Chapter III: Part 3

If you feel like a man with a royal flush

And, jest for the joke of it, rip some plush,

Oh, they take that law and they peel you sore;

You pay for the damage, and ten plunks more.

’Tain’t much like the days when we had some

rights,

When we roosters sharpened our spurs in fights,

When never a crowd put up galoots

That could scrap with the fellers with spike-sole

boots.

It’s a case of step to the wangan camp, and buy

some partent leathers;

And go a-snoopin’ along to town like a dude on

his weddin’-trip;

And the only thing you can do to a guy is to tickle

his nose with feathers,

And curl in your seats in the smokin’-car when

a drummer gives you lip.

There was fun, by gee, in the good old days

when we whooped ’er into the city,

And you trailed our way by the slivers we left

from the railroad down to the dives,

And we owned the town where we left our cash;

and now it’s a thunderin’ pity

If all of a sudden you’ve grown too good for the

boys who are off the drives.

Oh, make the laws, go make the laws with your

derned old Legislature,

Jest give us orders to wear plug hats and come

down in full dress suits.

We’ll wear the togs; but give us spikes, or

you’ve busted the laws of nature,

For angels can just as well shed wings as a

driver his spike-sole boots.

THE CHAP THAT SWINGS THE AXE

Sing a song of paper; first the tall, straight

spruce,

Torn from off the mountains for the roaring

presses’ use.

--A shrieking laceration by the “barker” and

the saw;

A slow, grim maceration in the grinder’s grum-

bling maw;

A dizzy dash through calenders and over whir-

ring rolls,

--And the press can smut the paper so to save

or damn your souls;

The press has got the paper, it can give you lies

or facts

--That vexes not the fellow up in Maine who

swings the axe.

Chock!

Chock!

Chock!

The throb stuttered up from the heart of the

wood,

Erratic and faint, yet the trees understood,

--Though distant and dull like the tick of a

clock

It started a tremor through all the great flock.

King Spruce was a-shiver and rooted with dread,

While past him to safety the wood people fled;

The fox with his muzzle turned backward to

snuff

The bear trundling on like an animate muff,

And rabbits up-ending in wonder and fright,

Then scudding once more with the others in

flight.

Yet that which has reason most urgent to flee

Stands grim in the rout of the panic--the

Tree!

While up the long slope, glaring red ’gainst the

snow,--

His shirt of the hue of the butcher,--the foe,

Beating fierce at the trunks with relentless

attacks,

Comes on to the slaughter, the Man with the Axe.

Chock!

Chock!

Chock!

Shudder and totter and shiver and rock!

--Pygmy assailing with dull steady knock.

Trunk yawning wide with a hideous gash.

Snow-covered limbs thrown a-sprawl; and

then crash!

The pens and the presses are waiting, and eyes

That will glow with delight, or dilate with sur-

prise.

For there in the heart of the spruce there is

rolled

The fabric for thousands of stories untold.

And on the white paper may later be spread

The fall of a nation, or fame of one dead

Who now strides abroad in his health and suc-

cess,

But will pass to the tomb when that log meets

the press.

There under the bark of that spruce there is

furled

A web that will carry the news of a world,

That clamors and crowds at the swaying red

backs

Of the toilers of Maine, the rough men of the

axe.

THE SONG OF THE WOODS’ DOG-WATCH

’Tis the weirdly witching hour of the woods’

“dog-watch,”

When the guide suspends the kettle in the ash

limb’s crotch,

Stirs the drowsy, drowsy embers till the cozy

fire beams

And flickers dance like gnomes and elves athwart

the glowing dreams

Of the sleeping town-bred fisher who is stretched

with placid soul

On the earth in sweeter slumber than his town

couch can cajole.

Ah, ’tis tough on bone and muscle, is this chas-

ing after fun--

And a sleeper gets to sleeping forty knots along

’bout one.

But the guide is up a-stirring--monstrous shape

with flaring torch,

Prodding up the dozing fire for the woods’ “dog-

watch.”

And the slow unclosing eyelids of the startled

dreamer see

This dreadful apparition thrown in shadows on a

tree.

And his heart for just a second goes to skirrup-

ing about

As it flopped when he was wrestling with that

five-three-quarter trout.

But the ogre leaves the shadows, leans against

a handy tree

And remarks: “The water’s bilin’; won’t ye

have a cup o’ tea?”

And he wakes to a night of the fisherman’s

June,

--Afar the weird lilt of the dolorous loon

Floats up from the heart of the fair, velvet

night--

A globule of sound winging slow in its flight.

As elfin a note as a gnome ever blew,

It wells from the waters, “Ah-loo-hoo-ah-hoo-

o-o-o.”

O spell of the forest! O glimmer and gleam

From the sheen of the lake and the mist-breath-

ing stream!

The night and the stars and the dolorous loon

Make mystic the spell of the fisherman’s June.

The spruces sing the lyric of the wood’s dog-

watch;

The kettle as it bubbles in the ash limb’s crotch,

The rustle of the spindles of the hemlock and

the pine,

The crackle where the licking tongues of ruddy

fire twine,

The oboe, in the distance, of the weird and lone-

some loon,

--This chorus sings the lyric of the blessed

month of June.

What June? Your June of meadows or your

June of scented breeze,

Or your June begirt with roses stretched in

hammock at her ease?

Such a deity for maidens! I can bow to no

such June!

I extol the mystic goddess of the Forest’s Silent

Noon.

--Noon of day or noon of night-time--in the

vast and silent deeps,

Where human care or human woe or human

envy sleeps,

Where rugged depths surround me, dim and

silent, deep and wide,

And no human shares my joy but that second

self, my guide.

--Here’s a June that one can worship. Here’s

a June by right a queen,

’Neath her hand eternal mountains, ’neath her

feet eternal green..

And here will I adore her, seeking out her

awful throne

With the Silence swimming round me, and

alone, thank God, alone!

FIDDLER CURED THE CAMP

Wal, things they was deader’n old Billy-be-darn,

The boss was pernickity, cook wouldn’t yam;

For we’d heard ev’ry story old Beans had to spin,

And we hadn’t no longin’s to hear ’em agin;

Old Pitts, the head chopper, we’d pumped him

out, too,

--And he swow’d that he’d sung ev’ry song

that he knew.

