Chapter I: Part 1

Cape Cod Ballads

and Other Verse

By

Joseph C. Lincoln

_With Drawings by Edward W. Kemble_

1902

To My Wife

This book is affectionately dedicated

Preface

A friend has objected to the title of this book on the ground that, as many of the characters and scenes described are to be found in almost any coast village of the United States, the title might, with equal fitness, be "New Jersey Ballads," or "Long Island Ballads," or something similar.

The answer to this is, simply, that while "School-committee Men" and "Village Oracles" are, doubtless, pretty much alike throughout Yankeedom, the particular specimens here dealt with were individuals whom the author knew in his boyhood "down on the Cape." So, "Cape Cod Ballads" it is.

The verses in this collection originally appeared in _Harper's Weekly, The Youth's Companion, The Saturday Evening Post, Puck, Types, The League of American Wheelmen Bulletin_, and the publications of the American Press Association. Thanks are due to the editors of these periodicals for their courteous permission to reprint.

J.C.L.

CONTENTS

PREFACE

LIST OF DRAWINGS

THE COD-FISHER

THE SONG OF THE SEA

THE WIND'S SONG

THE LIFE-SAVER

"THE EVENIN' HYMN"

THE MEADOW ROAD

THE BULLFROG SERENADE

SUNDAY AFTERNOONS

THE OLD DAGUERREOTYPES

THE BEST SPARE ROOM

THE OLD CARRYALL

OUR FIRST FIRE-CRACKERS

WHEN NATHAN LED THE CHOIR

HEZEKIAH'S ART

THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL PICNIC

"AUNT 'MANDY"

THE STORY-BOOK BOY

THE SCHOOL-COMMITTEE MAN

WASTED ENERGY

WHEN THE MINISTER COMES TO TEA

"YAP"

THE MINISTER'S WIFE

THE VILLAGE ORACLE

THE TIN PEDDLER

"SARY EMMA'S PHOTYGRAPHS"

WHEN PAPA's SICK

THE BALLAD OF MCCARTY'S TROMBONE

SUSAN VAN DOOZEN

SISTER SIMMONS

"THE FIFT' WARD J'INT DEBATE"

HIS NEW BROTHER

CIRCLE DAY

SERMON TIME

"TAKIN' BOARDERS"

A COLLEGE TRAINING

A CRUSHED HERO

A THANKSGIVING DREAM

O'REILLY'S BILLY-GOAT

THE CUCKOO CLOCK

THE POPULAR SONG

MATILDY'S BEAU

"SISTER'S BEST FELLER"

"THE WIDDER CLARK"

FRIDAY EVENING MEETINGS

THE PARSON'S DAUGHTER

MY OLD GRAY NAG

THROUGH THE FOG

THE BALLADE OF THE DREAM-SHIP

LIFE'S PATHS

THE MAYFLOWER

MAY MEMORIES

BIRDS'-NESTING TIME

THE OLD SWORD ON THE WALL

NINETY-EIGHT IN THE SHADE

SUMMER NIGHTS AT GRANDPA'S

GRANDFATHER'S "SUMMER SWEETS"

MIDSUMMER

"SEPTEMBER MORNIN'S"

NOVEMBER'S COME

THE WINTER NIGHTS AT HOME

"THE LITTLE FELLER'S STOCKIN'"

THE ANT AND THE GRASSHOPPER

THE CROAKER

THE OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN

THE LIGHT-KEEPER

THE LITTLE OLD HOUSE BY THE SHORE

WHEN THE TIDE GOES OUT

THE WATCHERS

"THE REG'LAR ARMY MAN"

FIREMAN O'RAFFERTY

LITTLE BARE FEET

A RAINY DAY

THE HAND-ORGAN BALL

"JIM"

IN MOTHER'S ROOM

SUNSET-LAND

THE SURF ALONG THE SHORE

AT EVENTIDE

INDEX OF FIRST LINES

LIST OF DRAWINGS

THE LIFE-SAVER, "He's a hero born and bred, but it hasn't swelled his head."

THE BULLFROG SERENADE, "With the big green-coated leader's double-bass."

THE OLD DAGUERREOTYPES, "Grandpa's collar a show."

OUR FIRST FIRE-CRACKERS, "Do yer 'member how yer fired 'em, slow and careful, one by one?"

HEZEKIAH'S ART, "I swan, he did look like a daisy!"

THE SCHOOL-COMMITTEE MAN, "'And with--ahem--er--as I said before.'"

WHEN THE MINISTER COMES TO TEA, "He sets and says it's lovely."

THE VILLAGE ORACLE, "'Well now, I vum! I know, by gum! I'm right because I _be_!'"

THE BALLAD OF MCCARTY'S TROMBONE, "'By--Killarney's--lakes--and--fells, Toot--tetoot toot--toot--toot--dells!'"

His NEW BROTHER, "Why'd they buy a baby brother, When they know I'd _good_ deal ruther Have a dog?"

A COLLEGE TRAINING, "'That was jolly, Guv'nor, now we'll practice every day.'"

A THANKSGIVING DREAM, "He stood up on his drumsticks."

THE POPULAR SONG, "The washwoman sings it all wrong."

MATILDY'S BEAU, "I recollect I spent an hour a-tyin' my cravat."

MY OLD GRAY NAG, "He ain't the sort that the big-bugs sport"

MAY MEMORIES, "Oh, the lazy days of boyhood, when the world was fair and new!"

NINETY-EIGHT IN THE SHADE, "Collar kerflummoxed all over my neck."

NOVEMBER'S COME, "Hey, you swelled-up turkey feller!"

THE ANT AND THE GRASSHOPPER, "The Grasshopper wore his summer clothes, And stood there kicking his frozen toes."

THE LIGHT-KEEPER, "It seems ter me that's all there is: jest do your duty right."

"THE REG'LAR ARMY MAN," "They ain't no tears shed over him When he goes off ter war."

A RAINY DAY, "'Settin' 'round and dreamin'."

"JIM," "Seem to see her tucked in bed, With the kitten's furry head Peekin' out."

