Chapter I: Part 1

PINE TREE BALLADS

Rhymed Stories of Unplaned Human Natur’ Up in Maine

By Holman F. Day

Boston: Small, Maynard & Company

1902

TO THE HONORABLE
JOHN ANDREW PETERS, LL.D.
FORMER CHIEF JUSTICE OF
THE SUPREME JUDICIAL COURT OF MAINE
I DEDICATE THIS VOLUME
IN MEMORY OF MANY YEARS OF FRIENDSHIP
AND IN SINCERE APPRECIATION
OF THE JURIST AND WIT
WHO HAS IN ALL DIGNITY
EVER TURNED A SMILING FACE TOWARD HIS MAINE
THAT HAS SMILED LOVINGLY BACK AT HIM

FOREWORD

T_HESE are plain tales of picturesque character-phases in Maine Yankeedom from the Allegash to the ocean. These are the men whose hands are blistered by plow-handle and ax, or whose calloused palms are gouged by the trawls. Their heads are as hard as the stones piled around their acres. Their wit is as keen as the bush-scythes with which they trim their rough pastures. But their hearts are as soft as the feather beds in their spare-rooms.

The frontispiece to this volume is from a photograph of “Uncle Solon” Chase, the widely known sage of Chase’s Mills in Andros-coggin county. In Greenback days he won national fame as “Them Steers” and his quaint sayings have traveled from the Atlantic to the Pacific. There is no man in Maine who better typifies the homespun humor, honesty, and intelligence of Yankeedom. The picture opposite page 126 is from a photograph of the late Ezra Stephens of Oxford county, famed years ago as “the P. T. Barnum of Maine.” He originated the dancing turkey, the wonderful bird that appears in the story of “Ozy B. Orr.” In another picture is shown “Jemimy” at her old loom and beside her are the swifts and the spinning wheel. The pictures illustrating “Elkanah B. Atkinson” (a poem commemorating a real episode in the life of Barney McGonldrick of Cherry field Tavern) and “John W. Jones” are character studies that will appeal to those who are acquainted with Maine rural life.

The thanks of the author and of the publish-ers are due to The Saturday Evening Post of Philadelphia, The Youth’s Companion, Ainslee’s Magazine, and Everybody’s Magazine, for permission to include in this volume verses which originally appeared in their columns, copyrighted by them._

PINE TREE BALLADS

OUR HOME FOLKS

FEEDIN’ THE STOCK

Hear the chorus in that tie-up, runch, ger-

runch, and runch and runch!

--There’s a row of honest critters! Does me

good to hear ’em munch.

When the barn is gettin’ dusky and the sun’s

behind the drifts,

--Touchin’ last the gable winder where the
dancin’ hay-dust sifts,

When the coaxin’ from the tie-up kind o’ hints
it’s five o’clock--

Wal, I’ve got a job that suits me--that’s the
chore of feedin’ stock.

We’ve got patches down to our house--honest
patches, though, and neat,

But we’d rather have the patches than to skinch
on what we eat.

Lots of work, and grub to back ye--that’s a
mighty wholesome creed.

--Critters fust, s’r, that’s my motto--give the
critters all they need. ‘

And the way we do at our house, marm and
me take what is left,

And--wal,--we ain’t goin’ hungry, as you’ll
notice by our heft.

Drat the man that’s calculatin’ when he meas-
ures out his hay,

Groanin’ ev’ry time he pitches ary forkful out
the bay;

Drat the man who feeds out ruff-scuff, wood
and wire from the swale,

’Cause he wants to press his herds’-grass, send
his clover off for sale.

Down to our house we wear patches, but it
ain’t nobody’s biz

Jest as long as them ’ere critters git the best of
hay there is.

When the cobwebs on the rafters drip with
winter’s early dusk

And the rows of critters’ noses, damp with
breath as sweet as musk,

Toss and tease me from the tie-up--ain’t a job
that suits me more

Than the feedin’ of the cattle--that’s the reg’-
lar wind-up chore.

When I grain ’em or I meal ’em--wal, there’s
plenty in the bin,

And I give ’em quaker measure ev’ry time I
dip down in;

And the hay, wal, now I’ve cut it, and I own
it and it’s mine

And I jab that blamed old fork in, till you’d
think I’d bust a tine.

I ain’t doin’ it for praises--no one sees me but
the pup,

--And I get his apperbation, ‘cause he pounds
his tail, rup, rup!

No, I do it ‘cause I want to; ‘cause I couldn’t
sleep a wink,

If I thought them poor dumb critters lacked for
fodder or for drink.

And to have the scufflin’ barnful give a jolly
little blat

When you open up o’ mornin’s, ah, there’s com-
fort, friend, in that!

And you’ve prob’ly sometimes noticed, when
his cattle hate a man,

That it’s pretty sure his neighbors size him up
on that same plan.

But I’m solid in my tie-up; when I’ve finished
up that chore,

I enjoy it standin’ list’nin’ for a minit at the
door.

And the rustle of the fodder and the nuzzlin’
in the meal

And the runchin’s of their feedin’ make this
humble feller feel

That there ain’t no greater comfort than this
’ere--to understand

That a dozen faithful critters owe their com-
fort to my hand.

Oh, the dim old barn seems homelike, with its
overhanging mows,

With its warm and battened tie-up, full of well-
fed sheep and cows.

Then I shet the door behind me, drop the bar
and drive the pin

And, with Jeff a-waggin’ after, lug the foamin’
milk pails in.

That’s the style of things to our house--marm
and me we don’t pull up

Until ev’ry critter’s eatin’, from the cattle to
the pup.

Then the biskits and the spare-rib and plum
preserves taste good,

For we’re feelin’, me and mother, that we’re
actin’’bout’s we should.

Like as can be, after supper mother sews an-
other patch

And she says the duds look trampy, ’cause she
ain’t got goods to match.

Fust of all, though, comes the mealbins and
the hay-mows; after those

If there’s any extry dollars, wal, we’ll see about
new clothes.

But to-night, why, bless ye, mother, pull the
rug acrost the door;

--Warmth and food and peace and comfort--
let’s not pester God for more.