As the rest wasn’t gifted, a sort of a damp

Old glister of silence fell over Peel’s camp.

The deacon-seat doldrums were blacker’n old Zip,

We’d set there an hour with never a yip,

’Cept the suckin’ o’ lips at the quackin’ T.D.’s,

With the oof and the woo of the lonesome pine

trees

Wistling over our smok’-hole. It grew on us,

too;

Our thoughts got as thick an’ as musty an’ blue

As the cloud o’ tobacker smoke, mixed with the

steams

From the woolens that dried on the stringers

and beams.

Old Attegat Peter said we was bewitched;

He said that he seed the Old Gal when she

twitched

A fistful o’ hair out the gray hosses’ tail

For a-makin’ witch tattin’. She’d hung on a nail

The queerisome web, so he said, an’ the holes

--They were fifty--they stood for the whole

of our souls.

An’ there we would swing, an’ hang there we

must,

Till the hoodoo was busted. Eternally cussed,

So he said, was the buffle-brained feller that

dared

To touch the witch-web that was holding us

snared.

Aw, we didn’t believe it--‘tain’t like that we

did!

But still we warn’t fussy! If we could get

rid

Of the dumps by a charm, we was ready to try,

And Peter said singin’ would knock ’em sky

high.

Wal, Peter said “singin’;” I can’t tell a lie,

’Twarn’t singin’, ’twarn’t nothin’--that mourn-

ful ki-yi!

That seemed like a beller in ev’ry man’s boot,

An’ ’twarn’t none surprisin’ the witch didn’t

scoot.

So there did we set in a stew an’ a cloud,

A grumpy old, lumpy old dob of a crowd.

But oh, landsy sake a-Peter, when the fiddle come

to camp,

W’y you wouldn’t know the place:

--Wuz a grin on ev’ry face

W’en we know’d the critter’d got it. An’ it

reely seemed the lamp

Had a ’leetric light attachment; an’ you

oughter heard us stamp

When that feller took his fiddle out an’ rosined

up the bow.

Then he yawked an’ yeaked an’ yawked

’Twistin’ keys ontil she squawked,

An’ we set there jest a-gawpin’; not a word to

say, but, oh,

We was right on pins an’ needles fer to have

him let ’er go.

Tweedle-weedle, yeaky, yawky, ’nother twist,

an’ pretty soon

He was waitin’ to begin,

With ’er underneath his chin;

He a-askin’, all a-grinnin’, “Wall, boys, name

it; what’s your tune?”

An’ we hollered all in concert, “Whoop ’er up

on ‘Old Zip Coon’!”

Oh, the deacon-seat had cushions an’ the bunks

were stuffed with down,

While the feller sawed the strings;

We could feel our sproutin’ wings,

An’ we wanted to go soarin’, go a-sailin’, wear a

crown,

Tear the ground up, whoop-ta-ra-ra, mix some

red and paint the town.

Oh, he played the “Lights o’ London” an’ he

played “The Devil’s Dream,”

--All the old ones--played ’em all;

Rode right on ’er--made ’er squall;

Didn’t stop to semi-quiver, tip-toe Nancy, pass

the cream;

No; he let ’er go Jerooshy, clear the track an’

lots o’ steam.

Thought I’d never heerd such playin’ sence the

Lord had giv’ me breath

An’ that P. I.--seems as if

He could put the bang an’ biff

In the chitter of a cat-gut like to touch the very

peth

In yer marrow; like to raise yer from the very

jaws of death.

So, oh, landsy sake a-Peter, when that fiddle

come our way,

Say, you wouldn’t know the place,

--Wus a grin on ev’ry face.

--Went to workin’ like the blazes an’ our vittles

set--an’ say,

Guess the Hoodoo flew to thunder when the

Haw-Haw come to stay.

THE SONG OF THE SAW

The song is the shriek of the strong that are

slain,

--The monarchs that people the woodlands of

Maine;

--‘Tis the cry of a merciless war.

And it echoes by river, by lake, and by stream,

Wherever saws scream or the bright axes gleam,

--‘Tis keyed to the sibilant rush of the steam,

And the song is the song of the saw.

Come stand in the gloom of this clamorous

room,

Where giants groan past us a-drip from the

boom,

Borne here from the calm of the forest and hill,

--Aghast at the thunderous roar of the mill,

At rumble of pulley and grumble of shaft

And the tumult and din of the sawyer’s rude

craft.

Stand here in the ebb of the riotous blast,

As the saw’s mighty carriage goes thundering

past,

One man at the lever and one at the dog.

The slaughter is bloodless and senseless the

log,

Yet the anguish of death and the torment of

hell

Are quavering there in the long, awful yell,

That shrills above tumult of gearing and wheel

As the carriage rolls down and the timber meets

steel.

Scream! And a board is laid bare for a home.

Shriek! And a timber for mansion and dome,

For the walls of a palace, or toil’s homely use,

Is reft from the flanks of the prostrate King

Spruce.

And thus in the clamor of pulley and wheel,

In the plaint of the wood and the slash of the

steel,

Is wrought the undoing of Maine’s sturdy lords,

--The martyrs the woodlands yield up to our

swords.

The song is the knell of these strong that are

slain,

The monarchs that people the woodlands of

Maine.

And the Fury that whirls in the din of this

war,

With rioting teeth and insatiable maw, is the

saw!

And this is the song of the saw.

DOWN THE TRAIL WITH GUM PACKS

Ev’ry nugget clean and sound,

Red’s a jewel, smooth and round,

Worth a dollar’n ten a pound;

Here’s your gum, ye giddy girls,

Here’s your Maine spruce gum.

The chaps that went off with the Klondike

diggers

For gold--jest gold,

Have slumped in the snow, and they work like

niggers,

And they haven’t got rich, we’re told.

We’re snowshoeing down from the north of

Katahdin,

See here! Yum, yum!

Here’s a tole to tease Maud to come into the

garden

--These rich, rosy lumps o’ spruce gum.

Our fires are dowsed in the lonesome old camps,

We’ve left them to wolves and the foxes and

damps.