CAPE COD BALLADS

THE COD-FISHER

Where leap the long Atlantic swells
In foam-streaked stretch of hill and dale,
Where shrill the north-wind demon yells,
And flings the spindrift down the gale;
Where, beaten 'gainst the bending mast,
The frozen raindrop clings and cleaves,
With steadfast front for calm or blast
His battered schooner rocks and heaves.

_To same the gain, to some the loss,
To each the chance, the risk, the fight:
For men must die that men may live--
Lord, may we steer our course aright._.

The dripping deck beneath him reels,
The flooded scuppers spout the brine;
He heeds them not, he only feels
The tugging of a tightened line.

The grim white sea-fog o'er him throws
Its clammy curtain, damp and cold;
He minds it not--his work he knows,
'T is but to fill an empty hold.

Oft, driven through the night's blind wrack,
He feels the dread berg's ghastly breath,
Or hears draw nigh through walls of black
A throbbing engine chanting death;
But with a calm, unwrinkled brow
He fronts them, grim and undismayed,
For storm and ice and liner's bow--
These are but chances of the trade.

Yet well he knows--where'er it be,
On low Cape Cod or bluff Cape Ann--
With straining eyes that search the sea
A watching woman waits her man:
He knows it, and his love is deep,
But work is work, and bread is bread,
And though men drown and women weep
The hungry thousands must be fed.

_To some the gain, to some the loss_,
_To each his chance, the game with Fate_:
_For men must die that men may live_--
_Dear Lord, be kind to those who wait_.

* * * * *

THE SONG OF THE SEA

Oh, the song of the Sea--
The wonderful song of the Sea!
Like the far-off hum of a throbbing drum
It steals through the night to me:
And my fancy wanders free
To a little seaport town,
And a spot I knew, where the roses grew
By a cottage small and brown;
And a child strayed up and down
O'er hillock and beach and lea,
And crept at dark to his bed, to hark
To the wonderful song of the Sea.

Oh, the song of the Sea--
The mystical song of the Sea!
What strains of joy to a dreaming boy
That music was wont to be!
And the night-wind through the tree
Was a perfumed breath that told
Of the spicy gales that filled the sails
Where the tropic billows rolled
And the rovers hid their gold
By the lone palm on the key,--
But the whispering wave their secret gave
In the mystical song of the Sea.

Oh, the song of the Sea--
The beautiful song of the Sea!
The mighty note from the ocean's throat,
The laugh of the wind in glee!
And swift as the ripples flee
With the surges down the shore,
It bears me back, o'er life's long track,
To home and its love once more.
I stand at the open door,
Dear mother, again with thee,
And hear afar on the booming bar
The beautiful song of the Sea.

* * * * *

THE WIND'S SONG

Oh, the wild November wind, How it blew! How the dead leaves rasped and rustled, Soared and sank and buzzed and bustled As they flew; While above the empty square, Seeming skeletons in air, Battered branches, brown and bare, Gauntly grinned; And the frightened dust-clouds, flying. Heard the calling and the crying Of the wind,-- The wild November wind.

Oh, the wild November wind, How it screamed! How it moaned and mocked and muttered At the cottage window, shuttered, Whence there streamed Fitful flecks of firelight mild: And within, a mother smiled, Singing softly to her child As there dinned Round the gabled roof and rafter Long and loud the shout and laughter Of the wind,-- The wild November wind.

Oh, the wild November wind, How it rang Through the rigging of a vessel Rocking where the great waves wrestle! And it sang, Light and low, that mother's song; And the master, staunch and strong, Heard the sweet strain drift along-- Softened, thinned,-- Heard the tightened cordage ringing Till it seemed a loved voice singing In the wind,-- The wild November wind.

* * * * *

THE LIFE-SAVER

(_Dedicated to the Men in the United States Life-saving Service_.)

When the Lord breathes his wrath above the bosom of the waters,
When the rollers are a-poundin' on the shore,
When the mariner's a-thinkin' of his wife and sons and daughters,
And the little home he'll, maybe, see no more;
When the bars are white and yeasty and the shoals are all a-frothin',
When the wild no'theaster's cuttin' like a knife;
Through the seethin' roar and screech he's patrollin' on the beach,--
The Gov'ment's hired man fer savin' life.

He's strugglin' with the gusts that strike and bruise him like a hammer,
He's fightin' sand that stings like swarmin' bees,
He's list'nin' through the whirlwind and the thunder and the clamor--
A-list'nin' fer the signal from the seas;
He's breakin' ribs and muscles launchin' life-boats in the surges,
He's drippin' wet and chilled in every bone,
He's bringin' men from death back ter flesh and blood and breath,
And he never stops ter think about his own;

He's a-pullin' at an oar that is freezin' to his fingers,
He's a-clingin' in the riggin' of a wreck,
He knows destruction's nearer every minute that he lingers,
But it do'n't appear ter worry him a speck:
He's draggin' draggled corpses from the clutches of the combers--
The kind of job a common chap would shirk--
But he takes 'em from the wave and he fits 'em fer the grave,
And he thinks it's all included in his work.

He is rigger, rower, swimmer, sailor, doctor, undertaker,
And he's good at every one of 'em the same:
And he risks his life fer others in the quicksand and the breaker,
And a thousand wives and mothers bless his name.
He's an angel dressed in oilskins, he's a saint in a "sou'wester",
He's as plucky as they make, or ever can;
He's a hero born and bred, but it hasn't swelled his head,
And he's jest the U.S. Gov'ment's hired man.

* * * * *

"THE EVENIN' HYMN"

When the hot summer daylight is dyin',
And the mist through the valley has rolled,
And the soft velvet clouds ter the west'ard
Are purple with trimmings of gold,--
Then, down in the medder-grass, dusky,
The crickets chirp out from each nook,
And the frogs with their voices so husky
Jine in from the marsh and the brook.

The chorus grows louder and deeper,
An owl sends a hoot from the hill,
The leaves on the elm-trees are rustling
A whippoorwill calls by the mill.
Where swamp honeysuckles are bloomin'
The breeze scatters sweets on the night,
Like incense the evenin' perfumin',
With fireflies fer candles alight.

And the noise of the frogs and the crickets
And the birds and the breeze are ter me
Lots better than high-toned supraners,
Although they don't get to "high C";
And the church, with its grand painted skylight,
Seems cramped and forbiddin' and grim
'Side of my old front porch in the twilight
When God's choir sings its "Evenin' Hymn."