JOHN W. JONES

A sort of a double-breasted face had old John
W. Jones,

Reddened and roughened by sun and wind,
with angular high cheek-bones.

At the fair, one time, of the Social Guild he re-
ceived unique renown

By being elected unanimously the homeliest
man in town.

The maidens giggled, the women smiled, the
men laughed loud and long,

And old John W. leaned right back and ho-
hawed good and strong.

And never was jest too broad for him--for all
of the quip and chaff

That assailed his queer old mug through life
he had but a hearty laugh.

“Ho, ho”, he’d snort, “haw, haw”, he’d roar;
“that’s me, my friends, that’s me!

Now hain’t that the most skew-angled phiz
that ever ye chanced to see?”

And then he would tell us this little tale.

“’Twas one dark night”, said he,

“I was driving along in a piece of woods and
there wasn’t a ray to see,

And all to once my cart locked wheels with
another old chap’s cart;

We gee-ed and backed but we hung there fast,
and neither of us could start.

Then the stranger man he struck a match, to
see how he’d git away,

And I vum, he had the homeliest face I’ve seen
for many a day.

Wal, jest for a joke I grabbed his throat and
pulled my pipe-case out,

And the stranger reckoned I had a gun, and he
wrassled good and stout.

But I got him down on his back at last and
straddled acrost his chest,

And allowed to him that he’d better plan to
go to his last long rest.

He gasped and groaned he was poor and old
and hadn’t a blessed cent,

And almost blubbering asked to know what
under the sun I meant.

Said I, ‘I’ve sworn if I meet a man that’s
homelier ’n what I be,

I’ll kill him. I reckin I’ve got the man.’ Says
he, ‘Please let me see?’

So I loosened a bit while he struck a match;
he held it with trembling hand

While through the tears in his poor old eyes
my cross-piled face he scanned.

Then he dropped the match and he groaned
and said, ‘If truly ye think that I

Am ha’f as homely as what you be--please
shoot! I want to die.’”

And the story always would start the laugh
and Jones would drop his jaw,

And lean’way back and slap his leg and
laugh,

“Ho, haw--haw--haw-w-w!”
That was Jones,
--John W. Jones,

Queer, Gothic old structure of cob-piled bones;
His droll, red face
Had not a trace

Of comeliness or of special grace;

But I tell you, friends, that candor glowed
In those true old eyes--those deep old
eyes,

And love and faith and manhood showed
Without disguise--without disguise.

Though he certainly won a just renown
As the homeliest man we had in town.

He never had married--that old John Jones;
he’d grubbed on his little patch,

Supported his parents until they died, and then
he had lived “old bach”.

We had some suspicions we couldn’t prove:
for years had an unknown man
Distributed gifts to the poor in town on a sort
of a Santa Claus plan.

If a worthy old widow was needing wood--
some night would that wood be left,

There was garden truck placed in the barns of
those by mishap or drought bereft.

And once when the night was clear and bright
in the glorious month of June,

Poor broken-legged Johnson’s garden was
hoed in the light of the great white moon.

And often some farmer by sickness weighed,
and weary, discouraged and poor,

Would find a wad of worn old bills tucked
carefully under his door.

And the tracks in the sod of this man who trod
by night on his secret routes

Were suspiciously like the other tracks that
were left by John Jones’ boots.

And the wheel-marks wobbled extremely like
the trail of Jones’ old cart,

But whatever his mercies he hid them all in the
depths of his warm old heart.

For whenever the neighbors would pin him
down, he’d lift his faded hat,

“Now, say”, he’d laugh, “can a man be good
with a physog such as that?”

Then came the days--the black, dread days
when the small-pox swept our town,

With pest-house crowded from sill to eaves and
the nurses “taken down.”

And panic reigned and the best went wild and
even the doctors fled,

And scarce was there one to aid the sick or
bury the awful dead.

But there in that pest house day and night a
man with quiet tones

And steady heart kept still at work--and that
was old John Jones.

While ever his joke was, “What! Afraid?

Why, gracious me, I’m fine,

And if I weren’t, a few more dents won’t harm
this face of mine”.

But those who writhed and moaned in pain
within that loathsome place

Saw beauty not of man and earth upon that
gnarled old face.

And when he eased their pain-racked forms or
brought the cooling draught,

They wondered if this saint could be the man
at whom they’d laughed.

And thus he fought, unwearied, brave, until
the Terror passed,

--And then, poor old John W. Jones, he had
the small-pox last.

And worn by vigils, toil, and fast, the fate he
had defied

Descended on him, stern and fierce,--he died,
my friends, he died.

They held one service at the church for all the
village dead.

The pastor, when he came to Jones, he choked
a bit and said:

“If handsome is as handsome does--and now
I say to you

I verily--I honestly believe that saying true.

--If handsome is as handsome does, we had
right here in town

A man whose beauty fairly shone--from
Heaven itself brought down.

At first, perhaps, we failed to grasp the con-
tour of that face,

But now with God’s own light on it we see its
perfect grace.

And so I say our handsomest man”--the pas-
tor hushed his tones,

With streaming eyes looked up and said, “was
old John W. Jones

Such was Jones,

--John W. Jones,

Queer, Gothic old structure of cob-piled bones;
His quaint, red face
Had not a trace

Of comeliness or of special grace.

But I tell you, friends, we drop this shell,
Just over There--just over There!

Good thoughts, good deeds, good hearts will
tell
In moulding souls, serene and fair,

And Jones will stand with harp and crown,
The handsomest angel from our old town.

DEED OF THE OLD HOME PLACE

Slowly the toil-cramped, gnarled old fist
Wrought at the sheet with a rasping pen;
Halted with tremulous quirk and twist,
Staggered, and then went on again.

The wan sun peeped through the wee patched
pane

And checkered the floor where the pale
beams shone

In a quaint old kitchen up in Maine,

With an old man writing there alone.

And the pen wrought on and the head drooped
low

And a tear plashed down on the rusted pen,
As it traced a verse of the long ago

That his grief had brought to his heart
again.

Be kind to thy father for when thou wast
young,
Who loved thee so fondly as lied
He caught the first accents that fell from
thy tongue.

And joined in thy innocent glee.