The trail of our snowshoes lies snakin’ behind,

For we’re clawing for home with the treasures

we’ve mined.

We’ve no sort of use for the pick and the sluice;

Our Klondike has been the straight trunks of

the spruce.

Let them that elect grub the dirt for a “gleam,”

Our ore is the gum and our lode is the seam

That doesn’t go sneaking in mire and clay,

But grins at the sun and drinks deep of broad day.

Go grope for your gold in the bowels of mud!

We’ll cleave our fresh nuggets of resinous blood

Forced out from the heart through the fibre and

vein

Of the giants who lurk in the woodlands of

Maine.

Just squint through this bubble and gaze at the

blaze:

That red is the fire of hot summer days;

That glimmer is autumn; that glow is the tint

That was lent by some campfire’s guttering glint.

And here is a globe like the eye of a cat,

And this one is amber like honey; and that

Is a tear rosy red with the anger and shame

Of a king glooming down as the axe-heavers

came;

--Staring down as around him his kin roared

to earth

Midst the oaths of the swampers and Labor’s

rude mirth.

That tear of the spruce, may it go to the pearls

Flashing bright ’neath the lips of some sweetest

of girls!

These, then, are the treasures we bring in our

packs,

--Each round, rosy globule as sweet as the

smacks

We’ll get from the kids when they swoop with

a roar

At dad just the second he opens the door.

Clear out your old scraps, Mr. Druggist: we

come

With a good hefty jag of the season’s new gum.

Ey’ry nugget clear and sound,

Red’s a jewel, smooth and round,

Worth a dollar’n ten a pound.

Here’s your gum, ye giddy girls,

Here’s your Maine spruce gum.

REAR O’ THE DRIVE

The rain has raised the river an’ she’s np to

driving pitch,

An’ it’s oh, an’ grab your peavies an’ go sloppin’

in the wet.

We’ve got ter send ’er whoopin’ now without a

ketch or hitch,

But it won’t be kid-glove bus’ness, oh, my

hearties, you can bet.

Empty the water out of your boots

And gaffle your peavies, you P.I. galoots.

There’s the rips at Rundy’s Corner, and the

sluice at Puzzle Gorge;

You can drive ’em and connive ’em, but the

timber’s bound to lodge.

An’ sticks will buck--with best of luck--as

offish-like as hogs,

For there ain’t no calkerlatin’ how you’ll run a

drive o’ logs.

Chase the heathen with a sword,

Run the cattle with a goad,

All we want’s our Oldtown peavies, when our

drives go overboard.

An’ we’ll foller, sloshin’ in,

Yes, we’ll waller to the chin,

An’ we’ll herd ’em through the wildest stream

that ever frothed and roared.

So, look alive,

It’s after five,

An’ the drouth is a-chasin’ the rear o’ the drive.

Foller down, foller down with your peavies on

your backs,

For the herd that runs ahead of us goes loafin’

’less it’s chased.

They know they’re off to market, an’ they dread

the saw an’ axe,

An’ you’ve got to go and welt ’em, though the

water’s to your waist,

For they balk on Depsconneagon when a sixty-

footer halts;

Ev’ry eddy stands a-ready for to swing ’em in a

waltz.

An’ ev’ry rock is chock-a-block with jack-strawed

pine an’ spruce,

Ontil you’ve got the devil’s job to try and turn

’em loose.

But our goadstick is the peavy, an’ our cant-dog

is the pup

That’ll worry ’em an’ hurry ’em an’ rush ’em,

chase ’em up.

Oh, the drouth is right behind us, but we’ve

passed the North Twin flume,

An’ we’ll beat the sun in heaven in the race for

Pea Cove boom.

MATIN SONG OF PETE LONG’S COOK

It’s dark in the camp, and the woods outside

Are dark, dark, too!

And a hundred men still open wide

Their loud bay-zoo.

It’s sort of mean to rout ’em jus’

To work once more;

I’d like to let each tired cuss

Jus’ lay and snore.

But I’ve been up for an hour or two

And grub’s all on;

And now as the cook of Pete Long’s crew

I toot my horn.

The weirdest of all wood-sounds, by the way,

Is a cook’s queer cadence at break of day:

Whoo-e-e-e!

Git UP!

The grub is on the table, boys, the coffee’s on

the bile:

The swagon’s hotter’n Tophet and I swear ’twill

make you smile.

There’s whiskers on the gingerbread, the biskit

can’t be beat;

I’ve got molasses sinkers made from mother’s

old receipt.

--Oh, I’ve got molasses sinkers built around

some extra holes;

They’ll make you think of home and friends and

tickle up your souls.

The beans come out a-roarin’ when I boosted

up the lid;

They chuckled when I pried ’em out--they

laughed, I swear they did.

Don’t jolly me about your smells of Araby the

blest,

--Jus’ take a snuff of ground-baked beans all

hot from out their nest.

The grub is on the table, boys, hurroop, hurroop,

whoo-e-e-e!

Come, tumble out, git on a move! Good Lord,

it’s after three!

Rise up and shine, my gentle lambs, surround

your breakfast quick,

Or else you’ll git the sun’s ha-ha from over

Tumble Dick.

And if the timer heaves a growl and docks you

in his book,

Jus’ blame your own durn lazy luck--don’t

lay it on the cook.

For ev’ry man who’s et my cream-of-tartar bis-

kit knows

The cook of this ’ere camp, by smut, ’s the

earliest bird that crows.

For I’m old enough to spell a-a-a-ble!

The grub is all on the ta-a-a-ble!

Whoo-e-e-e!

Git UP!

OFF FOR THE LUMBER WOODS

The duffle is packed, and the babies are smacked,

and the wife has a buss and a hug;

And she’s done it up brown in a-loading me

down with about all the grub I can lug,

So long! Good-by!

I’m off! Don’t cry!

--Just about a month of Sundays and you’ll

see my homely mug.

Now look ye, ye towzled-haired son of a gun,

Be good to your mother or you’ll see some

fun

When your daddy comes down on the drive in

the spring

And fetches a withe with a hornetty sting.

Ha! ha! you young rascal, you’d rather have

gum?

Well, be a good baby and pa’ll fetch you some.