* * * * *

THE MEADOW ROAD

Just a simple little picture of a sunny country road
Leading down beside the ocean's pebbly shore,
Where a pair of patient oxen slowly drag their heavy load,
And a barefoot urchin trudges on before:
Yet I'm dreaming o'er it, smiling, and my thoughts are far away
'Mid the glorious summer sunshine long ago,
And once more a happy, careless boy, in memory I stray
Down a little country road I used to know.

I hear the voice of "Father" as he drives the lumbering steers,
And the pigeons coo and flutter on the shed,
While all the simple, homelike sounds come whispering to my ears,
And the cloudless sky of June is overhead;
And again the yoke is creaking as the oxen swing and sway,
The old cart rattles loudly as it jars,
Then we pass beneath the elm trees where the robin's song is gay,
And go out beyond the garden through the bars;

Down the lane, behind the orchard where the wild rose blushes sweet,
Through the pasture, past the spring beside the brook
Where the clover blossoms press their dewy kisses on my feet
And the honeysuckle scents each shady nook;
By the meadow and the bushes, where the blackbirds build their nests,
Up the hill, beneath the shadow of the pine,
Till the breath of Ocean meets us, dancing o'er his sparkling crests,
And our faces feel the tingling of the brine.

And my heart leaps gayly upward, like the foam upon the sea,
As I watch the breakers tumbling with a roar,
And the ships that dot the azure seem to wave a hail to me,
And to beckon to a wondrous, far-off shore.

* * * * *

Just a simple little picture, yet its charm is o'er me still,
And again my boyish spirit seems to glow,
And once more a barefoot urchin am I wandering at will
Down that little country road I used to know.

* * * * *

THE BULLFROG SERENADE

When the toil of day is over
And the dew is on the clover,
And the night-hawk whirls in circles overhead;
When the cow-bells melt and mingle
In a softened, silver jingle,
And the old hen calls the chickens in to bed;
When the marshy meadows glimmer
With a misty, purple shimmer,
And the twilight flush is changing into shade;
When the firefly lamps are burning
And the dusk to dark is turning,--
Then the bullfrogs chant their evening serenade:

"Deep-deep, deep-deep, deep-deep, deep-deep! Better go '_round!_ Better go '_round!_ Better go '_round,_"

First the little chaps begin it,
Raise their high-pitched voices in it,
And the shrill soprano piping sets the pace;
Then the others join the singing
Till the echoes soon are ringing
With the big green-coated leader's double-bass.
All the lilies are a-quiver,
And the grasses by the river
Feel the mighty chorus shaking every blade,
While the dewy rushes glisten
As they bend their heads to listen
To the bullfrogs' summer evening serenade:

"Deep-deep, deep-deep, deep-deep, deep-deep! Better go '_round!_ Better go '_round!_ Better go '_round!"_

And the melody they're tuning
Has the sweet and sleepy crooning
That the mother hums the baby at her breast,
Till the world forgets its sorrow
And the cares that haunt the morrow,
And is sinking, hushed and happy, to its rest
Sometimes bubbling o'er with gladness,
Sometimes soft and fall of sadness,
Through my dreaming rings the music they have played,
And my memory's dearest treasures
Have been fitted to the measures
Of the bullfrogs' summer evening serenade:

"Deep-deep, deep-deep, deep-deep, deep-deep! Better go '_round!_ Better go '_round!_ Better go '_round!"_

* * * * *

SUNDAY AFTERNOONS

From the window of the chapel softly sounds an organ's note, Through the wintry Sabbath gloaming drifting shreds of music float, And the quiet and the firelight and the sweetly solemn tunes Bear me, dreaming, back to boyhood and its Sunday afternoons:

When we gathered in the parlor, in the parlor stiff and grand, Where the haircloth chairs and sofas stood arrayed, a gloomy band, Where each queer oil portrait watched us with a countenance of wood, And the shells upon the what-not in a dustless splendor stood.

Then the quaint old parlor organ with the quaver in its tongue, Seemed to tremble in its fervor as the sacred songs were sung, As we sang the homely anthems, sang the glad revival hymns Of the glory of the story and the light no sorrow dims.

While the dusk grew ever deeper and the evening settled down, And the lamp-lit windows twinkled in the drowsy little town, Old and young we sang the chorus and the echoes told it o'er In the dear familiar voices, hushed or scattered evermore.

From the window of the chapel faint and low the music dies, And the picture in the firelight fades before my tear-dimmed eyes, But my wistful fancy, listening, hears the night-wind hum the tunes That we sang there in the parlor on those Sunday afternoons.

* * * * *

THE OLD DAGUERREOTYPES

Up in the attic I found them, locked in the cedar chest, Where the flowered gowns lie folded, which once were brave as the best; And like the queer old jackets and the waistcoats gay with stripes, They tell of a worn-out fashion--these old daguerreotypes. Quaint little folding cases fastened with tiny hook, Seemingly made to tempt one to lift up the latch and look; Linings of purple velvet, odd little frames of gold, Circling the faded faces brought from the days of old.

Grandpa and grandma, taken ever so long ago, Grandma's bonnet a marvel, grandpa's collar a show, Mother, a tiny toddler, with rings on her baby hands Painted--lest none should notice--in glittering, gilded bands.

Aunts and uncles and cousins, a starchy and stiff array, Lovers and brides, then blooming,--now so wrinkled and gray: Out through the misty glasses they gaze at me, sitting here Opening the quaint old cases with a smile that is half a tear.

I will smile no more, little pictures, for heartless it was, in truth, To drag to the cruel daylight these ghosts of a vanished youth; Go back to your cedar chamber, your gowns and your lavender, And dream, 'mid their bygone graces, of the wonderful days that were.

* * * * *

THE BEST SPARE ROOM

I remember, when a youngster, all the happy hours I spent When to visit Uncle Hiram in the country oft I went; And the pleasant recollection still in memory has a charm Of my boyish romps and rambles round the dear old-fashioned farm. But at night all joyous fancies from my youthful bosom crept, For I knew they'd surely put me where the "comp'ny" always slept, And my spirit sank within me, as upon it fell the gloom And the vast and lonely grandeur of the best spare room.