Be kind to thy father for now he is old,
His locks intermingled with gray;

His footsteps are feeble, once fearless and
bold

Thy father is passing away.

Be kind to thy mother for lo, on her brow,
May traces of sorrow be seen.

Oh, well mayst thou cherish and comfort
her now,

For loving and kind has she been.
Remember thy mother, for thee she will
pray
As long as God giveth her breath
With accents of kindness; then cheer her
hard way
E’en thro’ the dark valley of death.”

OUR HOME FOLKS

Listlessly threshed in a careless court
The poor, plain tale of a home was told,
Furnishing food for the lawyers’ sport
And a jest at the fond and the foolish old.
The counsel said as he winked an eye,
“Deeded the farm to their only son;

And after’twas deeded they didn’t die
Quite as quick as they should have done.”

Drearily dragged the homely case,

Petty and mean in all its parts;

Quest thro’ the law for an old home place,

--Put never a word of two broken hearts.
Only a suit where the son and wife

Pledged themselves when they coaxed the
deed,

To comfort the close of the old folks’ life:

--Only another case where greed
Sneered at the toil of the long, hard years
Of martyrdom to the hoe and axe,

Writ in wrinkles and etched in tears

And told in the curve of the old bent backs,
--Bent in the strife with the rocky soil,

When the grinding work was never done,
With just one rift in the cloud of toil:

--‘Twas all for the sake of their only son.
Simply a tedious legal maze

With neighbors stirring the thing for sport,

too.

And loungers eyeing with listless gaze
This queer old couple dragged to court.

Meekly they would have granted greed
All that it sought for--all its spoil;

Little they valued a forfeit deed,

Nor selfishly reckoned their years of toil.

Heartsick they while the lawyers urged,

Mute when the law vouchsafed their prayer;

--Courts soothe not such grief as surged
In the hearts of the old folks trembling there.

What though the jury’s word restored
The walls and roof of the old home place?

Would it give them back the blessed hoard
Of trust that knew no son’s disgrace?

Would it give them back his boyhood smiles,
His boyhood love, their simple joy,

Would it heal the wounds of these afterwhiles,
And make him again their own dear boy?

Would it soothe the smart of the cruel words,
Of sullen looks and cold neglect?

And dull the taunts that pierced like swords
And slashed where the wielders little recked?

No; Justice gives the walls and roof,

--To palsied hands a cancelled deed,

Rebuking with a stern reproof
A son’s unfilial, shameless greed.

But love that made that old home warm,

And hope that made all labor sweet,

The glow of peace that shamed the storm
And melted on the pane the sleet;

And faith and truth and loving hearts
And tender trust in fellow men--

Ah, these, my friend, no lawyers’ arts
Can give again, can give again.

THANKSGIVIN’ JIM

He always dodged ’round in a ragged old
coat,

With a tattered, blue comforter tied on his
throat.

His dusty old cart used to rattle and bang

As he yelled through the village, “Gid dap!”
and “Go ’lang!”

You’d think from his looks that he wa’n’t wuth
a cent;

--Was poorer than Pooduc, to judge how he
went.

But back in the country don’t reckon on style

To give ye a notion of anyone’s pile.

When he died and they figgered his pus’nal
estate,

He was mighty well-fixed--was old “Squeal-
in’ Jim” Waite.

But say, I’d advise ye to sort of look out

How ye say “Squealin’ Jim” when the’s
widders about.

They’re likely to light on ye, hot tar and pitch,

And give ye some points as to what, where and
which;

For if ever a critter was reckoned a saint

By the widders’round here, I’ll be dinged if he
ain’t.

For please understand that the widders call
him,

--Sheddin’ tears while they’re sayin’ it,--
“Thanksgivin’ Jim”.

He was little--why,

Wa’n’t scarce knee high

To a garden toad. But was mighty spry!

He was all of a whew
If he’d things to do!

’Twas a zip and a streak when Jim went
through.

But his voice was twice as big as him

And the boys all called him “Squealin’ Jim”.

He was always a-hurryin’ all through his life

And said there wa’n’t time for to hunt up a
wife.

So he kept bach’s hall and he worked like a
dog,

--Jest whooped right along at a trottin’ hoss

jog-

There’s a yarn that the fellers that knew him
will tell

If they want to set Jim out and set him out
well:

He was bound for the city on bus’ness one day

And whoosh! scooted down to the depot, they
say.

The depot-man says, “Hain’t no rush, Mr.
Waite,

For the train to the city is ten minutes late

Off flew Squealin’ Jim with his grip, on the
run,

And away down the track he went hoofin’ like
fun.

When he tore out of sight, couldn’t see him
for dust

And he squealed, “Train be jiggered! I’ll git
there, now, fust!”

--So nervous and active he jest wouldn’t wait

When they told him the train was a leetle dite
late.

Now that was Jim!

He was stubby and slim

But it took a spry critter to step up with him.

His height when he’d rise

Made ye laugh, but his eyes

Let ye know that his soul wasn’t much under-
size.

And some old widders we had in town

Insisted, reg’lar, he wore a crown.

As he whoopity-larruped along on his way,

There were people who’d turn up their noses
and say

That Squealin’ Jim Waite wasn’t right in his
head;

He was cranky as blazes, the old growlers said.

I can well understand that some things he
would do

Seemed loony as time to that stingy old crew.

For a fact, there was no one jest like him in
town,

He was most always actin’ the part of a clown;

He would say funny things in his queer,
squealin’ style,

And he talked so’s you’d hear him for more
than a mile.

But ev’ry Thanksgivin’ time Waite he would
start

And clatter through town in his rattlin’ old
cart,

And what do ye s’pose? He would whang
down the street,

Yank up at each widder’s; from under the seat

Would haul out a turkey of yaller-legged chick
And holler, “Here, mother, h’ist out with ye,
quick!”

Then he’d toss down a bouncer right into her
lap

And belt off like fury with, “G’long, there!
Gid dap!”

Didn’t wait for no thanks--couldn’t work ’em
on him,

--Couldn’t catch him to thank him--that
Thanksgivin’ Jim.

’Twas a queer idee
’Round town that he

Was off’n his balance and crazy’s could be.
They’d set and chaw
And stew and jaw,

And projick on what he did it for.