Yes, mother, you’re right, it does seem kinder

wrong

To leave you alone here the whole winter

long.

And it’s tough that I have to pack dunnage and

break

For the big timber wrassle at Chamberlain lake.

But folks are a-waiting for lumber and boards,

They’ve picked up their saws, now they’ve laid

down their swords.

They’re wanting the timbers for new city domes,

They’re wanting the shingles for humble new

homes.

The hammers are waiting, the nails are on end,

And the chorus of clatter’ll commence when we

send

A billion of lumber down race-way and sluice,

From the lonesome dominions of gloomy King

Spruce.

The men who print papers are wanting fresh

sheets,

The folks who build ships will be launching new

fleets,

For, mark me, no matter what Uncle Sam

planned,

He finds he can’t reach his new back lots by

land.

Don’t smile at me, wife, but I feel when I swing

That sweaty old axe from the fall to the spring,

That I hear one grim cry swimming up on the air

Through the dim, silent forest,--a pleading

prayer.

The clank of the press, and the scream of the

saws.

The grunt of the grinder that slavers and chaws

At the fibre of pulp wood; the purr of the plane

Are blent in one chorus, attuned to one strain,

--That sighs in the breezes or throbs in the roar

Of the tempest; and ever the cry is for “More.’’

And we men with our axes and horn-covered

palms

Hear the call as a man hears the summons “To

arms,”

And forward we plunge with no quarter, no

truce,

With axes a-gleam in the realms of King Spruce.

The duffle is packed, and the babies are smacked;

now wife, for a buss and a hug.

Save a smile ’gainst the spring, for I’m going to

bring just all the spruce gum I can lug.

I’m off! Good-bye!

So long! Don’t cry!

In about a month of Sundays you will see my

homely mug.

HERE’S TO THE STOUT ASH POLE

Hooray for to-day, and hooray for to-night, and

forget all the rest of it, boys.

Hold on, Mister Barkeeper, close up your jaw,

we’re paying for all of this noise.

We won’t mosey out, and we won’t set down,

and you can’t keep a one of us still;

You can charge, if you want to, so much for a

yawp; we’ll settle all right in the bill.

For this is our very last evenin’ on earth; the

last night we’ll be here alive.

To-morrow at six we all cut sticks for the rear of

the West Branch drive.

Hooray!

For Seboomook, and rear of the drive.

Oh, bartender, say, can’t you hustle them up?

Come, push out your reddest of paint,

We’re here for to splatter the carnation on, now

blow us for fools if we ain’t!

So set out your varnish for coffins, my boy,--

that brand called the “Grave-diggers’ Boast.”

I’ve got enough chink--now down with your

drink! and I’ll give ye a riverman’s toast.

While you’re raising up your glasses,

Jest forget the giddy lasses

That have coaxed away your dollars, and have

given you the laugh.

Turn away from them connivers,

And as honest, hearty drivers

Drink a good, round jorum to the stout ash staff.

When the girls have filched your cash,

There is still the hearty ash,

It is waiting at Seboomook for to cheer your

foolish soul.

Ah, you know we love it most; and I give

you this, my toast,

The river driver’s darling, oh, his long ash pole.

We’ve ridden the gorges on rioting logs, and

we’ve always swept safe to the land.

So long as we rode with the spikes in our boots,

and the long, limber pole in our hand;

We’ve pried at the jams on the brink of the

dams, and the pole has stood by like a man,

And then in the dash for our lives in the crash

the pole braced us up as we ran,

Hooray!

As we yelled through the smother and ran.

And when in the bellow of up-ending logs it

looked like good-by to our souls

We rode back to life from out of the strife,

vaulting high on the end of our poles.

Ah, these are the friends that stand by you, my

boys: they’re truer than all of the host

Of the fair-spoken gang of the thieves of the

town! Crowd up here and drink to my toast!

The girls were sweeter’n honey

Till they gathered in our money,

And the barkeeps they were pleasant just as

long as we could spend.

Now it’s quite another story,

--Case of throwdown! But, by glory,

We can drink this final jorum to our stout old

friend.

Though the gang has swiped our cash, there is

still the hearty ash,

He is waiting at Seboomook for to cheer your

foolish soul.

After all, we love him most! and he’s still the

last, loud toast

--The driver’s honest helper, oh, the long ash

pole.

MISTER WHAT’S-HIS-NAME OF SEBOOMOOK

Have you ever heard Seboomook with her April

dander up,

With the amber rushing river gorged to high-

est drivin’ pitch?

Have you heard her boom and bellow--rocky

lips a-froth with yellow--

When she spews and spumes the torrents--

oh, the wild and wicked witch?

She has menace in her breath,

And she roars the chant of death,

For the victim that she slavers never sees

the sun again.

And she clutches at the river,

With entreaty that it give her

The morsels for her longing, which are men--

men--men!

Here’s a tale to suit the cynic--’tis a satire from

the woods,

And concerns a certain hero who was hunt-

ing after Fame;

’Tis the grim and truthful story of a mighty

reach for glory,

But, alas, he didn’t get it, for we’ve clean

forgot his name!

He was one of Murphy’s crew,

And he swore that he’d go through

Where no other West Branch driver ever saved

the shirt he wore:

For he vowed he’d shoot the gorge

And allowed that he could dodge

The Death that knelt a-clutching at the prey

the waters bore.

When they said he couldn’t do it, why, he

laughed the crowd to scorn,

--Poled across the dimpling shallows with

a fierce and hoarse good-by

--He was Murphy’s top-notch driver, half a bird

and one-half diver,

But the best who brave Seboomook only

sound the depths to die.

And they found him miles below;

But his mother would not know

The mangled mass Seboomook belched from out

her vap’rous throat.

The first man coming down

Brought the story out to town,

Referring to the hero as a “dretful reckless

goat.”

Then he told the brisk reporters all the grim and

grisly tale,

And the deed was dressed in language in a

way to bring some fame.

But alas for human glory, the galoot who brought

the story,

Remembered all the details, but forgot the

fellow’s name.

Have you ever heard Seboomook roaring at you

in the night,

With her champing jaws a-frothing in a word-

less howl of hate?