Ah, the weary waste of pillow where I laid my lonely head! Sinking, like a shipwrecked sailor, in a patchwork sea of bed, While the moonlight through the casement cast a grim and ghastly glare O'er the stiff and stately presence of each dismal haircloth chair; And it touched the mantel's splendor, where the wax fruit used to be, And the alabaster image Uncle Josh brought home from sea; While the breeze that shook the curtains spread a musty, faint perfume And a subtle scent of camphor through the best spare room.

Round the walls were hung the pictures of the dear ones passed away, "Uncle Si and A'nt Lurany," taken on their wedding day; Cousin Ruth, who died at twenty, in the corner had a place Near the wreath from Eben's coffin, dipped in wax and in a case; Grandpa Wilkins, done in color by some artist of the town, Ears askew and somewhat cross-eyed, but with fixed and awful frown, Seeming somehow to be waiting to enjoy the dreadful doom Of the frightened little sleeper in the best spare room.

Every rustle of the corn-husks in the mattress underneath Was to me a ghostly whisper muttered through a phantom's teeth, And the mice behind the wainscot, as they scampered round about, Filled my soul with speechless horror when I'd put the candle out. So I'm deeply sympathetic when some story I have read Of a victim buried living by his friends who thought him dead; And I think I know his feelings in the cold and silent tomb, For I've slept at Uncle Hiram's in the best spare room.

* * * * *

THE OLD CARRYALL

It's alone in the dark of the old wagon-shed, Where the spider-webs swing from the beams overhead, And the sun, siftin' in through the dirt and the mold Of the winder's dim pane, specks it over with gold. Its curtains are tattered, its cushions are worn, It's a kind of a ghost of a carriage, forlorn, And the dust from the roof settles down like a pall On the sorrowin' shape of the old carryall.

It was built long ago, when the world seemed ter be A heaven, jest made up for Mary and me, And my mind wanders back to that first happy ride When she sat beside me,--my beauty and bride. Ah, them were the days when the village was new And folks took time to live, as God meant 'em ter do; And there's many a huskin' and quiltin' and ball That we drove to and back in the old carryall.

And here in the paint are the marks of the feet Where a little form climbed ter the high-fashioned seat, And soft baby fingers them curtains have swung, And a curly head's nestled the cushions among; And then come the gloom of that black, bitter day When "Thy will be done" looked so wicked ter say As we drove to the grave, while the rain seemed to fall Like the tears of the sky on the old carryall.

And so it has served us through sunshine and cloud, Through fun'rals and weddin's, from bride-wreath ter shroud; It's old and it's rusty, it's shaky and lame, But I love every j'int of its rickety frame. And it's restin' at last, for its race has been run, It's lived out its life and its work has been done, And I hope, in my soul, at the last trumpet call I'll have done mine as well as the old carryall.

* * * * *

OUR FIRST FIRE-CRACKERS

O you boys grown gray and bearded, you that used ter chum with me In that lazy little village down beside the tumblin' sea, When yer sniff the burnin' powder, when yer see the banners fly, Don't yer thoughts, like mine, go driftin' back to Fourths long since gone by? And, amongst them days of gladness, ain't there one that stands alone, When yer had yer first fire-crackers--jest one bunch, but all yer own?

Don't yer 'member how yer envied bigger chaps their fuss and noise, 'Cause yer Ma had said that crackers wasn't good fer _little_ boys? Do yer 'member how yer teased her, morn and eve and noon and night, And how all the world yelled "Glory!" when at last she said yer might?

Do yer 'member how yer bought 'em, weeks and weeks ahead of time, After savin' all yer pennies till they footed up a dime? Do yer 'member what they looked like? I can see 'em plain as plain, With a dragon on the package, grinnin' through a fiery rain.

Do yer 'member how yer fired 'em, slow and careful, one by one? Do'n't it seem like each was louder than the grandest sort of gun? Can't yer see the big, red flashes, if yer only shut yer eyes, And jest smell the burnin' powder, sweeter'n breaths from paradise?

O you boys, gray-haired and bearded. O you youngsters grown ter men, We can't buy them kind of crackers now, nor never shall again! Fer the joys thet used ter glitter through the fizz and puff and crash, Has, ter most of us, been deadened by the grindin' chink of cash; But I'd like ter ask yer, fellers, how much of yer hoarded gold Would yer give if it could buy yer one glad Fourth like them of old? How much would yer spend ter gain it--that light-hearted, joyous glow That come with yer fust fire-crackers, when yer bought 'em long ago?

* * * * *

WHEN NATHAN LED THE CHOIR

I s'pose I hain't progressive, but I swan, it seems ter me Religion isn't nigh so good as what it used ter be! I go ter meetin' every week and rent my reg'lar pew, But hain't a mite uplifted when the sarvices are through; I take my orthodoxy straight, like Gran'pop did his rum, (It never hurt him, neither, and a deacon, too, by gum!) But now the preachin' 's mushy and the singin' 's lost its fire: I 'd like ter hear old Parson Day, with Nathan leadin' choir.

I'd like ter know who told these folks that all was perfect peace, And glidin' inter heaven was as slick as meltin' grease; Old Parson Day, I tell yer what, his sermons made yer _think_! He'd shake yer over Tophet till yer heard the cinders clink. And then, when he'd gin out the tune and Nate would take his stand Afore the chosen singers, with the tuning-fork in hand, The meetin'-house jest held its breath, from cellar plum ter spire, And then bu'st forth in thunder-tones with Nathan leadin' choir.

They didn't chime so pretty, p'r'aps, as does our new quartette, But all them folks was there ter sing, and done it, too, you bet! The basses they 'd be rollin' on, with faces swelled and red, And racin' the supraners, who was p'r'aps a bar ahead; While Nate beat time with both his hands and worked like drivin' plow, With drops o' sweat a-standin' out upon his face and brow; And all the congregation felt that Heav'n was shorely nigher Whene'er they heerd the chorus sung with Nathan leadin' choir.