But prob’ly in Heaven old Squealin’ Jim
Found lots of crazy folks jest like him.

“OLD POSH”

Cheerful crab was that old Posh,

--Warn’t afflicted much with dosh,

--Fact, he worked round sawin’ wood,
Earnin’ what few cents he could,

Got that name o’ Posh in fun;

Dad had named him Washington;

Children got to call him “Wash.”
Then at last ’twas jest “Old Posh.”
That’s the way you knew, a name
Sort of fits itself with fame:

If he’d growed some great big gun.
Would have called him Washington.
But “Old Posh” was just as good
For a poor chap sawin’ wood.

Critter never made no talk.

--Made his old saw screak and scrawk,
Earnt his dollar’n ten a day.

--Didn’t leave much time for play.

Had a wife and boys to keep,

Reelly had to skinch his sleep.

I’ve been out sir, late at night
Seen him at it good and tight.

Where he’d took it to be sawed
At a dollar’n ten a cord.

And I’d say. Ye’re at it late.”

Then he’d grunt himself up straight.
Slick his for’ead clear of sweat
And he’d say. “Wal, you jest bet!
Bankin’ hours don’t jibe in good
With this job cf sawin’ wood.

Still, when this ’ere don’t suit me
I kin go and climb a tree.”

That’s the crack he allus sent;

--I donno jest what he meant--

Likely’nough, sir, even he
Didn’t have no clear idee.

Still it seemed to fix the thing;

--He’d commence to saw and sing,

’S if at anytime he could
Git clean shet of sawin’ wood.

So he worked, s’r, all his life,

Kept his children and his wife;

Boys amount to more’n you’d suppose
--Got good jobs and wear good clothes.
If they’d turned out shiftless, gosh,
Never’d took the thing from Posh!

Posh, he died at seventy-one,

--Worked right up till set of sun.

Sawed his reg’lar cord that day,

Et his supper reg’lar way,

Told his wife warn’t feel in’ well:

Said he guessed he’d drowse a spell.

For he reckoned, so he said.

That he’d saw a while ’fore bed.

--Warn’t no need of workin’ so,

Boys was earnin’ well, ye know.

But he couldn’t seem to quit.

--At it stiddy, saw and split.

Set that night there in his chair,

--Got to dreamin’, and I swear,

Snores they sounded near’s they could
Like a feller sawin’ wood.

Last he gave a mighty “plock”
Same’s he’d strike a choppin’ block,
When he’d set his ax an’ say,

“Wal, I guess that’s all to-day.”
Doctor got there quick’s he could,

--Said he couldn’t do no good.

Shock, ye know! It left things slim
When a man has worked like him.

“Hav’ to rest, I guess, a while,”

Posh said, with a crooked smile,

--Shock had twisted round his face,
Alwus does in such a case.

“Hav’ to rest, I reckin, for
Feel too tuckered out to saw.”

Jest a little ’fore he died.

Smiled agin and kind of sighed,

“Guess it’s all that’s left,” said he,

“Reckin’ I’ll go climb a tree.”

THE SUN-BROWNED DADS OF MAINE

Here’s ho for the masterful men o’ Maine,

--Grit and gumption, brawn and brain!

South they go and West they flow,

The men that do and the men that know.

And Fame and Honor, Power and Gain
Come to the call of the men o’ Maine.

But away up back on the rock-piled farms
Are the gnarled old dads with corded arms,
The dads that give these boys o’ Maine
Health and strength and grit and brain.

Now the masterful men who have gone their
ways

Need none of my humble words of praise.

So, here’s best I have for the dads, the ones
Who have slaved and saved to raise those sons.
Here’s hail and again for the Maine-bred lads,
Then a triple hail for the dear old Dads.

They are bowed and bent and wrinkled, and
their hands are browned and knurled
They would never pass as heroes in the busy,
careless world,

For they bear no sword or ribbon, and they
show no victor’s spoil,

Only such as they have wrested from the weeds
and rocky soil.

They have wrung reluctant dollars from the
land, and all their gain

Has been spent to nurture manhood in the
rugged State of Maine.

And they need no decorations, only loving
thanks from those

Who built upon the sacrifice that bought their
books and clothes.

I bring some homely laurel for those wrinkled,
sunburned brows

Of men whose hands are blistered by the
scythe-snaths and the plows,

--For men who wrestle Nature with their bare
and corded arms

In an everlasting struggle with these grudging
old Maine farms,

Who lay their lives and hopes and joys’neath
labor’s bitter rule

To coax from sullen Earth the price that keeps
their boys in school.

In manhood of America--’mongst brawn and
pluck and brain,

Set high these humble heroes of the upland
farms of Maine!

And with the cheers you lavish on the men
behind the guns

Crowd in one honest, sincere shout for those
behind the sons.

They labor here in stern old Maine and every
cent is ground

From out the earth by pluck and plod. In
youth they never found

That open sesame to wealth the cultured mind
employs,

Such as to-day their humble toil bestows upon
their boys.

Those crosses signed by toil-cramped hands in
probate courts in Maine

The wavering quirks and curliques no mortal
can explain,

Those speak with pathos all their own of days
of long ago

When “bound-out” children trudged to school
through miles of drifted snow;

When scattered weeks of schoolin’ in the win-
ter time were doled

To hungry little youngsters, ill-clad and numb
with cold.

Now you’ll find them, grown to manhood,
proud and eager to dilate

On the brightness of the children they have
paid to educate.

They have patiently worn patches that their
boys may wear good clothes;

As they’ve struggled on their acres only God,
the Father, knows

All the makeshifts and privations of these
rocky old Maine farms

Where the boys walk straight to comfort over
toiling dads and marms.

Yet those bent and weary parents ask no
praises from the world,

Their comfort is to push a son as high as their
old, knurled,

And aching muscles can reach up; and, when
they pass away,

To know that he will never work one half as
hard as they.

Such is the stuff our heroes are, and when you
cheer the guns

And those behind them, reckon in the men be-
hind the sons.

