a sniff of these pickles of

marm’s.

You know it is fall without using your eyes,

Up here in Maine.

There is fragrance that floats as the flower-pot

dies

In the tears of the rain.

And the hand of the frost strips the sheltering

leaves

From the pumpkins, those bombs of the sentinel

sheaves

That stiffly and starkly keep gnard in the field,

A desolate rank without weapon or shield.

And the fragrance of death like a delicate musk

Floats up from the field through the crispness of

dusk;

Yet out from the kitchen, more savory far,

Drifts the fragrance of pickles compounded by

ma.

The autumn sweeps past like a dame to a ball,

Up here in Maine.

Her perfumes would stagger shy Springtime, but

Fall,

Like a matron of Spain,

Puts musk in her bosom and scent on her hair,

And prinks her gay robe with elaborate care.

Yet the fragrance she sheds has the savor of

death,

The brain is turned giddy beneath her fierce

breath,

Till over it all floats the vigorous scent

Of spices and hot things and good things, all

blent.

It’s wonderful, friend, how it tickles and calms,

--That whiff from those simmering pickles of

marm’s.

“THE MAN I KNEW I KILLED”

Ezra Saunders, of Hopkins’ Creek,

Was the next old soldier asked to speak.

He’d seen his share of the thousands slain

In the active days of the Umteenth Maine;

And we settled hack to hear him tell

His reasons for thinking that “War is Hell.”

“Dear comrades of Keesuncook Post and ladies

of the Corps,

I thank you for this invite and I’m proud to

take the floor.

I was thinkin’ as I set here of the battles that

I’ve fought,

Of the suff’rin’ and the slaughter--and the

sudden, awful thought

Come across me that I’d taken very likely scores

of lives,

--Taken fathers from their children, taken

husbands from their wives.

While mad with heat of battle I was pumping

reeking lead,

Not knowing, no, nor caring, where the bullet

found its bed.

Now people they will ask us if we really, truly

know

For a fact that while a-fightin’ we have ever

killed a foe.

But it’s rare you find a soldier who has seen, in

heat of strife,

That the bullet he had fired was the one to take

a life.

Now, to-night, I’m going to tell you, though I

hate to, boys, I swan,

That I know I’ve done my murder; that I know

I’ve killed my man.

“’Twas when we got our rapping at the fight of

Hatcher’s Run;

I was running hard as any;--yes, I threw away

my gun

And the rest of my equipment, and proceeded,

friends, to steer

Just as fast as legs would help me for protection

at the rear.

I was quite a nervy sprinter--‘bout as swift as

you will find,

But I couldn’t shake that Johnny who came

slammin’ on behind;

For he had the Georgy straddle and was sort of

razor-edged,

And if nothin’ special busted, I was spoke for,

so I jedged.

He was hanging to his rifle, but he didn’t try to

shoot,

--He see he had me solid,--but I give the

blame galoot

A standard mile or such-like and had druv him

‘in the list,’

When I stepped upon a hubble, fell, and give

my leg a twist.

And the tumble sort of stunned me so I laid

there quite a spell,

Expectin’ that he’d grab me; just a-harkin’ for

his yell.

But things stayed calm and quiet, so I peeked;

he laid there sprawled

‘Bout a dozen yards behind me. And he looked

so queer I crawled

Slowly back to reconnoitre, got where I could

see his head,

Saw his face was black’s a stove-pipe. Apo-

plexy! He was dead.

And I stood and wept above him, stirred, dear

comrades, to the peth

With the awful, awful pity for that man I’d run

to death.

And my conscience always pricked me and my

heart with grief is filled,

For there ain’t no question, comrades, there’s a

man I know I killed.”

’LONG SHORE CRUISE OF THE “NANCY P.”

We was off Seguin with the “Nancy P.,”

From the Sheepscot bound for Boston way;

We was one day out, and massy me!

What a leak she’d sprung sence she left the bay!

Why, never knowed sech an awful leak,

Gad, we made her old pump squeak,

Gad, we made it whoop and hump,

--Two at a turn, on the stiddy jump,--

Ker-chonk, ker-chump,

With an up yo-ho and a down ker-bump.

But the more we pumped, the more she drawed,

And we all turned to for a mighty pull;

But when we giv’ her the soundin’ rawd,

Why, bless yer soul, she was jam, bang full.

Plumb, jamb full to the soaked old deck,

Full to her gol-durned tarred old neck;

Wonder was how she kept aflo’t,

With the sea a-gozzlin’ in her thro’t;

Ker-do’t, ker-do’t,

--And we couldn’t leave, ’cause there wam’t no

bo’t.

So we hung to the pump and we giv’ her Cain,

Though it didn’t seem to be no use.

We thought of the good dry ground in Maine,

And durned the pelt of that old caboose,

Durned the hide of a tops’l tub,

For we never thought we’d see the Hub;

--Got so scart we forgot to thank

Our lucky stars for a lo’d of plank,

Ker-clink, ker-chank,

And still we bounced that old pump crank.