Rube Swan was second tenor, and his pipes was kinder cracked, But Rube made up in loudness what in tune he might have lacked; But 'twas a leetle cur'us, though, for p'r'aps his voice would balk, And when he'd fetch a high note give a most outrageous squawk; And Uncle Elkanah was deef and kind er'd lose the run, And keep on singin' loud and high when all the rest was done; But, notwithstandin' all o' this, I think I'd never tire Of list'nin' ter the good old tunes with Nathan leadin' choir.

We've got a brand-new organ now, and singers--only four-- But, land! we pay 'em cash enough ter fee a hundred more; They sing newfangled tunes and things that some folks think are sweet, But don't appeal ter me no more'n a fish-horn on the street. I'd like once more ter go ter church and watch old Nathan wave His tunin'-fork above the crowd and lead the glorious stave; I'd like ter hear old Parson Day jest knock the sinners higher, And then set back and hear a hymn with Nathan leadin' choir.

* * * * *

HEZEKIAH'S ART

My son Hezekiah's a painter; yes, that's the purfession he's at; An artist, I mean,--course he ain't a whitewasher or nothin' like that. At home he was always a-drawin' and shirkin' his work 'round the place, And kept me continyerly jawin' or dressin' him down with a trace; Till I says ter Mother, "Between us, this thing might's well be understood; Our Hez is jest simply a gen'us, and a gen'us is _never_ no good; He won't stop fer jawin's and dressin's; he'll daub and he'll draw all the while; So he might as well have a few lessons, and learn how ter do it in style."

So I sold a slice of the wood-lot ter the folks at the summer hotel, That fetched me some cash--quite a good lot--so now he's been gone a long spell; He's got a room up ter the City, an' calls it a name that is queer-- I ain't up in French, more's the pity--but something that's like "attyleer." I went up last month on a visit, and blamed if that place wa'n't a sight! The fourteenth or fifteenth--which is it?--well, anyhow, it's the top flight; I wouldn't have b'lieved he could be there, way up on that breath-takin' floor, If't wa'n't fer the sign that I see there--"H. Lafayette Boggs"--on the door.

That room was a wonder fer certain! The floor was all paint-spots and dirt, Each window was hung with a curtain, striped gay as a calico shirt; The walls was jest like a museum, all statoos and flim-flam and gush And picters--good land! when I see 'em I jest had ter turn 'round and blush; And Hez! he looked like a gorilla,--a leetle round hat on his head, And hair that would stuff a big piller, and necktie blue, yeller, and red; I swan, he did look like a daisy! I tell yer, it went ter my heart, 'Cause, course I supposed he was crazy, until he explained it was ART.

This Art, it does stagger a feller that ain't got a connerseer's view, Fer trees by its teachin' is yeller, and cows is a shade of sky-blue. Hez says that ter paint 'em like natur' is common and tawdry and vile; He says it's a plaguey sight greater to do 'em "impressionist style." He done me my portrait, and, reely, my nose is a ultrymarine, My whiskers is purple and steely, and both of my cheeks is light green. When Mother first viewed it she fainted--she ain't up in Art, don't yer see? And she had a notion 'twas painted when Hez had been off on a spree.

We used ter think Hezzy would shame us by bein' no good anyhow, But he says some day he'l be famous, so we're sort er proud of him, now. He says that the name he's a-makin' shall ring in Fame's thunderin' tone; He says that earth's dross he's forsaken, he's livin' fer Art's sake alone. That's nice, but what seems ter me funny, and what I can't get through my head Is why he keeps writin' fer money and can't seem ter earn nary red. I've been sort er thinkin' it over, and seems ter me, certain enough, That livin' _for_ Art is just clover, but that livin' _on_ it is tough.

* * * * *

THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL PICNIC

Oh! the horns are all a-tootin' as we rattle through the town, And we fellers are a-hootin' and a-jumpin' up and down, And the girls are all a-gigglin' and a-tryin' ter be smart, With their braided pig-tails wigglin' at the joltin' of the cart; There's the teachers all a-beamin', rigged up in their Sunday clothes, And the parson's specs a-gleamin' like two moons acrost his nose, And the sup'rintendent lookin' mighty dignerfied and cool, And a-bossin' of the picnic of the Baptist Sunday-school.

Everybody's got their basket brimmin' full of things ter eat, And I've got one--if yer ask it--that is purty hard ter beat,-- 'Cept that Sis put in some pound-cake that she made herself alone, And I bet yer never found cake that was quite so much like stone. There'll be quarts of sass'parilla; yes, and "lemmo" in a tub; There'll be ice-cream--it's vernilla--and all kinds of fancy grub; And they're sure ter spread the table on the ground beside the spring, So's the ants and hoppergrasses can just waltz on everything.

Then the girls they'll be a-yippin', 'cause a bug is in the cream; And a "daddy-long-legs" skippin' round the butter makes 'em scream; And a fuzzy caterpillar--jest the littlest kind they make-- Sets 'em holl'rin', "Kill her! kill her!" like as if it was a snake. Then, when dinner-time is over and we boys have et enough, Why, the big girls they'll pick clover, or make wreaths of leaves and stuff; And the big chaps they'll set 'round 'em, lookin' soft as ever wuz, Talkin' gush and actin' silly, same as that kind always does.

Then, we'll ride home when it's dark'nin' and the leaves are wet with dew, And the lightnin'-bugs are sparklin' and the moon is shinin', too; We'll sing "Jingle bells" and "Sailing," "Seein' Nelly home," and more; And that one that's slow and wailin', "Home ag'in from somethin' shore." Then a feller's awful sleepy and he kinder wants ter rest, But the stuff he's et feels creepy and like bricks piled on his chest; And, perhaps, he dreams his stummick has been stepped on by a mule; But it ain't: it's jest the picnic of the Baptist Sunday school!

* * * * *

"AUNT 'MANDY"

Our Aunt 'Mandy thinks that boys Never ought ter make a noise, Or go swimming or play ball, Or have any fun at all; Thinks a boy had ought ter be Dressed up all the time, and she Hollers jest as if she's hurt At the _littlest mite_ er dirt On a feller's hands or face, Or his clothes, or any place.

Then at dinner-time she's there, Sayin', "Mustn't kick the chair!" Or "Why _don't_ yer sit up straight?" "'Tain't perlite to drum yer plate." An' yer got ter eat as _slow_, 'Cause she's dingin' at yer so. Then, when Chris'mus comes, she brings Nothin', only _useful_ things: Han'kershi'fs an' gloves an' ties, Sunday stuff yer jest _despise_.