The zeal and valor of the land in battle’s crash
and blaze

And deeds of heroes seeking fame must win
due meed of praise,

And yet above them all I set the humble sacri-
fice

Of toiling men who cent by cent amass the
hard-won price

That buys the Future for a boy, bestows the
magic “Can,”

Lays Power in his eager grasp and sends him
forth A Man.

So, unto these bowed, weary men with earth-
stained, calloused palms,

Who daily tread the up-turned soil on rough
and rocky farms,

Who pile their hoard of dollars up, by sturdy
labor won,

Who pour those dollars freely out to educate
a son,

To all of these who seek no crown I bring my
wreath of bay

And set it on their sun-tanned brows and on
their locks of gray, ‘

And when their dreary, long campaign, their
bitter toil is done,

God grant that each may live again, new-born
in honored son.

Then three times three, I say again, for
Maine’s true heroes now,

Whose hands are blistered, gnarled, and worn
by scythe-snath and the plow,

Who vow themselves to poverty, accept its
bitter rule

To coax from sullen Earth the price that keeps
their sons in school.

Cheer if you will for those who kill--the men
behind the guns,

But cheer again for those who build--the men
behind the sons.

“HEAVENLY CROWN” RICH

Elias Rich would kneel at night by the wooden
kitchen chair,

He would clutch the rungs and bow his head
and pray his bed-time prayer.

And his prayer was ever the same old plea,
repeated for two-score years:

“Oh, Lord Most High, please hear my cry
from this vale of sin and tears.

I hain’t no ’count and I hain’t done much that’s
worthy in Thy sight,

But I’ve done the best that I could, dear Lord,
accordin’ to my light.

I’ve done as much for my feller man as really,
Lord, I could,

Consid’rin’ my pay is a dollar a day and I’ve
earnt it choppin’ wood.

I’ve never hankered no great on earth for
more’n my food and roof,

And all of the meat that I’ve had to eat was
cut near horn or hoof;

But I thank Thee, Lord, that I’ve earnt my
way and I hain’t got ‘on the town,’

And when I die I know that I shall sartin wear
a crown.”

Whenever he mumbled his simple prayer in
the kitchen by his chair,

Aunt Rich would rattle the supper pans and
sniff with a scornful air.

She’d never “professed,” as the saying is, she
never had felt a “call,”

And she constantly prodded Elias with,
“’Tain’t prayer that counts, it’s sprawl.”
There are some who are born for the pats of
Life and some for the cuffs and whacks,
Elias fought the wolf of want as best he might
with his axe;

He even aided with scanty store some desolate
Tom or Jim,

But at last when his poor old arms gave out no
hands were reached to him.

Folks said that a man who was paralyzed re-
quired some special care,

And allowed that the poor farm was the place;

so they carried the old folks there.

’Twas a heavy cross for Elias’ wife but Elias
ne’er complained,

To all of her frettings he made reply: “When
our Heavenly Home is gained,

’Twill be the sweeter for troubles here and
though we’re on the town,

God keeps up There our mansion fair and He
has our golden crown.”

They were dreary years that Elias lived, one
half of his body dead,

He sat in his cold, bare, town-farm room and
patiently spelled and read

The promise his old black Bible gave, and then
he’d lift his eyes

And look right up through the dingy walls to
his mansion in the skies.

They mockingly called him “Heavenly
Crown” when he talked of his faith, but he

Smiled sweetly ever and meekly said, “I know
what I can see!”

When he died at last and the parson preached
above the stained, pine box,

He said, “Perhaps this simple faith was a bit
too orthodox;

Perhaps allowance should be made for the
metaphors divine

And yet, my friends, I’ll not presume to make
such province mine.

Though in that Book the highest thought can
find transcendent food,

’Tis primer, too, for the poor and plain, the
unlearned and the rude.

And so I say no man to-day should seek to tear
it down,

Nor flout the homely, honest soul that claims
its golden crown.”

Friends placed above Elias’ grave a plain,
white marble stone,

And months went by. Then all at once ’twas
seen that there had grown

Upon the polished marble slab a shading that,
’twas said,

Took on a shape extremely like Elias’ shaggy-
head.

Then soon above the shadowy brows a crown
was slowly limned,

And though Aunt Rich scrubbed zealously the
thing could not be dimmed.

She always scoffed Elias’ faith without rebuke
through life

But now, the neighbors all averred, Elias
braved his wife.

For though with brush and soap and sand she
scrubbed and rubbed by day,

The figure seemed to grow each night and
those there are who say .

That many a time when the moon was dim a
wraith with ghostly skill

Wrought there with spectral brush and limned
that picture deeper still.

And there it is unto this day and strangers
passing by

Turn in and stand above the mound to gaze
with awe-struck eye,

And wonder if Elias came from Heaven steal-
ing down

To mutely say in this quaint way that now he
wears his crown.

OLD “FIGGER-FOUR”

He played when summer sunsets glowed and
twilight deepened down,

His shrilling flute throbbed out and out in the
ears of the little town;

When the chores were done and his cattle fed
and the old horse munched his oats,

He took his flute to his racked old porch and
chirped his wavering notes.

And far and wide on the evening breeze from
the old house on the hill,

Went trinkling off the thin, long strains, like
the cry of the whip-poor-will.

And the women paused with the supper things
and harkened at the door,

And to the questioning stranger said, “Why,
that’s old Figger-Four.”

He bobbed to his work in his little field and
tidied his lonesome home;

He’d the light of peace in his quiet face, though
his shape was that of a gnome.

One knee was angled, hooked and stiff, the
mark of a fever sore,

And the saucy wits of the countryside had
dubbed him “Figger-Four.”

Yet those who knew him never thought of the
twist in the poor, bent limb,

And only strangers had a smile for the name
bestowed on him.

For if ever a man was a neighbor true, that
man, my friend, was he,

And the name he bore of “Figger-Four” was
our symbol of constancy.

’Twas he who came to the stricken homes and
closed the dead men’s eyes;

’Twas he who watched by the poor men’s biers
with a care no money buys;

’Twas he who sat by the fretful sick, and ne’er
could rash complaint

Disturb the placid soul and smile of the gnarled
old village saint.

And all came straight from out his heart, for
when one spoke of pay,

He simply smiled a wistful smile and said:
“That ain’t my way.”

A glistening eye was prized by him above a
golden store;

An. earnest clasp of neighbor’s hand paid every
debt and more.

And when there was no call for him from Tom,
or Dick or Jim,

He took his lip-stained flute and played a good
old gospel hymn.

So, when the placid, sunset skies were banked
above the town,

To every home and every ear those notes came
softly down.

And truly, friend, it used to seem the good old
man would play,

As if, for lack of else to do, to pipe our cares
away.

And tongues were hushed and heads were bent,
and angry home dispute

Gave way to silence, then to smiles, when
“Figger-Four’s” old flute

Sent down its long-drawn, mild reproach from
off the little hill--

Expostulation in its notes, a pleading in its
thrill.

And somehow, though the hearts were hot and
tongues were stirring fray,

Those dripping tones came down like balm and
cooled the wrath away.

He’d lived his lesson in our gaze; he was not
one who talked;

His life was straight, although, alas, he bobbed
so when he walked!

And though we’ve lost our richest men, we
mourn far more, far more,

The man we loved and who loved us, poor bent
old “Figger-Four.”

PHEBE AND ICHABOD

Allus was rowin’ it, early and late,

--Niff against this one an’ niff against that!

With a voice like a whistle, too big for her
weight,

That was the make-up of Aunt Phebe Pratt.

She’d give it to Ichabod, hot-pitch-and-tar,

Yappin’ as soon as he came to the house;

Allus was hankerin’ after a jar,

Allus was ready to kick up a touse.

But Ichabod he was as calm as a lamb,

Never talked back to her, no, s’r, not he--
Reckin that some men would rip out a damn.
But he was the mildest that ever ye see.

He’d set an’ he’d whistle an’ whistle away,
Waitin’ all patient ontil she got through;

She’d scream, “Drat ye, answer!” but Ick
he would say,

“Mother, ye’re talkin’ a plenty for two.
Who-o-o, who-o-o,

Who-o-o, who-o-o!

Nothin’ to say, mother! List’nun to you.”

Phebe is dead an’ has gone to her rest;
Ichabod lives in the house all alone;

--Ick isn’t lonesome because, so ’tis guessed.
He still hears the echoes of Aunt Phebe’s tone.
’Tis reckoned his ears were so used to the clack,
He somehow er’ ruther still thinks she is there;
Kind of imagines that Phebe is back,

An’ still is a-goin’ it, whoopity-tear!

Or p’raps she has ’ranged it by long-distance
line,

From her latest location, Above or Below,

To keep up her reg’lar old yappin’ an’ whine,
For fear the old man will at last have a show.

For he sets there an’ whistles an’ whistles
away,

Whenever there’s nothin’ in ’special to do;
An’ once in a while he’ll look up an’ he’ll say,
“Mother, ye’re talkin’ a plenty for two.
Who-o-o, who-o-o,

Who-o-o, who-o-o!

Nothin’ to say, mother! List’nun to you.”

WHEN OUR HERO COMES TO MAINE

Though the banners greet his coming when our
hero journeys home,

Though the city, wreathed in colors, bears his
name on flag-wrapt dome;

Does he come for speech and music? Does he
come for gay parade,

And to see a moving pageant in its festal hues
arrayed?

No, a gray and rain-washed farmhouse, hid
beside a country lane

Is the goal of all his hurry, when our hero
comes to Maine.

And past spectacle and pageant, bannered street
and brave array

He is rushing, soul on fire, toward a dearer
scene than they;

And the hand that gives him welcome may be
calloused, may be brown,

But the fervor of its greeting can’t be matched
back there in town.

’Tis a plain old dad in drillin’ who will clasp
his hand; and then

He will shout, “Lord, ain’t we tickled! God
bless ye, how’ve ye be’n?

Why, massy me, ye rascal, how like fury ye
have growed!

If I’d met ye in the village, swan, I wouldn’t
scursely knowed,

Your face behind them whiskers; ’fore ye know
it boys are men!

Hey, mother, here’s your youngster! Land
o’ Goshen, how’ve ye be’n?”

And if, you home returning son,

Some tithe of honor you have won,
Sweeter than telling the world of men
Is telling the old folks “how you’ve be’n.”

Though of wealth and brains and beauty, festal
Maine has summoned all

And the banquet gleams in splendor in the
city’s spacious hall,

Does he envy them the viands spread beneath
their flag-wrapt dome?

No, never, as he sits there at the old folks’
board back home.

There are all the dear old good things made
by mother’s loving hands,

--Such things, so he discovers, only mother
understands;

There’s the old and treasured china, figured
blue with gilded rim,

Saved to honor great occasions--now the
whole is spread for him,

And the mother’s eyes are wistful; she’s as-
sailed by constant doubt

Lest, spite of all his fearful raids, he somehow
“won’t make out.”

But, though the wanderer strives to eat, his
heart keeps coming up,

And tears roll out of brimming eyes he lowers
o’er his cup,

And in the throat there swells a lump, not
grief,--and yet akin--

To see the old folks bowed so low, so snowy-
haired and thin.

And yet their happy faces glow, until they’re
young again,

And dad lights up his old crook pipe and says,
“Now how’ve ye be’n?

Set down and tell us how ye’ve fared and tell
us how ye’ve done,

You’ve sent us letters right along, but them
don’t talk it, son.

A minit with ye, face to face, beats hours with
a pen;

God bless ye, bub! Ye’re welcome back! Now
tell us how’ve ye be’n?”

Ah, happy he who brings success
Back here to Maine to cheer and bless
The folks who ask in tenderness,

--Taking you into their arms again,

“God bless ye, dearie, how’ve ye be’n?”

UNCLE TASCUS AND THE DEED

Uncle Peter Tascus Runnels has been feeble
some of late;

He has allus been a worker and he sartinly did
hate

To confess he couldn’t tussle with the spryest
any more,

--That he wasn’t fit for nothin’ but to fub
around an’ chore.

When he climbed the stable scaffold t’other day
he had a spell,

--Kind o’ heart-disease or somethin’--an’ I
heard he like to fell.

Guess the prospect sort o’ scared him; so, that
ev’nin’ after tea,

--After he had smoked a pipeful--pretty sol-
emn, then says he,

“Reckin, son, ye’ve noticed lately that your
dad is gittin’ old,

An’ your marm is nigh as feeble;--much as
ever she can scold!”