’Tis a fierce vociferation to compel our admira-

tion,

For the chap who struck that rugged blow,

cross-countered thus by Fate.

When he lunged his pole at Death,

When the river sucked his breath,

Seboomook gravely listened when he screamed

his humble name;

For the honor of a foe

She would have the people know,

But she vainly dins her message in the deafened

ear of Fame.

HA’NTS OF THE KINGDOM OF SPRUCE

The sheeted ghosts of moated grange

And misty wraiths are passing strange;

The gibbering spooks and elfin freaks

And cackling witches’ maudlin squeaks--

--They have terrified the nations, and have laid

the bravest low,

But intimidate a woodsman up in Maine? Why,

bless you, no!

Merely misty apparitions or some sad ancestral

spook

Serve to terrify a maiden or to warn a death-

marked duke.

But the P. I. scoffs their terrors, though he’ll

never venture loose

’Mongst the ha’nts that roam the woodlands in

the weird domains of Spruce.

--He’ll mock the fears of mystic and he’ll scorn

the bookish tales

Of the fearsome apparitions of the past, but

courage fails

In the night when he awakens, all a-shiver in

his bunk,

And with ear against the logging hears the

steady, muffled thunk

Of the hairy fists of monsters, beating there in

grisly play,

--Horrid things that stroll o’ night-times, never,

never seen by day,

For he knows that though the spectres of the

storied past are vain,

There is true and ghostly ravage in the forest

depths of Maine.

For even in these days P. I.’s shake

At the great Swamp Swogon of Brassua Lake.

When it blitters and glabbers the long night

through,

And shrieks for the souls of the shivering crew.

And all of us know of the witherlick

That prowls by the shore of the Cup-sup-tic.

Of the Side Hill Ranger whose eyeballs gleam

When the moon hangs gibbous over Abol

stream;

--Of the Dolorous Demon that moans and calls

Through the mists of Abol-negassis falls.

And many a woodsman has felt his bunk

Tossed by the Phantom of Sourdna-hunk.

There’s the Giant Spook who ha’nted Lane’s

Old wangan camp and rended chains

--Great iron links of the snubbing cable--

As though they were straw--who was even

able

To twist the links in a mighty mat

With which he bent the forest flat

From Nahma-kanta to Depsiconneag

--Acres and acres--league after league;

Striding abroad from peak to dale

And laying on with his mighty flail.

Oh, fie for the shade of the manored hall,

A fig for a Thing in a grave-creased pall,

--For wraiths that flitter and flutter and sigh,

With flabby limbs and the sunken eye!

The woodsman recks not ye, frail ghosts,

But he knows and he bows to the deep wood’s

hosts,

Who sound their coming with giant breath,

Who mark their passing with storm and death,

Who shriek through blow-downs and howl o ’er

lakes,

--And he hides and trembles, he shivers and

shakes

When he hears the Desperate Demons loose

In the weird dominions of grim King Spruce.

THE HERO OF THE COONSKIN CAP

When the blaze leaps forth from the camp’s

great hearth,

And the fitful shadows come and go;

When the ruddy beam lights the deacon-seat

And the silent faces in a row;

As the storm-gust drags at the sighing eaves

And moans at the shuddering window-pane,

Some droning voice from a shadowy bank

Intones a song to the wind’s long strain,

And like the soughing, ebbing blast

The gusty chorus bursts and swells;

And then one single, sighing voice

Drones plaintively the tale it tells.

They’re simple songs, they’re homely songs,

And yet they cling in heart and brain,----

Those songs of the darkling forest depths,

These songs of the lumber woods of Maine.

There’s the song of home and the song of love,

And the lilt of battle, bold and free;

There’s the song of the axe in the ringing wood,

And the sighing song of the distant sea.

Yet oft when the choruses are stilled

Some honest woodsman’s voice can wake

A tender thrill with the homely song

Of a nameless hero of Moosehead Lake.

UP IN MAINE

A hero in leggings, he volunteered

--When the treacherous ice lay black as loam

In the melting spring--to risk his life

And bring to others the news from home.

He bore the mail for the lumber camp,

The missives for many an anxious man

Who toiled for the ones he loved so well,

In the wilds of the far Socatean.

He’d fingered each as he studied the names

And sorted the letters with kindly care;

While with honest heart of a friend he guessed

At the news that the precious notes might

hear.

There was one for Kane, and the last had said

That his little girl was sorely ill--

Poor man, he had worried the whole long week!

--And here was one for the Bluenose-Will,

Who had left a sweetheart to come to Maine,

And had looked for a line in a homesick way;

And here were a couple from Henry’s wife,

--And one bore “Forward without delay!”

A tiny message to “Pa John Booth”

Had a cross to show where a rousing smack

Had been pressed on the paper; and here, alas,

Was a letter fringed with a sombre black.

Freighted with sorrow or bringing the smiles,

Fresh from the homes so far away,

He tucked them all in his coon-skin cap

And breasted the sleet of the dreary day.

No one knew how it came about,

No man witnessed the fight for breath,

When the cruel clutch of the great black lake

Reached up and dragged him down to death.

But we always knew that his fiercest strength

Was spent in the supreme flash of life

When he, poor wanderer, thought alone

Of the news for others from home and wife.

For, as far on the edge of the broken ice

As his arm could reach, when he sank and

died,

We found the worn old coon-skin cap

With the letters carefully tucked inside.

A HAIL TO THE HUNTER

Oh, we’re getting under cover, for the “sport” is

on the way,

--Pockets bulge with ammunition, and he’s

coming down to slay;

All his cartridges are loaded and his trigger’s on

the “half,”

And he’ll bore the thing that rustles, from a

deer to Jersey calf.

He will shoot the foaming rapids, and he’ll shoot

the yearling bull.

And the farmer in the bushes--why, he’ll fairly

get pumped full.

For the gunner is in earnest, he is coming down

to kill,

--Shoot you first and then inquire if he hurt

you--yes, he will!

For the average city feller he has big game on

the brain,

And imagines in October there is nothing else in

Maine!

Therefore some absorbed old farmer cutting corn

or pulling beans

Gets most mightily astonished with a bullet in

his jeans.