She's a ole maid, all alone, 'Thout no children of her own, An' I s'pose that makes her fuss 'Round our house a-bossin' us. If she 'd had a boy, I bet, 'Tween her bossin' and her fret She'd a-killed him, jest about; So God made her do without, For he knew _no_ boy could stay With Aunt 'Mandy _every_ day.

* * * * *

THE STORY-BOOK BOY

Oh, the story-book boy! he's a wonderful youth, A prodigy reeking with goodness and truth; As brave as a lion, as wise as a sage, And sharp as a razor, though twelve years of age. His mother is good and she's awfully poor, But he says, "Do not fret, _I'll_ provide for you, sure!" And the hard grasping landlord, who comes to annoy, Is braved to his teeth by the story-book boy.

Oh, the story-book boy! when he sees that young churl. The Squire's spoiled son, kick the poor crippled girl, He darts to the rescue as quick as he can, And dusts the hard road with the cruel young man; And when he is sought by the vengeful old Squire, He withers the latter with tongue-lashing ire; For the town might combine his young nerve to destroy, And never once shake him--the story-book boy.

Oh, the story-book boy! when the Judge's dear child Is dragged through the streets by a runaway wild, Of course he's on hand, and a "ten-strike" he makes, For he stops the mad steed in a couple of "shakes"; And he tells the glad Judge, who has wept on his hat, "I did but my duty!" or something like that; And the very best place in the Judge's employ Is picked out at once for the story-book boy.

Oh, the story-book boy! all his troubles are o'er, For he gets to be Judge in a year or two more; And the wicked old landlord in poverty dies, And the Squire's son drinks, and in gutters he lies; But the girl whom he saved is our hero's fair bride, And his old mother comes to their home to abide; In silks and sealskins, she cries, in her joy: "Thank Heaven, I'm Ma of a story-book boy!"

* * * * *

THE SCHOOL-COMMITTEE MAN

Sometimes when we're in school, and it's the afternoon and late,
And kinder warm and sleepy, don't yer know;
And p'r'aps a feller's studyin' or writin' on his slate,
Or, maybe chewin' paper-balls to throw,
And teacher's sort er lazy, too--why, then there'll come a knock
And everybody'll brace up quick's they can;
We boys and girls'll set up straight, and teacher'll smooth her frock,
Because it's him--the school-committee man.

He'll walk in kinder stately-like and say, "How do, Miss Brown?"
And teacher, she'll talk sweet as choclate cake;
And he'll put on his specs and cough and pull his eyebrows down
And look at us so hard 't would make yer shake.
We'll read and spell, so's he can hear, and speak a piece or two,
While he sets there so dreadful grand and cool;
Then teacher'll rap her desk and say, "Attention!" soon's we're through,
And ask him, won't he please address the school.

He'll git up kinder calm and slow, and blow his nose real loud,
And put his hands behind beneath his coat,
Then kinder balance on his toes and look 'round sort er proud
And give a big "Ahem!" ter clear his throat;
And then he'll say: "Dear scholars, I am glad ter see yer here,
A-drinkin'--er--the crystal fount of lore;
Here with your books, and--er--and--er--your teacher kind and dear,
And with--ahem--er--as I said before."

We have ter listen awful hard ter every word of his
And watch him jest like kittens do a rat,
And laugh at every joke he makes, don't care how old it is,
'Cause he can _boss the teacher_,--think of that!
I useter say, when I growed up I 'd be a circus chap
And drive two lions hitched up like a span;
But, honest, more I think of it, I b'lieve the bestest snap
Is jest ter be a school-committee man.

* * * * *

WASTED ENERGY

South Pokus is religious,--that's the honest, livin' truth; South Pokus folks are pious,--man and woman, maid and youth; And they listen every Sunday, though it rains or snows or shines, In their seven shabby churches, ter their seven poor divines, Who dispense the balm and comfort that the thirstin' sperit needs, By a-fittin' of the gospel ter their seven different creeds, Each one sure his road ter Heaven is the only sartin way,-- Fer South Pokus is religious, as I started off ter say.

Now the Pokus population is nine hundred, more or less, Which, in one big congregation, would be quite a church, I guess, And do lots of good, I reckon; but yer see it couldn't be,-- Long's one's tweedledum was diff'rent from the other's tweedledee. So the Baptists they are Baptists, though the church is swamped in debt, And the Orthodox is rigid, though expenses can't be met, And the twenty Presbyterians 'll be Calvinists or bust,-- Fer South Pokus is religious, as I said along at fust.

And the Methodist is buried, when his time comes 'round ter die, In the little weedy graveyard where no other sect can lie, And at Second Advent socials, every other Wednesday night, No one's ever really welcome but a Second Adventite; While the Unitarian brother, as he walks the village streets, Seldom bows unless another Unitarian he meets; And there's only Univers'lists in a Univers'list's store,-- Fer South Pokus is religious, as I think I said before.

I thought I'd read that Jesus come ter do the whole world good,-- Come ter bind the Jew and Gentile in a lovin' brotherhood; But it seems that I'm mistaken, and I haven't read it right, And the text of "_Love_ your neighbor" must be somewhere written "Fight"; But I want ter tell yer, church folks, and ter put it to yer strong, While _you're fighting_ Old Nick's fellers _pull tergether_ right along: So yer'd better stop your squabblin', be united if yer can, Fer the Pokus way of doin' ain't no use ter God or man.

* * * * *

WHEN THE MINISTER COMES TO TEA

Oh! they've swept the parlor carpet, and they've dusted every chair, And they've got the tidies hangin' jest exactly on the square; And the what-not's fixed up lovely, and the mats have all been beat, And the pantry's brimmin' over with the bully things ter eat; Sis has got her Sunday dress on, and she's frizzin' up her bangs; Ma's got on her best alpacky, and she's askin' how it hangs; Pa has shaved as slick as can be, and I'm rigged way up in G,-- And it's all because we're goin' ter have the minister ter tea.