Uncle Tascus said so grinnin’; for the folks
around here know

That no better-natured woman ever lived than
old Aunt Jo.

“Now, my son,” said Uncle Tascus, “you’ve
been good to me an’ marm,

An’ you know we allus told ye, ye was sure to
have the farm.

An’ we like your wife Lucindy; there has
never been no touse

As is generly apt to happen with two famblys in
the house.

I can’t manage as I used to; mother’s gittin’
pretty slim,

An’ to hold our prop’ty longer is a whim, bub,
jest a whim!

So I’ll tell ye what I’m plannin’, an’ I know
that marm agrees,

We’ll sign off an’ make it over; then we’ll sort
o’ take our ease.

So, hitch up to-morrer mornin’--drive us down
to Lawyer True,

Me an’ marm will sign the papers, an’ we’ll
deed the place to you.”

Lawyer True looked kind o’ doubtful when
they told him what was on.

“I’ll admit,” said he, “that no one’s got a
better boy than John.

Now don’t think I’m interferin’ or am prophe-
syin’ harm,

When I warn ye not to do it; don’t ye deed
away your farm.

I have seen so many cases--heard ’em tried
most ev’ry term--

Where a deed has busted fam’lies, that, I swow,
it makes me squirm

If I’m asked to write a transfer to a relative
or son.

Tascus, please excuse my meddlin’, but--ye
hold it till ye’re done.”

Uncle Tascus, though, insisted. He was allus
rather sot.

He allowed he’d show the neighbors jest the
kind of son he’d got.

--Said he’d show ’em how a Runnels allus
stuck by kith an’ kin,

So the lawyer drew the papers--an’ they started
home agin,

Uncle Tascus held the webbin’s--he has allus
driv’ the hoss--

John he chuckled kind o’ nervous. Then said
he, “Wal, pa, I’m boss!

Now ye’ve never got to worry--I’m the one to
take the lead,

Things were gettin’ kind o’ logy--guess I’ll
have to put on speed.

An’ as now I head the fam’ly, an’ you’re sort
of on the shelf,

Guess I’ll”--John he took the webbin’s--
“guess I’d better drive, myself.”

Wal, s’r, Uncle Tascus pondered, pondered,
pondered all that day.

An’ that evenin’ still was pond’rin’, as he
rocked an’ smoked away.

John he set dus’ up t’ table, underneath the
hangin’ lamp,

Ciph’rin’ out that legal paper with its seal an’
rev’nue stamp.

Then he folded it an’ chuckled. “That’s all
right an’ tight,” he said,

“Lawyers tie things tighter’n Jehu. Dad, ye’d
better go to bed.

You an’ marm are gettin’ feeble; mustn’t have
ye up so late!

I’m the boss--” John sort o’ te-heed, “so I’ll
have to keep ye straight.
‘Sides, I’ll need ye bright an’ early. In the
mornin’ hitch the mare,

Take that paper down t’ court-house. Have it
put on record there.”

Uncle Tascus took the writin’, pulled his specs
down on his nose,

Read it over very careful. Then says he, “My
son, I s’pose

You are jest as good’s they make ’em; I hain’t
got no fault to find,

You are thrifty, smart an’ stiddy; rather bluff,
but allus kind,

An’ I guess you’d prob’ly use us jest as well’s
ye really knew,

But I hain’t so awful sartin that I’m done an’
out an’ through!

--Tell ye, son, I’ve been a-thinkin’ since ye
took an’ driv’ that hoss,

--Since ye sort o’ throwed your shoulders an’
allowed that you was boss!

Hate to act so whiffle-minded, but my father
used to say,

‘Men would sometimes change opinions; mules
would stick the same old way.’”

Uncle Tascus tore the paper twice acrost, then
calmly threw

On the fire the shriv’lin’ pieces. Poof! They
vanished up the flue.

“There, bub, run to bed,” said Tascus, with
his sweet, old-fashioned smile.

“These old hands are sort of shaky, but I guess
I’ll drive a while.”

SONGS OF THE SEA AND SHORE

TALE OF A SHAG-EYED SHARK

The mackerel bit as they crowded an’ fit to
grab at our ganglin’ bait,

We were flappin’ ’em in till the ’midship bin
held dus’ on a thousand weight;

When all of a sudden they shet right down an’
never a one would bite,

An’ the Old Man swore an’ he r’ared an’ tore
till the mains’l nigh turned white,

He’d pass as the heftiest swearin’ man that
ever I heard at sea,

An’ that is allowin’ a powerful lot, as sartinly
you will agree.

Whenever he cursed his arm shot up an’ his
fingers they wiggled about,

Till they seemed to us like a windmill’s fans
a-pumpin’ the cuss-words out.

He swore that day by the fodder hay of the
Great Jeehookibus whale,

By the Big Skedunk, an’ he bit a hunk from
the edge of an iron pail,

For he knowed the reason the fish had dodged,
an’ he swore us stiff an’ stark

As he durned the eyes an’ liver an’ lights of a
shag-eyed, skulkin’ shark.

Then we baited a line all good an’ fine an’ slung
’er over the side,

An’ the shark took holt with a dretful jolt, an’
he yanked an’ chanked an’ tried
To jerk it out, but we held him stout so he
couldn’t duck nor swim,

An’ we h’isted him over--that old sea-rover--
we’d business there with him.

A-yoopin’ for air he laid on deck, an’ the skip-
per he says, says he:

“You’re the wust, dog-gondest, mis’able hog
that swims the whole durn sea.

’Mongst gents as is gents it’s a standin’ rule to
leave each gent his own--

If ye note as ye pass he’s havin’ a cinch, stand
off an’ leave him alone.

But you’ve slobbered along where you don’t
belong, an’ you’ve gone an’ spiled the thing,
An’ now, by the pink-tailed Wah-hoo-fish,
you’ll take your dose, by jing!”

So, actin’ by orders, the cook fetched up our
biggest knife on board,

An’ he ripped that shark in his ’midship bulge;
then the Old Man he explored.