So, O neighbor, scoot for cover or get out your

armor plate,

--Johnnie’s got his little rifle and is swooping

on the State.

Oh, we’re learning, yes, we’re learning, and I’ll

warn you now, my son,

If you really mean to bore us you must bring a

bigger gun.

For the farmers have decided they will take no

further chance,

And progressive country merchants carry armor-

plated pants;

--Carry shirts of chain-plate metal, lines of coats

all bullet-proof,

And the helmets they are selling beat a Knight

of Malta’s “roof.”

So I reckon that the farmers can proceed to get

their crops,

Yes, and chuckle while the bullet raps their

trouser seats and stops;

And the hissing double-B shot as they criss-cross

over Maine

Will excite no more attention than the patter of

the rain.

And the calf will fly a signal and the Jersey

bull a sign,

And the horse a painted banner, reading “Hoss-,

Don’t Shoot; He’s Mine!”

And every fowl who wanders from the safety of

the pen

Will be taught to cackle shrilly, u Please don’t

plug me; I’m a hen.”

Now with all these due precautions we are ready

for the gang,

We’ll endure the harmless tumult of the rifles’

crack and bang,

For we’re glad to have you with us--shoot the

landscape full of holes;

We will back our brand-new armor for to save

our precious souls.

O you feller in the city, those ’ere woods is full

of fun,

We’ve got on our iron trousers--so come up

and bring your gun!

HOSSES

THEM OLD RAZOOS AT TOPSHAM TRACK

Won’t you poke your buzzin’ stop-watch,

Daddy Time, and click ’er back

To the days of spider high-wheels on the

dinky Topsham track?

When they raced there in October for per-

taters, corn, and oats--

Sometimes paid the purse in shotes--

Drivers wore their buff’ler coats,

And the weather was so juicy that the boys

would take a vote

As to which would drag the better, suh, a sulky

or a boat.

Still ’twas fun, when the sun

Got the moppin’ bus’ness done,

And the field went off a-skatin’, half the pelters

on the run.

There was’Liza, Old Keturah Ann, and Dough-

nut Boy and Pat,

Their pedigrees was barnyard, but we didn’t

care for that;

So hooray! So hooroo! Oh, ye ought to see

’em climb,

They was racers, suh, from ’way back--but no

matter ’bout the time!

There was goers in that pack--

Look at Toggle-jointed Jack

With an action like a windmill, but the critter

he could rack!

And I’d like to have him back,

For I tell you, bub, I stack

On the high-wheel, razoo-races of the good old

Topsham track.

Oh, you oughter seen the send-offs, and you

oughter seen the tricks!

For the stretch was chock-a-blocko when they

scored ’em down by six.

And the starter he would whang-o on a dented

strip of tin,

But the drivers never minded ’less he cussed the

gang like sin.

The hoss-whips that they carried reached away

beyond the manes,

And they larruped ’em with chains--

Tried to lift ’em by the reins.

’Twas muscle, suh, that won the race in them

old days--not brains!

And you’d think to see the sawin’ and the

jerkin’ and the h’ists,

The boys they was a-usin’ partent webbin’s

made of j’ists.

Their elbows flapped like flyin’ and they yow-

wowed through the dust,

And ’twarn’t through lack of hollerin’ that ev’ry

man warn’t fust.

’Twas “Hi-i yah, cut the corners!” and “Hi-i

yoop, take the pole!”

“Don’t ye keep me in this pocket--let me ont

there, darn yer soul!”

“Gimme room there! don’t ye pinch me or I’ll

bust yer blasted wheel!”

“Hi, you sucker, that’s a steal!”

“That’s a low-down trick, to squeal!”

“Oh, ye want some trouble, do ye? Wal, con-

sarn yer harslet, peel!”

It was tetchy, mister, tetchy, to go sassin’ on ’em

back,

When the crowd got interested at the good old

Topsham track.

There was Savage--Solly Savage--drivin’

Adeline Success--

He had speed to sell at auction, but they bribed

the cuss, I guess--

For he pulled her tight and good--

Pulled her settin’--then he stood.

Jest got up and braced his feet, suh, and he

pulled her all he could.

But the blamed old mare was fussy, wasn’t

posted on the deal,

H’isted up her skeeter-duster and let out one

mighty squeal.

She was leadin’ of ’em easy on the back stretch

at the turn,

And there wasn’t no mistakin’ that the race and

heat were her’n.

Ginger, ginger! She could go!

When she didn’t stub her toe,

Warn’t a horse in all the county stood a show

suh, stood a show!

Sol was madder’n snakes in hayin’--had a string

of catnip fits,

Just unfastened both the traces and she hauled

him by the bits.

And that rank old Adeline

She come snortin’ ’crost the line

Least a dozen lengths a leader, and they soaked

old Sol a fine.

Then the feller that had bribed him played tat-

too on Solly’s face,

And took back the dollar-fifty that he’d give him

for the race;

But the boys they licked the feller. Solly got

his money back,

For we stood for honest dealing at the good old

Topsham track.

Now come join me, all old timers,--hip, hooray

and tiger, too!

For the high-wheel days at Topsham and the

good old-time razoo--

For the days of spider sulkies and the days of

solid fun,

When we had a dozen knock-downs ’fore the

race could be begun;

When ’twas a Huddup, Uncle Eli,” and “H”

along there, John, or bust;”

And the man that finished fust,

Though he argued and he cussed,

Might not always get decisions--’twas accordin’

to the dust;

And ’twas therefore kind of needful, suh, right

after ev’ry heat,

To have another fight or so to settle who had

beat;

But they never left a grudge,

Even when they licked the judge.

And we wasn’t all teetotal, still we went it light

on “budge,”

For we never took no stronger than some good

New England rum--

Jest a mild and pleasant bev’rage--why, the

deacons they took some!

Then there wasn’t pedigrees,

And no chin-kerbumping knees,1

And an av’rage field would manage jest to keep

ahead the breeze.

But come join me, ye old-timers, in this pledge

and one hurrah,

For the spanking, wide-hoofed pelters of the old

days of “Hi yah-h-h,”

For a feller kinder feels

That he’d go without his meals

Jest to hear some more kiwhoopin’ from the old-

time trottin’ spiels.