Oh! the table's fixed up gaudy with the gilt-edged chiny set, And we'll use the silver tea-pot and the comp'ny spoons, you bet; And we're goin' ter have some fruit-cake and some thimbleberry jam, And "riz biscuits," and some doughnuts, and some chicken, and some ham. Ma, she'll 'polergize like fury and say everything is bad, And "Sich awful luck with cookin'," she is sure she never had; But, er course, she's only bluffin', for it's as prime as it can be, And she's only talkin' that way 'cause the minister's ter tea.

Everybody'll be a-smilin' and as good as ever was, Pa won't growl about the vittles, like he generally does, And he'll ask me would I like another piece er pie; but, sho! That, er course, is only manners, and I'm s'posed ter answer "No." Sis'll talk about the church-work and about the Sunday-school, Ma'll tell how she liked that sermon that was on the Golden Rule, And if I upset my tumbler they won't say a word ter me:-- Yes, a boy can eat in comfort with the minister ter tea!

Say! a minister, you'd reckon, never 'd say what wasn't true; But that isn't so with ours, and I jest can prove it, too; 'Cause when Sis plays on the organ so it makes yer want ter die, Why, he sets and says it's lovely; and that, seems ter me, 's a lie: But I like him all the samey, and I only wish he'd stay At our house fer good and always, and eat with us every day; Only think of havin' goodies _every_ evenin'! Jimmi_nee_! And I'd _never_ git a scoldin' with the minister ter tea!

* * * * *

"YAP"

I've got a little yaller dog, a wuthless kind of chap, Who jest ain't good fer nothin' but ter eat and sleep and "yap." Fer all 'round general wuthlessness I never see his beat, And yet he makes more fuss and noise than all the farm complete. There ain't a mite of sense inside that yaller hide of his; But, as _he_ ain't no good, he likes ter pester them that is. The critters all despise him, but there ain't a one but feels A little mite oneasy when he's "yappin'" round their heels.

Yer see, he loves ter sneak around behind 'em, out of sight, And give a sudden snap and snarl as if he meant ter bite; Of course they know he wouldn't hurt, and only means to scare, But still, it worries 'em ter know the little scamp is there; And if they do git nervous-like and try to hit him back He swells up so with pride it seems as if his skin would crack; And then he's wuss than ever, so they find it doesn't pay, But let him keep on "yappin'" till he's tired and goes away.

There's lots of people built like him--yer see 'em everywhere-- Who, 'cause they ain't no use themselves, can't somehow seem ter bear Ter see another feller rise, but in their petty spite And natural meanness, snarl and snap and show they'd like ter bite. They don't come out in front like men, and squarely speak their mind, But like that wuthless yaller pup, they're hangin' 'round behind. They're little and contemptible, but if yer make a slip It must be bothersome ter know they'll take that chance ter nip.

But there! perhaps it isn't right ter mind 'em, after all; Perhaps we ought ter thank the Lord _our_ souls ain't quite so small; And they, with all their sneakin' ways, must be, I rather guess, The thorns that prick your fingers 'round the roses of success: Fer, when yer come ter think of it, they never bark until A feller's really started and a good ways up the hill; So, 'f I was climbin' up ter fame I wouldn't care a rap, But I'd think I _was_ somebody when the curs begun ter "yap."

* * * * *

THE MINISTER'S WIFE

She's little and modest and purty,
As red as a rose and as sweet;
_Her_ children don't ever look dirty,
Her kitchen ain't no way but neat.
She's the kind of a woman ter cherish,
A help ter a feller through life,
Yet every old hen in the parish
Is down on the minister's wife.

'Twas Mrs. 'Lige Hawkins begun it;
She always has had the idee
That the church was built so's she could run it,
'Cause Hawkins is deacon, yer see;
She thought that the whole congregation
Kept step ter the tune of her fife,
But she found 't was a wrong calkerlation
Applied ter the minister's wife.

Then Mrs. Jedge Jenks got excited--
She thinks she's the whole upper crust;--
When she found the Smiths was invited
Ter meet'n', she quit in disgust.
"_You_ can have all the paupers yer choose to,"
Says she, jest as sharp as a knife;
"But if _they_ go ter church _I_ refuse to!"
"Good-by!" says the minister's wife.

And then Mrs. Jackson got stuffy
At her not comin' sooner ter call,
And old Miss Macgregor is huffy
'Cause she went up ter Jackson's at all.
Each one of the crowd hates the other,
The church has been full of their strife;
But now they're all hatin' another,
And that one's the minister's wife.

But still, all their cackle unheedin',
She goes, in her ladylike way,
A-givin' the poor what they're needing
And helpin' the church every day:
Our numbers each Sunday is swelling
And real, true religion is rife,
And sometimes I feel like a-yellin',
"Three cheers fer the minister's wife!"

* * * * *

THE VILLAGE ORACLE

* * * * *

"_I am Sir Oracle, and when I ope my lips let no dog bark!_"

* * * * *

Old Dan'l Hanks he says this town
Is jest the best on earth;
He says there ain't one, up nor down,
That's got one half her worth;
He says there ain't no other state
That's good as ourn, nor near;
And all the folks that's good and great
Is settled right 'round here.

Says I "D'jer ever travel, Dan?"
"You bet I ain't!" says he;
"I tell you what! the place I've got
Is good enough fer me!"

He says the other party's fools,
'Cause they don't vote his way;
He says the "feeble-minded schools"
Is where they ought ter stay;
If he was law their mouths he'd shut,
Or blow 'em all ter smash;
He says their platform's nawthin' but
A great big mess of trash.

Says I, "D'jer ever read it, Dan?"
"You bet I ain't!" says he;
"And when I do; well, I tell you,
I'll let you know, by gee!"

He says that all religion's wrong
'Cept jest what he believes;
He says them ministers belong
In jail, the same as thieves;
He says they take the blessed Word
And tear it all ter shreds;
He says their preachin's jest absurd;
They're simply leatherheads.

Says I, "D'jer ever hear 'em, Dan?"
"You bet I ain't!" says he;
"I'd never go ter _hear_ 'em; no;
They make me sick ter _see!_"

Some fellers reckon, more or less,
Before they speak their mind,
And sometimes calkerlate or guess,--
But them ain't Dan'l's kind.
The Lord knows all things, great or small,
With doubt he's never vexed;
He, in his wisdom, knows it all,--
But Dan'l Hanks comes next.