So we woggled on like a bale of hay,

And we set our teeth and we pumped with

groans.

At last we got to Boston bay;

But our arms were stretched to our ankle bones,

Hands were the size of corn-fed hams,

Eyes bulged out like the horns o’ rams,

We humped like monkeys bound for war,

And ev’ry man had a raw, red paw,

Ker-haw, ker-haw,

We beached that tub--and then we saw--

The “Nancy P.,” she’d grown that old,

Her butts had rotted all away.

Her lo’d of planks still jammed the hold,

But we’d left her bottom in Sheepscot bay.

So there we’d made a tumble try

To pump old ’Lantic ocean dry.

Over our rail, ’twixt you and me,

We’d h’isted, suttin, a mile of sea;

Blame me! But we

Was a darn sick crowd on the “Nancy P.”

TALE OF THE SEA-FARING MAN

I purchased a glass of stiff Maine grog for a

salty son of the sea,

And he confidentially leaned on the bar and

spun this yarn for me:

“ ’Twas down in the aidge of the Saragos’ in the

nineteenth latitood

That I think I see the dumdest sight that ever a

sailor viewed.

“We was dobbin’ along with dumpy sails in a

nigh-about dead calm,

When the forrard watch give a good long squint,

and he yapped a loud alarm.

“And there afloat, two points to port, was a

shark, a reg’lar he’un,

The biggest shark I’ve ever seen outside the

Caribbeun.

“The old man reckoned he’d have his pelt, and

he yelled to the second mate,

Sling over the biggest hook ye’ve got, with a

good big plug o’ bait.’

“We dragged her astern and his nobs come on,

and then with a mighty splosh,

He gulped the pork, he bit the rope, and away

he went, by gosh!

“But when he’d hipered two miles to lee, and

begun to wopse and wheel,

We figgered he found the lunch he had a rayther

too hearty meal.

“Yet right behind the quarter wash the critter

swum next day,

And though he gobbled the bait we threw, he

allus got away.

“And at last, do ye know, we liked the cuss for

the way he showed his spunk,

And we named him Pete, and shared salt hoss,

and tossed him a daily junk.

“He got the orts of the fish we caught and, all

in all, I’ll bet

A two-hoss waggin wouldn’t haul the stuff that

critter et.

“Then one day Jones, the heftiest man we had

in all the crew,

Went off the rail with a swinging sail, and Pete

he et him too.

“From that time on we tipped our caps to the

razor-backed old brute,

--We tipped our caps and pulled a bow in a

most profound salute;

“For ’twas only due from a decent crew to honor

a comrade’s grave,

Though ’twas odd, I’ll own, to have a tomb afloat

on the ocean wave.

“And the old man ordered the fish lines coiled,

for he ’lowed ’twarn’t proper game

To bob behind for a grave-yard lot; so Pete

swum on the same,

“--Swum on the same, though we come to see

that he didn’t act quite right.

For he grew as thin’s a belayin’ pin on that gol-

durned appetite.

“And we couldn’t figger the secret out, though

the second mate was firm

That stowed ’tween decks in the shark’s insides

was a bastin’ big tape-worm.

“As we didn’t have no vermifuge we could only

mourn for Pete,

And steal salt hoss when the mate wam’t round,

and give him lots to eat.

“But at last he rolled his glassy eyes and give

an awful chum,

And turned his belly up to view and drifted off

astern.

“He rolled and sogged on a logy swell like a

nut-cake dropped in fat,

And it ’peared to all there was suthin’ wrong

with the shark we was lookin’ at.

“So the old man ordered the gig crew up, and

the bos’n piped a tune,

And away we sploshed with the mate ahead

a-grippin’ a big harpoon.

“He slung the thing when we drew abreast and

we hacked like all-possessed;

But the shark was sleepin’ sound, you bet, for

we never broke his rest.

“--We never broke his peaceful snooze, though

plunk to the eyelet head

Went rippin’ in that big harpoon,--for, you see,

the shark was dead.

“And the old man ordered an ortopsy, for the

thing seemed mighty queer

That an able-bodied, hearty shark was deader’n

a door-knob here.

“So the mate was medical ’xaminer, and he

straddled the critter’s back

And laid him open from deck to keel with one

almighty whack.

“Now listen close while I tell the rest, for this is

the story’s peth,

--You may take my nob for a scuttle-butt if

the shark warn’t starved to death.

“Starved to death, though the sea was full of

the fattest kind of fish,

--Starved, though a seaman plump and sound

had tumbled in his dish,

“--Starved though he had in his gorged insides

I’ll bet a hundredweight

Of every kind of a floating thing from codfish

down to bait.

“And this was how: He’d spied, we judged, an

empty cask afloat,

And bein’ a glutten he grabbed the thing and

tucked it down his throat.

“The cask, we found, had an open end--the

bottom was good and stout

--The shark had swallowed the whole end fust

--the open end was out.

“And ev’ry mossel the critter et was scooped by

the cask inside;

His vittles failed to reach the spot, and so the

poor shark died.”

This is a sample of weird, wild yarns the marin-

ers relate

Under the spur of a glass of grog in a Prohibi-

tion State.

CAP’N NUTTER OF THE “PUDDENTAME”

The foam bells tinkle at gilded prow

--There’s a creamy wake to the far horizon.

And she tiptoes along with a New York bow

To the curt’sying waves, and we’ll all allow,

She’s the daintiest yacht we have set our eyes

on.

While sneaking after, in grimy shame,

Rolls tops’l schooner, the “Puddentame.”

On the rocking surge swings the millionaire,

And about him splendor and music and

laughter;

The glint of jewels and ladies fair;

Jollity throned, and Old King Care

Drowned in the brine and dragging after.

But the billows lift and toss the same

Old Cap’n Nutter in the “Puddentame.”

Under the gloom of the Porcupines,

In the gleam of the lights of the summer city,

In a tapestried cabin the rich man dines,

And toasts his friends in his bubbling wines,

While the repartee and the careless ditty

Float from the lips of squire and dame

To Cap’n Nutter of the “Puddentame.”

And the old man munches his bread and cheese

In the gloom and grime of his little cuddy;

--Through the mirk of the dusty deadlight sees

This riot of riches; then on his knees

--This sea-stained, warped old fuddy-duddy--

He prays for their souls in the Saviour’s

name,

---Does Cap’n Nutter of the u Puddentame.

And they?--Why, they neither know nor care

That the honest chap has knelt and pleaded.

For just at the edge of the dazzling glare

From the rocking yacht of the millionaire,

The old craft swings and sways unheeded.

Yet who’ll sleep better, jaded Fame

Or Cap’n Nutter of the “Puddentame”?

GOOD-BY, LOBSTER

We’ve gazed with resignation on the passing of

the auk,

Nor care a continental for the legendary rok;

And the dodo and the bison and the ornith-o-

rhyn-chus

May go and yet their passing brings no shade of

woe to us.

We entertain no sorrow that the megatherium

Forever and forever is departed, dead and

dumb:

But a woe that hovers o ’er us brings a keen and

bitter pain

As we weep to see the lobster vanish off the

coast of Maine.

Oh, dear crustacean dainty of the dodge-holes

of the sea,

I tune my lute in minor in a threnody for thee.

You’ve been the nation’s martyr and ’twas wrong

to treat you so,

And you may not think we love you; yet we

hate to see you go.

We’ve given you the blazes and hot-potted you,

and yet

We’ve loved you better martyred than when

living, now you bet.

You have no ears to listen, so, alas, we can’t

explain

The sorrow that you bring us as you leave the

coast of Maine.

Do you fail to mark our feeling as we bitterly

deplore

The passing of the hero of the dinner at the

shore?

Ah, what’s the use of living if you also can’t

survive

Until you die to furnish us the joy of one

“broiled live”?

And what can e ’er supplant you as a cold dish

on the side?

Or what assuage our longings when to salads

you’re denied?

Or what can furnish thunder to the legislative

brain

When ruthless Fate has swept you from the rocky

coast of Maine?

I see, and sigh in seeing, in some distant, future

age

Your varnished shell reposing under glass upon

a stage,

The while some pundit lectures on the curios of

the past,

And dainty ladies shudder as they gaze on you

aghast.

And all the folks that listen will wonder vaguely

The fact that once lived heathen who could eat

a Thing like that.

Ah, that’s the fate you’re facing--but laments

are all in vain

--Tell the dodo that you saw us when you

lived down here in Maine.

CURE FOR HOMESICKNESS

She wrote to her daddy in Portland, Maine, from

out in Denver, Col.,

And she wrote, alas, despondently that life had

commenced to pall;

And this was a woful, woful case, for she was

a six months’ bride

Who was won and wed in the State of Maine by

the side of the bounding tide.

And ah, alack, she was writing back that she

longed for Portland, Maine,

Till oh, her feelings had been that wrenched she

could hardly stand the strain!

Though her hubby dear was still sincere, she

sighed the livelong day

For a good old sniff of the sewers and salt from

the breast of Casco bay.

And she wrote she sighed, and she said she’d

cried, and her appetite fell off,

And she’d grown as thin’s a belaying-pin, with a

terrible hacking cough;

And she sort of hinted that pretty soon she’d

start on a reckless scoot

And hook for her home in Portland, Maine, by

the very shortest route.

But her daddy dear was a man of sense, and he

handles fish wholesale,

And he sat and fanned himself awhile with a

big broad codfish tail;

And he recollected the way he felt when he

dwelt in the World’s Fair whirl.

He slapped his head. “By hake,” he said, “I

know what ails that girl.”

And he went to a ten-cord pile of cod and he

pulled the biggest out,

A jib-shaped critter, broad’s a sail,--three feet

from tail to snout.

And he pasted a sheet of postage stamps from

snout clear down to tail,

Put on a quick delivery stamp, and sent the cod

by mail.

She smelled it a-coming two blocks off on the

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Up in Maine: Stories of Yankee Life Told in VerseChapter II: Part 2

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