When the wind was in the drivers--nowadays it’s

in the wheels.

When the tang was in the weather on those

autumn afternoons,

And the band got kind of dreamy in those good

old-fashioned tunes.

Oh, ’twas awful good to set there on the sunny

side the stand,

And to have your girl a-smilin’ and a-snugglin’,

hand in hand;

And to hear her, when you mentioned getting

started pretty soon,

Whisper, blushin’, “What’s the hurry? There

will be a lovely moon!”

Ah, there’s moisture on my eyelids and my voice

is gettin’ hoarse.

But ’tis prob’ly jest the mem’ry of the dust of

that old course.

Oh, Daddy Time, if somehow you could only

click your watch

And let a feller start again a race he’s made a

botch,

I wouldn’t ask no better place to start my life

anew.

Than on that stand that afternoon beside that

girl I knew,

With my arm behind her back,

And a hidden, bashful smack

To sweeten all the popcorn balls we munched

at Topsham track.

TO HIM WHO DRIV THE STAGE

Here’s a lyric for the man who’s “druv’ the

stage,”

For the hero of the webbin’s and the whip;

Who has faced the wind and weather, fingers

calloused by the leather,

And in twenty years has never lost a trip.

Here’s a tribute to the sway-back, spotted hoss,

Who has struggled up the stony, gullied hills;

And his dorsal corrugations show the nature of

his rations,

--When he stops, he has to lean against the

thills.

Here’s obituary notice of the stage,

Chief of hopeless and dilapidated wrecks;

With the cracked enamel awning, and its cush-

ions ripped and yawning,

And the body bumping down upon the “ex.”

Here’s alas and oh, the ancient “buff’ler robe,”

With the baldness of a golden-wedding

groom;

When the rain and snow descended, then some

wondrous smells were blended,

Till the stage was scented very like a tomb.

Here’s a word for all the weary miles he

ploughed,

When the drifts had piled the stage-road

mountain high,

When the night shut down around him and the

north wind sought and found him,

And the tempest chilled his blood and blurred

his eye.

There were only country letters in the bags,

And the bags were lank, and yet his word was

“Must.”

And he felt as if the nation knew his fierce

determination

That he’d have the mail sacks through on time

or bust.

Here’s rebuke to those contractors who have

skinned

The stipends of our Uncle Sam’s star routes,

Till the men who drive the stages hardly get

enough in wages

To keep their little shavers’ feet in boots.

Here’s a lyric, then, for him who drives the stage;

When you ride behind his ragged back, don’t

frown,

But endure the bang and slamming, for the

man who’s earned the damning

Is the contract-sharp who bid the wages down.

HE BACKED A BLAMED OLD HORSE

The neighbors came a-nosing ’round and said the

horse could trot

--He oughter up and killed him then, right

there upon the spot;

A-killed him, yas, and tanned his hide and made

it into boots,

Then worn ’em out a-kicking’round them neigh-

borly galoots

Who set the bee to buzzing under Ezry Booker’s

hat,

And filled him up and chucked him full of non-

sense such as that

He’d got a hoss ’twas bound to make his ever-

lasting pile,

And what he got to do, of course, was handle

him in style;

That he must bandage up his legs and figger on

his feed,

And give him reg’lar exercise and work him out

for speed.,

His knees, his neck, his breast, his thighs, the

way he lugged his head,

And all his other symptoms looked to “speed,”

the neighbors said.

So Ezry he just sucked it in, as child-like as

could be,

--It cost him thirteen dollars to look np the

pedigree.

Then one day down to Laneses store he ribbled

off a mess

Of names that struck your Uncle Dud as so much

foolishness.

“I’ve traced him back,” so Ezry said, “to Mor-

gan blood ’nd Drew,”

To what’s-his-name and this and that, and which

and t’other, too.

And Ezry banged the counter, just excited as

could be,

A-arguing out the knots and kinks in that there

pedigree.

Land sakes! He couldn’t seem to think of

nothing but that plug:

--Neglected work, let slide his farm, went crazy

as a bug.

But there! The neighbors stood around and

said to go ahead,

And Ezra like a blamed old fool just swallowed

all they said.

Ef they’d turned to and burned his barn ’twould

been a prison crime,

But ’twould have been a better thing for Ezry

ev’ry time.

He could have got insurance then, but ’twas a

total loss

When they torched Ezry up to back

A Blamed

Old

Hoss!

Of course he had to put that horse in some good

trainer’s hands,

And trainers, as the man who’s tried deereckly

understands,

Ain’t driving just to take the air, for scenery or

for health,

But sort of grab a feller’s leg and milk him for

his wealth.

And there were blankets, straps, and girths, and

bandages and boots;

Pnoomatic sulkies, pads, and shoes, and hoods

and stable suits;

And lotions, too, and liniments--the best of

hay and oats,

And Lord knows what of this and that for trot-

ters’ backs and throats!

Then came the entrance fees, of course, and

travelling expense,

For Ezry lugged that trotter round, and didn’t

have the sense

To know when he was fairly licked, but always

would persist

That “that air hoss another year is going in the

list!”

The trainer said he’d have him there; the neigh-

bors thought so, too;

So Ezry pulled his pocketbook and said he’d see

him through.

So ’round the circuit went the hoss and, though

’tis sad to tell,

“The Flying Dutchman” didn’t fly--he never

got a smell.

And when he’d come a-puffing in behind the

whole blamed crowd

Then Ezry swore and shook his fist, and argued

’round, and vowed

That all the rest was down on him and had,

without a doubt,

Just pooled together in a scheme to shut The

Dutchman out.

The driver said so, anyway, and then, you know,

a few

Good neighbors took him out one side and said

they thought so too.

And so--but land, it’s plain enough how Ezry’s

money went

--He wound up his race-hoss career without a

blasted cent.

What’s more, he ain’t the only one who’s sunk

his little pot

In fubbing ’round from track to track with

horses that can’t trot.

--He ain’t the only man in Maine whose ever-

lasting curse

Has been some darn-fool neighbors, and his itch

to win a purse.

And, as I’ve said, if they’d turned to, and burnt

his barn instead

Of cracking up that hoss so much and turning

Ezry’s head,

He could have got insurance then, but ’twas a

total loss

When they torched Ezry up to back

A Blamed

Old

Hoss!

B. BROWN--HOSS ORATOR

I’ve heerd of Demosthenes--b’longed down in

Greece,

--And Cicero, too!

But ’course, never knew

A great deal about ’em except through my niece,

Who’s tended the ’cademy,--lets on to know

’Bout most of the critters who lived years ago,

--Who’d talk to a standstill the chaps of their

day

With a broadside of words like a gatling, they

say.

And folks knuckle down, and praise up, and

kow-tow

To those hefty old tongue-lashing chaps even

now.

So I’m ready for brickbats, and hollers, and howls,

From the folks of the schools, and from hide-

bound old owls,

When I shin the high flag-staff of Fame to tear

down

All colors that flop there for rival renown,

And string up the banner of Bennington Brown.

Don’t think I’ll assert

What he knew ever hurt!

He was mostly considered an ornery squirt.

He traded old hosses, and cattle, and such,

And the sayin’ ’round town was: “Oh, Brown,

he ain’t much!”

But I read t’other day, in a volyum called

“Hints,”

That a speaker is gauged by his gifts to convince.

So I stand on that statement and solemnly swear

That as a star-actor convincer, I’d dare.

Back Bennington Brown up against the best

man

That ever tongue wrassled, grab holts, catch as

can.

Give Cicero Pointer, Directum, or Hanks,

And Brown an old pelter with wobbly shanks,

--Just leave ’em an hour, no odds, a clear field,

No matter how Cicero sputtered and spieled,

I’ll bet he would find himself talked to a stop,

And Brown would unload the old rip, even swap!

I can see how he’d look

When he carefully took

Old Cic by the gallus with “come-along” hook

Of that gnurly forefinger. And there Cic would

stand,

For he wouldn’t be yankin’ away from that hand,

Unless in his desperate efforts to skip

Cic dodged from his toga, and gave Brown the

slip.

And it’s likely that Brown would talk something

like this:

I ain’t at all anxious to shift with you, Cic.

Your hoss, I’ll admit, has got plenty of speed,

But you know, Cic, you know that he ain’t what

you need.

Outside of a show piece to stand in the barn,

That hoss he ain’t worth, Cic, a tinker’s gol-

darn.

What you want is that hoss of mine--want him

blame bad,

He don’t need no whip, crackers, cudgel, or gad.

’Thout strap, boot, or toeweights, he’s gone out

and showed

His quarters in thirty. He stands lots of road,

And I swow I dunno what I’m sellin’ him for,

--I need him myself. But I’ll sell! Have a

chaw?

And as I was sayin’, he’s just what you want;--

Oh, yes, have to own he’s a leetle dite gaunt!

Been a-drivin’ him hard, for he’ll stand lots of

work,

Never had a sick day, never shows the least

quirk.

He’s young: look yourself; jest you roll up his

lip;

By the way, ever smile? I’ve some stuff on my

hip.

Now as I was sayin’”--and on, and so on,

Till Cicero’d put his suspenders in pawn,

Hand oyer his steed for a wind-broken brute,

And sling in some golden sestertia to boot.

I tell you again,

That of all of the men

Who can slat the King’s English, I swear by

old Ben!

And you’ll never appreciate half of my praise

Till you’ve stood there yourself in the beller

and blaze

Of his thirteen-inch barker, and fust thing you

know

Discover you’ve bought an old bone yard or so,

I hardly expect, O ye hurrying throng,

Ye’ll bow to my hero, applaud my rude song,

But sling, if ye will, all your bouquets and praise

At the cut-and-dried speakers of pod-auger days,

I’ll go by myself and I’ll tenderly crown

With bay the bald brows of old Bennington;

Brown.

“JEST A LIFT”

Feller was far as the foot of the hill in one of

those boggy places,

Had a first-class team,

As strong as a beam,

But the feller had busted his traces;

And the feller gave up when he saw he was

stuck.

He borrowed a chaw and consarned his luck,

--Admitted he didn’t know what to do;

Sat down on a bank and looked so blue

He worried the people that passed, and they

Just turned their noses the other way.

Old Ammi Simmons muttered that he

Was a dite afraid of his whiffle-tree;

It was slivered some, “and there warn’t much

doubt

’Twould bust if he pulled that feller out.”

And Ira Dorsey, regretful and smug,

Would have helped had he brought his heavier

tug,

So he simply beamed a bright “good day”

And clucked to his team and rode away.

So thus they passed for an hour or two;

Many not noticing, while a few

Assured him they’d like to help him out

“If the rigging they had was only stout.”

Feller had thought he was up a stump, when

along drove Ivory Keller;

Saw the sunken hub,

Yelled, “What’s the troub?

Don’t ye want a lift there, feller?”

And the feller said that he did, you bet,

But said he had begged while he’d set and set,

And he hadn’t discovered a single man

Who’d give him a boost with an extra span.

“Why,” Ivory said, “that’s jest my holt.

That off hoss there ain’t more’n a colt,

And it’s hardly an extry pulling pair,

But it’s youm for what it’s worth, I swear.

For I’ve got a home-made sort of a rule

--Won’t kick a cripple nor sass a fool,

And when I find that a feller’s stuck

--A side-tracked chap down on his luck--

Why, bless you, neighbor, in jest about

Two shakes of a sheep’s tail I yank him out.”

And the very next thing that the feller knew

Old Ivory busted a chain or two,

But the horse and the colt and the gay old man

Bent to the job till the clogged wheels ran,

--Tugged and buckled with hearty will

Till the cart rolled over the tough old hill.

Then the feller begged him to take some pay,

But the old man chuckled and shoved him

away;

“Why, bub, see here,” said Ivory Keller,

“I’m a tollable busy son of a gun,

And this is the way I squeeze in fun,

--Grab in same’s this and help a feller.”

BART OF BRIGHTON

‘Tis the tale of Bart of Brighton--meaning

Brighton up in Maine;

It’s the tale of Uncle Bart, sir, and his racker-

gaited mare;

I have toned it down a little where the language

was profane,

But the rest is as he told it--this remarkable