An’ after a while, with a nasty smile, he giv’ a
yank an’ twist,

“Hurroo!” yells he, an’ then we see the liver
clinched in his fist.

Still actin’ by orders, the cook fetched out his
needle an’ biggest twine--

With a herrin’-bone stitch sewed up that shark,
all right an’ tight an’ fine.

We throwed him back with a mighty smack,
an’ the look as he swum away

Was the most reproachfulest kind of a look
I’ve seen for many a day.

An’ the liver was throwed in the scuttle-butt,
to keep it all fresh an’ cool,

Then we up with our sheet an’ off we beat,
a-chasin’ that mackerel school.

We sailed all day in a criss-cross way, but the
school it skipped an’ skived,

It dodged an’ ducked, an’ backed an’ bucked,
an’ scooted an’ swum an’ dived.

An’ we couldn’t catch ’em, the best we’d do--
an’ oh, how the Old Man swore!

He went an’ he gargled his throat in ile, ’twas
peeled so raw an’ sore.

But at last, ’way off at the edge of the sea, we
suddenly chanced to spy

A tall back-fin come fannin’ in, ag’inst the sun-
set sky.

An’ the sea ahead of it shivered an’ gleamed
with a shiftin’ an’ silvery hue,

With here a splash an’ there a dash, an’ a rip-
ple shootin’ through.

An’ the Old Man jumped six feet from deck;
he hollered an’ says, says he:

“Here comes the biggest mackerel school since
the Lord set off the sea!

An’ right behind, if I hain’t blind, by the prong-
jawed dog-fish’s bark,

Is a finnin’ that mis’able hog of the sea, that
liverless, shag-eyed shark!”

But we out with our bait an’ down with our
hooks, an’ we fished an’ fished an’ fished,

While ’round in a circle, a-cuttin’ the sea, that
back-fin whished an’ slished;

An’ we noticed at last he was herdin’ the school
an’ drivin’ ’em on our bait,

An’ they bit an’ they bit an’ we pulled ’em in at
a reg’lar wholesale rate.

We pulled ’em in till the S’airey Ann was wal-
lerin’ with her load,

An’ we stopped at last’cause there wa’n’t no
room for the mackerel to be stowed.

Then up came a-finnin’ that liverless shark, an’
he showed his stitched-up side,

An’ the look in his eyes was such a look that
the Old Man fairly cried.

We rigged a tackle an’ lowered a noose an’
the shark stuck up his neck,

Then long an’ slow, with a heave yo-ho, we
h’isted him up on deck.

The skipper he blubbered an’ grabbed a fin an’
gave it a hearty shake;

Says he, “Old man, don’t lay it up an’ we’ll
have a drop to take.”

An’, actin’ by orders, the cook fetched up our
kag of good old rum;

The shark he had his drink poured first, an’ all
of us then took some.

Still actin’ by orders, the cook he took an’ he
picked them stitches out,

An’ we all turned to, an’ we lent a hand;

though of course we had some doubt
As to how he’d worn it an’ how’twas hitched,
an’ whuther’twas tight or slack,

But as best we could--as we understood--we
put that liver back.

Then we sewed him up, an’ we shook his fin
an’ we giv’ him another drink,

We h’isted him over the rail ag’in an’ he giv’
us a partin’ wink.

Then he swum away, an’ I dast to say, although
he was rather sore,

He felt that he’d started the trouble first, an’
we’d done our best an’ more.

’Cause a dozen times’fore the season closed
an’ the mackerel skipped to sea,

He herded a school an’ drove ’em in, as gen-
tlemanlike as could be.

We’d toss him a drink, an’ he’d tip a wink, as
sociable as ye please,

No kinder nor better-mannered shark has ever
swum the seas.

Now, the moral is, if you cut a friend before
that you know he’s friend,

An’ after he’s shown it, ye do your best his
feelin’s to nicely mend,

He’ll meet ye square, an’ he’ll call you quits,
providin’ he’s got a spark
Of proper feelin’--at least our crew can vouch
this for a shark.

THE GREAT JEEHOOKIBUS WHALE

May health and heartiness never fail

My friend the Whale--my friend the Whale!

There are days when the dog-fish are gnawin’
the bait,

And the mud-eels are saggin’ the trawl;

When the brim and the monk-fish and pucker-
mouthed skate

Are the yield from a three-mile haul;

--When the dory-bow ducks with the weight
that it lugs

Of the riffraff and sculch of the sea,

And sculpins come gogglin’ with wide-open
mugs,

And grinnin’ jocosely at me.

It’s h’ist and lug, and pull and tug--

Bow-pulley chuckerin’--chugity-chug!

And all that ye’re gittin’ won’t pay for the
weight

Of powder to blow ’em to Beelzebub’s
strait.

Then’s the chance to be grum if ye’re taken
that style

And are sort of inclined to the blues;

When luck is ag’in ye’tis whimper or smile,
Whichever’s your notion to choose.

Now I--I am sort of inclined to the grins,

So, after a loaf on the rail,

I whistle him up, my old friend of the fins--
The jolly Jeehookibus Whale!

--The great Jeehookibus, fan-fluke whale,
A genial chap with a swivel tail;

Ready for larks and primed for pranks,

--His jokes are the life of the whole
Grand Banks.

I’ve knowed him sence summer of’Seventy-
four,

When I “chanced” on a hand-liner trip;

I was out in my dory one day and I wore
Oiled petticuts strapped to my hip.

I was thinkin’ and smokin’ and fishin’ away,
As quiet as quiet could be,

When all of a whew there was dickens to pay
In the neighborhood handy to me.

With a whoosh like a rocket I shot in the air,
And it seemed like’twas blowin’ a gale;

As I h’isted sky-hootin’ I looked, sor, and there
Was the jolly Jeehookibus Whale.

The great Jeehookibus, fan-fluke whale
Was under me, swishin’ his swivel tail.

He stood on his head with his tail stuck
up,

And the game he was playin’ was ball-and-
cup.

I dropped, but he caught me and filliped me
quick

And juggled me neat as could be;

’Twas as pretty and clever a sleight-of-tail
trick

As ever ye saw on the sea.

At first I was skittish, as you can see why,
When I found myself up there on air,