Says I, "How d' yer know you're right?"
"How do I _know_?" says he;
"Well, now, I vum! I know, by gum!
I'm right because I _be_!"

* * * * *

THE TIN PEDDLER

Jason White has come ter town
Drivin' his tin peddler's cart,
Pans a-bangin' up an' down
Like they'd tear theirselves apart;
Kittles rattlin' underneath,
Coal-hods scrapin' out a song,--
Makes a feller grit his teeth
When old Jason comes along.

Jason drives a sorrel mare,
Bones an' skin at all her j'ints,
"Blooded stock," says Jase; "I swear,
Jest see how she shows her p'ints!
Walkin' 's her best lay," says he,
Eyes a-twinklin' full of fun,
"Named her Keely Motor. See?
Sich hard work ter make her run."

Jason's jest the slickest scamp,
Full of jokes as he can hold;
Says he beats Aladdin's lamp,
Givin' out new stuff fer old;
"Buy your rags fer more 'n they're worth,
Give yer bran'-new, shiny tin,
I'm the softest snap on earth,"
Says old Jason, with a grin.

Jason gits the women's ear
Tellin' news and talkin' dress;
Can 't be peddlin' forty year
An' not know 'em more or less;
Children like him; sakes alive!
Why, my Jim, the other night,
Says, "When I git big I'll drive
Peddler's cart, like Jason White!"

* * * * *

"SARY EMMA'S PHOTYGRAPHS"

Our Sary Emma is possessed ter be at somethin' queer; She's allers doin' loony things, unheard of fur and near. One time there wa'n't no limit ter the distance she would tramp Ter get a good-fer-nothin', wuthless, cancelled postage-stamp; Another spell folks couldn't rest ontil, by hook or crook, She got 'em all ter write their names inside a leetle book; But though them fits was bad enough, the wust is nowadays, Fer now she's got that pesky freak, the photygraphin' craze.

She had ter have a camera--and them things cost a sight-- So she took up subscriptions fer the "Woman's Home Delight" And got one fer a premium--a blamed new-fangled thing, That takes a tin-type sudden, when she presses on a spring; And sence she got it, sakes alive! there's nothin' on the place That hain't been pictured lookin' like a horrible disgrace: The pigs, the cows, the horse, the colt, the chickens large and small; She goes a-gunnin' fer 'em, and she bags 'em, one and all.

She tuk me once a-settin' up on top a load er hay: My feet shets out the wagon, and my head's a mile away; She took her Ma in our back yard, a-hanging out the clothes, With hands as big as buckets, and a face that's mostly nose. A yard of tongue and monstrous teeth is what she calls a dog; The cat's a kind er fuzzy-lookin' shadder in a fog; And I've got a suspicion that what killed the brindle calf Was that he seen his likeness in our Sary's photygraph.

She's "tonin'," er "develerpin'," er "printin'," ha'f the time; She's allers buyin' pasteboard ter mount up her latest crime: Our front room and the settin'-room is like some awful show, With freaks and framed outrages stuck all 'round 'em in a row: But soon I'll take them picters, and I'll fetch some of 'em out And hang 'em 'round the garden when the corn begins ter sprout; We'll have no crows and blackbirds ner that kind er feathered trash, 'Cause them photygraphs of Sary's, they beat scarecrows all ter smash.

* * * * *

WHEN PAPA'S SICK

When Papa's sick, my goodness sakes! Such awful, awful times it makes. He speaks in, oh! such lonesome tones, And gives such ghas'ly kind of groans, And rolls his eyes and holds his head, And makes Ma help him up to bed, While Sis and Bridget run to heat Hot-water bags to warm his feet, And I must get the doctor _quick_,-- We have to _jump_ when Papa's sick.

When Papa's sick Ma has to stand Right 'side the bed and hold his hand, While Sis, she has to fan an' fan, For he says he's "a dyin' man," And wants the children round him to Be there when "sufferin' Pa gets through"; He says he wants to say good-by And kiss us all, and then he'll die; Then moans and says his "breathin''s thick",-- It's awful sad when Papa's sick.

When Papa's sick he acts that way Until he hears the doctor say, "You've only got a cold, you know; You'll be all right 'n a day or so"; And then--well, say! you ought to see-- He's different as he can be, And growls and swears from noon to night Just 'cause his dinner ain't cooked right; And all he does is fuss and kick,-- We're _all_ used up when Papa's sick.

* * * * *

THE BALLAD OF McCARTY'S TROMBONE

Sure, Felix McCarty he lived all alone On the top av a hill be the town av Athione, And the pride av his heart was a batthered trombone, That he played in an iligant style av his own. And often I've heard me ould grandfather say, That, long as he lived, on Saint Patherick's Day, the minute the dawn showed the first streak av gray McCarty would rise and this tune he would play:

"Pertaters and fishes make very good dishes,
Saint Patherick's Day in the mornin'!"
With tootin' and blowin' he kept it a-goin',
For rest was a thing he was scornin';
And thim that were lazy could niver lie aisy,
But jumped out av bed at the warnin';
For who could be stayin' aslape with him playin'
"Saint Patherick's Day in the mornin'?"

And thin whin the b'ys would fall in fer parade, McCarty'd be gay with his buttons and braid, And whin he stipped out fer ter head the brigade, Why, this was the beautiful tune that he played:

"By--Killarney's--lakes--and--fells,
Toot--tetoot toot--toot--toot--dells!"
And--the heel av--McCart--y's--boot
Marked--the time at--iv'--ry--toot,
While--the slide at--aich--bass--note
Seemed--ter slip half--down--his throat,
As--he caught his--breath--be--spells:--
"By--Killarney's--lakes--and--fells!"

Now McCarty he lived ter be wrinkled and lean, But he died wan fine day playin' "Wearin' the green," And they sould the ould horn to a British spalpeen, And it bu'st whin he tried ter blow "God save the Queen";

But the nights av Saint Patherick's Days in Athlone Folks dare not go by the ould graveyard alone, For they say that McCarty sits on his tombstone And plays this sad tune on a phantom trombone: