Chapter I: Part 1

UP IN MAINE

Stories of Yankee Life Told in Verse

By Holman F. Day

With an Introduction by C. E. Littlefield

Boston: Small, Maynard & Company

1900

TO MY FRIEND

AND FELLOW IN THE CRAFT OF LETTERS

WINFIELD M. THOMPSON

TO WHOM I AM INDEBTED
FOR MORE THAN ONE OF THE STORIES
TOLD HEREIN

THIS VOLUME IS DEDICATED

PREFACE

I don’t know how to weave a roundelay,

I couldn’t voice a sighing song of love;

No mellow lyre that on which I play;

I plunk a strident lute without a glove.

The rhythm that is running through my stuff

Is not the whisp of maiden’s trailing gown;

The metre, maybe, gallops rather rough,

Like river-drivers storming down to town.

--It’s more than likely something from the

wood,

Where chocking axes scare the deer and

moose;

A homely rhyme, and easy understood

--An echo from the weird domain of Spruce.

Or else it’s just some Yankee notion, dressed

In rough-and-ready “Uncle Dudley” phrase;

Some honest thought we common folks suggest,

--Some tricksy mem’ry-flash from boyhood’s

days.

I cannot polish off this stilted rhyme

With all these homely notions in my brain.

A sonnet, sir, would stick me every time;

Let’s have a chat ’bout common things in

Maine.

Holman F. Day.

|A_BOUT three thousand years ago the “Preacher” declared that “of making many books there is no end.” This sublimely pessimistic truism deserves to be considered in connection with the time when it was written; otherwise it might accomplish results not intended by its author.

It must be remembered that in the “Preacher’s” time books were altogether in writing. It should also be borne in mind that if the handwriting which we have in these days, speaking of the period prior to the advent of the female typewriter, is to be accepted as any criterion, --and inasmuch as all concede that history repeats itself, that may well be assumed,--is easy to understand how, by reason of its illegibility, he was also led to declare that “much study is a weariness of the flesh.” It is quite obvious that this was the moving cause of his delightfully doleful utterance as to books. Had he lived in this year nineteen hundred, at either the closing of the nineteenth or the dawning of the twentieth century,--as to whether it is closing or dawning I make no assertion,--he might well have made same criticism, but from an optimistic standpoint.

A competent litterateur informs me that there are now extant 3,725,423,201 books; that in America and England alone during the last year 12,888 books entered upon a precarious existence, with the faint though unexpressed hope of surviving “life’s fitful fever!” If the conditions of the “Preacher’s” time obtained to-day, the vocabulary of pessimism would be inadequate for the expression of similar views.

A careful examination by the writer, of all these well-nigh innumerable monuments of learning, discloses the fact that the work now being introduced to what I trust may be an equally innumerable army of readers has no parallel in literature. If justification were needed, that fact alone justifies its existence. This fact, however, is not necessary, as the all-sufficient fact which warrants the collection of these unique sketches in book form is that no one can read them without being interested, entertained, and amused, as well as instructed and improved. “The stubborn strength of Plymouth Rock” is nowhere better exemplified than on the Maine farm, in the Maine woods, on the Maine coast, or in the Maine workshop. From them, the author of “Up in Maine” has drawn his inspiration. Rugged independence, singleness of purpose, unswerving integrity, philosophy adequate for all occasions, the great realities of life, and a cheerful disregard of conventionalities, are here found in all their native strength and vigor. These peculiarities as delineated may be rough, perhaps uncouth, but they are characteristic, picturesque, engaging, and lifelike. His subjects are rough diamonds. They have the inherent qualities from which great characters are developed, and out of which heroes are made.

Through every chink and crevice of these rugged portrayals glitters the sheen of pure gold, gold of standard weight and fineness, “gold tried in the fire.” Finally it should be said that this is what is now known as a book with a purpose, and that purpose, as the author confidentially informs me, is to sell as many copies as possible, which he confidently expects to do. To this most worthy end I trust I may have, in a small degree, contributed by this introduction._

C. LITTLEFIELD.

Washington, D.C., March 17,1900.

‘ROUND HOME

AUNT SHAW’S PET JUG

Now there was Uncle Elnathan Shaw,

--Most regular man you ever saw!

Just half-past four in the afternoon

He’d start and whistle that old jig tune,

Take the big blue jug from the but’ry shelf

And trot down cellar, to draw himself

Old cider enough to last him through

The winter ev’nin’. Two quarts would do.

--Just as regular as half-past four

Come round, he’d tackle that cellar door,

As he had for thutty years or more.

And as regular, too, as he took that jug

Aunt Shaw would yap through her old

mug,

“Now, Nathan, for goodness’ sake take care

You allus trip on the second stair;

It seems as though you were just possessed

To break that jug. It’s the very best

There is in town and you know it, too,

And ’twas left to me by my great-aunt Sue.

For goodness’ sake, why don’t yer lug

A tin dish down, for ye’ll break that jug?”

Allus the same, suh, for thirty years,

Allus the same old twits and jeers

Slammed for the nineteenth thousand time

And still we wonder, my friend, at crime.

But Nathan took it meek’s a pup

And the worst he said was “Please shut up.”

You know what the Good Book says befell

The pitcher that went to the old-time well;

Wal, whether ’twas that or his time had come,

Or his stiff old limbs got weak and numb

Or whether his nerves at last giv’ in

To Aunt Shaw’s everlasting chin--

One day he slipped on that second stair,

Whirled round and grabbed at the empty air.

And clean to the foot of them stairs, ker-smack,

He bumped on the bulge of his humped old back

And he’d hardly finished the final bump

When old Aunt Shaw she giv’ a jump

And screamed downstairs as mad’s a bug

“Dod-rot your hide, did ye break my jug?”

Poor Uncle Nathan lay there flat

Knocked in the shape of an old cocked hat,

But he rubbed his legs, brushed off the dirt

And found after all that he warn’t much hurt.

And he’d saved the jug, for his last wild thought

Had been of that; he might have caught

At the cellar shelves and saved his fall,

But he kept his hands on the jug through all.

And now as he loosed his jealous hug

His wife just screamed, “Did ye break my

jug?”

Not a single word for his poor old bones

Nor a word when she heard his awful groans,

But the blamed old hard-shelled turkle just

Wanted to know if that jug was bust.

Old Uncle Nathan he let one roar

And he shook his fist at the cellar door;

“Did ye break my jug?” she was yellin’ still.

“No, durn yer pelt, but I swow I will.”

And you’d thought that the house was a-going

to fall

When the old jug smashed on the cellar wall.

OLD BOGGS’S SLARNT

Old Bill Boggs is always sayin’ that he’d like to

but he carn’t;

He hain’t never had no chances, he hain’t never

got no slarnt.

Says it’s all dum foolish tryin’, ’less ye git the

proper start,

Says he’s never seed no op’nin’ so he’s never

had no heart.

But he’s chawed enough tobacker for to fill a

hogset up

And has spent his time a-trainin’ some all-fired

kind of pup;

While his wife has took in washin’ and his chil-

dren hain’t been larnt

’Cause old Boggs is allus whinin’ that he’s never

got no slarnt.

Them air young uns round the gros’ry hadn’t

oughter done the thing!

Now it’s done, though, and it’s over, ’twas a

cracker-jack, by jing.

Boggs, ye see, has been a-settin’ twenty years on

one old plank,

One end h’isted on a saw hoss, t’other on the

cistern tank.

T’other night he was a-chawin’ and he says, “I

vum-spt-ooo--

Here I am a-owin’ money--not a gol durn thing

to do!

’Tain’t no use er backin’ chances, ner er fightin’

back at Luck,

--Less ye have some way er startin’, feller’s

sartin to be stuck.

Needs a slarnt to git yer going”--then them

young uns give a carnt,

--Plank went up an’ down old Boggs went--

yas, he got it, got his slarnt.

Course the young uns shouldn’t done it--sent

mine off along to bed--

Helped to pry Boggs out the cistern--he warn’t

more’n three-quarters dead.

Didn’t no one ’prove the actions, but when all

them kids was gone,

Thunder mighty! How we hollered! Gab’rel

couldn’t heered his horn.

CY NYE, PREVARICATOR

Gy

Nye

Thunder, how he’ll lie!

Never has to stop and think--never has to try.

Says he had a settin’ hen that acted clean pos-

sessed;

Says a kag o’ powder couldn’t shake her off her

nest;

Didn’t mind a flannel rag tied around her tail;

Ev’ry now and then he’d take ’er, souse ’er in

a pail;

Never had the least effect--feathers even friz;

Then she set and pecked the ice, but ’tended

right to biz.

’Peared to care for nothin’ else ’cept to set and

set;

Didn’t seem to care a tunket what she drunk

or et.

Cy he said he got so mad he thought he’d use

’er ha’ash,

So he went to feedin’ on ’er hemlock sawdust

mash.

Hen she gobbled down the stuff, reg’lar as

could be;

“Reely seemed to fat ’er up,” Cy says he to me.

Shows the power of the mind when it gets a

clutch.

Hen imagined it was bran--helped ’er just as

much.

Then she hid her nest away--laid a dozen eggs;

’Leven chickens that she hatched all had wooden

legs,

T’other egg it wouldn’t hatch--solid junk o’

wood,

Hen’s a-wrasslin’ with it yet--thinks the thing

is good.

Thunder, how he’ll lie!

But he’s dry,

--That Cy.

Cy

Nye

Tells another lie:

Claims to be the strongest man around here;

this is why:

Says he bought a side o’ beef up to Johnson’s store,

Tucked it underneath his arm--didn’t mind it

more

Than a pound o’ pickled tripe; sauntered down

the road,

Got to ponderin’ Bible texts--clean forgot his

load.

All to once he chanced to think he meant to get

some meat,

Hustled back to Johnson’s store t’other end the

street,

Bought another side o’ beef. The boys com-

menced to laugh,

--Vummed he hadn’t sensed till then he lugged

the other half.

Can’t deny

’T he can lie,

--That Cy.

UNCLE BENJY AND OLD CRANE

Once there was a country lawyer and his name

was Hiram Crane,

And he had a reputation as the worst old file in

Maine.

And as soon’s he got a client, why, the first

thing that he’d do

Was to feel the critter’s pocket and then soak

him ’cordin’ to.

Well, sir, one day Benjy Butters bought a hoss,

and oh, ’twas raw

Way old Benjy he got roasted, and he said he’d

have the law.

So he gave the case to Hiram, and then Hiram

brought a suit

And got back the hoss and harness and what

Benjy gave to boot.

When he met him at the gros’ry Benjy asked

him for the bill,

And when Hiram named the figger, it was

steeper’n Hobson’s hill.

Poor old Benjy hammed and swallered--bill jest

sort of took his breath,

And the crowd that stood a-listenin’ thought

perhaps he’d choke to death.

But it happened that the squire felt like jokin’

some that day,

And he says, “Now, Uncle Benjy, there won’t be

a cent to pay

If you’ll right here on the instant make me up a

nice pat rhyme;

Hear you’re pretty good at them things--give

you jest three minutes’ time.”

And the squire grinned like fury, tipped the

crowd a knowing wink,

While old Benjy started in, sir, almost ’fore

you’d time to think:

“Here you see the petty lawyer leanin’ on his

corkscrew cane.

Sartin parties call him Gander, other people call

him Crane.

Though he’s faowl, it’s someways daoubtful

what he is, my friends, but still

You can tell there’s hawk about him by the

gaul-durned qritter’s bill.”

Crane got mad, he wanted money, but the crowd

let on to roar,

And they laughed the blamed old skinflint right

square out the gros’ry store.

“PLUG”

For sixty years he had borne the name

Of “Plug”--plain “Plug.”

Those many years had his village fame

Published the shame of his old-time game,

Till all the folks by custom came

To call him “Plug.”

And so many years at last went by

They hardly knew the reason why;

At least they never stopped to think,

And dropped the old suggestive wink.

And he took the name quite matter-of-fact,

Till most of the folks had forgot his act;

But sometimes a stranger’d wonder at

The why of a nickname such as that,

--Of “Plug”--just “Plug.”

Then some old chap would shift his quid

And tell the story of what he did.

“He owned ten acres of punkin pine,

’Twas straight and tall, and there warn’t a sign

But what ’twas sound as a hickory nut,

And at last he got the price he sut.

They hired him for to chop it down.

He did.--By gosh, it was all unsoun’.

Was a rotten heart in every tree.

But there warn’t none there but him to see.

And quick as ever a tree was cut,

He hewed a saplin’ and plugged the butt.

--Plugged the butt, sir, and hid away

For about two months, for he’d got his pay.

But there warn’t no legal actions took,

They never tackled his pocket-book.

’Twould a-broke his heart, for he’s dretful snug;

But he never squirmed when they called him

’Plug.’

And over the whole of the country-side,

Up to the day that the critter died,

’Twas ‘Plug.’

Till some of the young folks scurcely knew

Which was the nickname, which was the true.

He left five thousand,--putty rich,--

But better less cash than a title sich

As ‘Plug.’”

THE SONG OF THE HARROW AND PLOW

From the acres of Aroostook, broad and mellow

in the sun,

Down to rocky York, the chorus of the farmers

has begun.

They are riding in Aroostook on a patent sulky

plow,

--They are riding, taking comfort, for they’ve

learned the secret how.

They are planting their potatoes with a whirring

new machine,

--Driver sits beneath an awning; slickest thing

you’ve ever seen.

There is not a rock to vex ’em in the acres

spreading wide,

So they sit upon a cushion, cock their legs, and

smoke and ride.

Gee and Bright go lurching onward in the

furrow’s mellow steam;

Over there, with clank of whiffle, tugs a sturdy

Morgan team.

And the man who rides the planter or who plods

the broken earth

Joins and swells the mighty chorus of the

season’s budding mirth.

And they’ve pitched the tune to a jubilant

strain.

They are lilting it merrily now.

We wait for that melody up here in Maine,

--’Tis the song of the harrow and plow.

They are picking rocks in Oxford, and in Waldo

blasting ledge,

And they’re farming down in Lincoln on their

acres set on edge.

Down among the kitchen gardens of the slopes

of Cumberland

They’re sticking in the garden sass as thick as

it will stand.

And every nose is sniffing at the scent of fur-

rowed earth,

And every man is living all of life at what it’s

worth.

Though the farmer in Aroostook sails across a

velvet field,

And his mellow, crumbly acres vomit forth a

spendthrift yield,

All the rest are just as cheerful on their hillside

farms as he,

For there’s cosy wealth in gardens and a fortune

in a tree.

So they’re singing the song of the coming

of Spring,

And the song of the empty mow;

Of the quiver of birth that is stirring the earth,

--’Tis the song of the harrow and plow.

HOORAY FOR THE SEASON OF FAIRS

This is the season for fairs, by gosh, oh, this is

the season for fairs;

They’re thicker than spatter,

But what does it matter?

They scoop up the cash, but who cares?

From now till October they’ll swallow the

change,

These state fairs and town fairs and county and

grange,

But apples blush brighter arrayed on a plate,

And the cattle look scrumptious in dignified

state,

Enthroned in a stall and a-gazing with scorn

On the chaps going by without ribbon or horn.

And the trotters and nags of the blood-royal

strain

Are a-furnishing fun for the people of Maine;

While prouder than princes they prance to the

band,

And ogle the ladies arrayed on the stand.

Ah, every exhibit in stall or in hall,

From hooked rug to hossflesh and punkin and

all,

Takes on a new meaning, assumes a new light,

And is, for the moment, a wonderful sight.

And people hang over the stuff that’s displayed,

They swig up whole barrels of red lemonade,

And hark to the fakirs and tumble to snides,

And treat all the young ones to merry-go rides.

They sit on the grand stand, man crushed

against man,

All shouting acclaim to the track’s rataplan;

And all the delight is as fresh and as bright

As though the big crowd had not seen that same

sight.

And the people flock home with the dust in their

eyes,

But with hearts all a-fire with fun and surprise.

The girls are a-humming the tune of the band,

And dads are relating the sights from the stand;

The dames are discussing the fancy work part,

While bub hugs the Midway scenes close to his

heart.

The palms of the men folks still glow from a

grip,

And the women are thinking of lip pressed to

lip,

For all of the folks in the loud, happy throng

Have met with the friends “they’ve not seen

for so long.”

A hail and salute from the press of the mass,

Too brief, as the crowd jammed impatient to

pass,

A moment--that’s all--to renew the old tie,

A handgrasp, a lip-touch, “Hello,” and “Good-

by.”

Oh, this is the season of fairs, by gosh, the

season to lay off your cares,

Each fair is a wonder,

They’re thicker than thunder.

Hooray for the season of fairs!

HAD A SET OF DOUBLE TEETH

Oh, listen while I tell to you a truthful little

tale

Of a man whose teeth was double all the solid

way around;

He could jest as slick as preachin’ bite in two a

shingle nail,

Or squonch a moulded bullet, sah, and ev’ry

tooth was sound.

I’ve seen him lift a kag of pork, a-bitin’ on the

chine,

And he’d clench a rope and hang there like a

puppy to a root;

And a feller he could pull and twitch and yank

upon the line,

But he couldn’t do no bus’ness with tha’

double-toothed galoot.

He was luggin’ up some shingles,--bunch, sah,

underneath each arm,--

The time that he was shinglin’ of the Baptist

meetin’-house;

The ladder cracked and buckled, but he didn’t

think no harm,

When all at once she busted and he started

down kersouse.

His head, sah, when she busted, it was jest

abreast the eaves;

And he nipped, sah, quicker’n lightnin’, and

he gripped there with his teeth,

And he never dropped the shingles, but he hung

to both the sheaves,

Though the solid ground was suttinly more’n

thirty feet beneath.

He held there and he kicked there and he

squirmed, but no one come.

He was workin’ on the roof alone--there

warn’t no folks around.

He hung like death to niggers till his jaws was

set and numb,

And he reely thought he’d have to drop them

shingles on the ground.

But all at once old Skillins come a-toddlin’ down

the street.

Old Skil is sort of hump-backed and he allus

looks straight down;

So he never see’d the motions of them Number

’Leven feet,

And he went a-amblin’ by him--the goramded

blind old clown!

Now this ere part is truthful--ain’t a-stretehin’

it a mite,--

When the feller see’d that Skillins was a-

walkin’ past the place,

Let go his teeth and hollered, but he grabbed

back quick and tight,

’Fore he had a chance to tumble, and he hung

there by the face.

And he never dropped the shingles and he never

missed his grip,

And he stepped out on the ladder when they

raised it underneath.

And up he went a-flukin’ with them shingles on

his hip,

--And there’s the satisfaction of a havin’

double teeth.

GRAMPY’S LULLABY

Your marmy’s mixin’ cream o’ tartar biskit up

for tea;

Fie, deedle, deedle, leetle ba-a-arby!

And I reckon you had better come and roost

upon my knee;

Tumpy, dumpy, deedle, leetle barby!

I s’picion how ye never heard of Ebernezer

Cowles.

Tell ye what, he warn’t brung up to be afraid of

owls.

Reckon that a spryer critter never tailored

boots;

Allus up to monkey tricks and full o’ squirms

and scoots.

Once he done a curis thing, I vummy, on a

stump:

Set a larder up one end and gin’ a mighty jump;

Run right up the larder, jest as nimble as a

monkey,

Balarnced, I sh’d suttin say, a minit--all a-

hunky;

Then he straddled out on air and grabbed the

pesky larder

And run ’er up another length--another length,

suh, farder;

Skittered up that larder ’fore she had a chance

to teeter,

Quicker’n any pussy cat--lighter’n a mos-

keeter.

Soon’s he clambered to the top, grabbed the

upper rung,

Ketched hisself with t’other hand, and there the

critter hung.

Gaffled up his britches’ slack and took a resky

charnce

And thar’ he held hisself right out, arms-length,

suh, by his parnts.

Ye ought ter heerd, my barby dear, the cheerins

and the howls

The crowd let out when they’d obsarved that

trick of Mister Cowles.

Sing’lar thing of which I sing--might not

think ’twas true;

Fie, deedle, deedle, leetle ba-a-arby!

But ye know, my leetle snoozer, grampy wouldn’t

lie to you,

--To his dumpy, dumpy deedle, leetle

barby.

Hush, I guess that mammy isn’t done a-makin’

bread,

We ain’t at all pertic’lar how she overhears

what’s said.

Ye’re over-young, purraps, to hear of Sam’wel

Doubl’yer Strout,

--Weighed about two hundred pounds, and,

chowder, warn’t he stout!

Used to work for me one time as sort of extry

hand,

--Allus planned to ’gage him when I cleared up

any land;

Once I see him lug a rock with fairly mod’rit

ease

So hefty that at ev’ry step he sunk above his

knees.

Hain’t at all surprised to see the wonder in your

eye;

Fie, deedle, deedle, leetle ba-a-arby!

But ye know your poor old grampy wouldn’t

tell ye ary lie,

--To his tumpy, dumpy deedle, leetle

barby.

Course ye’ve never heerd ’em tell of Atha-ni-al

Prime,

For he was round a-raisin’ Cain so long afore

your time.

Used to run the muley saw down to Hopkins

mill,

--Allus euttin’ ding-does up--a master curis

pill!

Once the chaps that tended sluice stood upon a

log,

Got to argyin’ this and that, suthin’ ’bout a dog.

Clean forgot to start the log a-goin’ up the

sluice,

But shook their fists and hollered round and spit

torbarker juice.

Atha-ni-al heerd the towse and grabbed a pick-

pole up,

--Wasn’t goin’ to stop a mill to fight about a

pup,--

Tied a rope around the pole and then he let her

flam,

Speared the end of that air log and yanked her

quicker’n Sam.

Log, suh, come right out the bark, he twitched

the thing so quick;

Fellers never felt the yank, ’twas done so smooth

and slick.

Log come out and up the sluice and left behind

the bark,

--Fellers thought the log was there and stood

and chawed till dark.

Sing’lar things has come to pass when I was

young as you;

Fie, deedle, deedle, leetle ba-a-arby!

And best of all, what grampy sings you bet your

life is true,

Tumpy, deedle, dumpy, leetle barby.

HOSKINS’S COW

Hoskins’s cow got into the pound and the notice

was tacked on the meetin’-house door:

“Come into my yard, one brindle cow with three

white feet, and her shoulders sore,

--Galled by a poke,--and the owner is asked

to call at the pound and take her away.”

Well, Hoskins knew she was his all right, but,

you see, he hadn’t wherewith to pay.

The cow was breachy--she wasn’t to blame,

for Hoskins had turned her abroad to roam;

She had to battle for daily grass, for the bovine

cupboard was bare at home.

So Hoskins had hitched on her withered neck a

wooden “regalia”--sort of a yoke,

Supposed to keep her from breachy tricks, but

the poor old creature employed the “poke”

To rip up fences and let down bars; her hunger

sharpened her slender wits,

And somehow she sneaked through the guarded

gates, and gave the garden sass regular fits.

The neighbors pitied her starving state, but at

last she stubbornly wouldn’t shoo;

They pounded tattoos on her skinny ribs till it

really seemed they would whack ’em through.

But she got so toughened and callous and hard,

and the stiffened frame of her mortised bones

Formed such an excellent armor-plate against

the broadsides of sticks and stones,

That they “pounded” her then in a different

way--in the village pound--whose walls

would hold

The breachiest cow that ever strayed--and the

notice was posted as I have told.

She stood there a day and she stayed there a

night; she cropped the scanty bushes and

grass,

And moo-ed and loo-ed in a yearning way, when-

ever a person chanced to pass.

--She ate the leaves from some alder sprouts

for a scanty breakfast the second day,

And munched the twigs for her dinner, alas,

and longed, oh, so much, for some meadow

hay.

That night she gnawed at her dry old poke,--

a painful meal, for the slivers ran

In her tongue; so she crouched by the high-

barred gate and seemed deserted of God and

man.

And Hoskins knew that they had his cow, and

Hoskins knew of her solemn fast,

For he’d gone up the highway and looked

through the gate in her dumb, reproachful eyes

as he passed.

Yet what, may I ask, could the poor man do?

He was right in a place where he couldn’t

Pay,

--He had three dollars, ’tis true enough, and
‘twould square the bill, but, you see, that day

The catchers had come and taken his dogs: a

hound, a setter, and brindle-pup,

And a man like Hoskins would ne ’er endure to

have the dog-pound gobble them up,

For he gunned on Sundays behind the hound,

and the bull was entered and backed to fight.

And Hoskins, you see, as a sporting man had a

reputation to keep upright.

I wonder, friends, if you’ve ever thought, while

you’ve stormed at rum as the poor man’s curse,

There are chaps so built on the mental plan that

keeping dogs will warp them worse?

The “dog” man may be reclaimed, but I’ve

been compelled, alas, to see

That there doesn’t appear to be much hope for

the wretched critter condemned to three.

And Hoskins’s duty was plain to him: his

youngsters wailed for the milk they missed,

But Hoskins thought of his poor, poor dogs and

gripped his dollars tight in his fist.

He shut his ears to his children’s cries, he steeled

his heart when he passed the pound,

To the mute appeal in the old cow’s eyes; but

he smiled at last when his dogs were found.

And he gladly proffered the three lone plunks

to sate the greed of the legal hogs,

And proudly he took the highway back, a-lead-

ing his licensed, bailed-out dogs.

And they barked and yipped and yapped and

yawped at a poor old tottering cow they found

Absorbed in a desperate, hungry reach for a

thistle outside the village pound.

AN OLD STUN’ WALL

If ye only knew the backaches in an old stun’

wall!

O, Lordy me,

I’m seventy-three!

--Begun amongst these boulders and I’ve lived

here through it all.

I wasn’t quite to bub’s age there, when dad

commenced to clear

The wust of ninety acres with a hoss team and

a steer.

And we’ve used the stun’s for fencin’ and we’ve

built around the lot,

O, I’ve tugged and worked there, sonny, ontil

gracious me, I’ve sot

And fairly groaned o’ evenings with the twinges

in my back;

Sakes, there warn’t no shirkin,’ them days; it

was tug and lift and sack,

For it needed lots of muscle, lots of gruntin’,

lots of sand

If a feller calculated for to clear a piece of

land.

Bub, it isn’t any wonder that our backs has got

a hump,

That our arms are stretched and awkward like

the handle on a pump,

That our palms are hard and calloused, that we

wobble in our gait

--There’s the reason right before you ’round

the medders in the State.

And I wonder sometimes, sonny, that we’ve

any backs at all

When I figer on the backaches in an

Old

Stun’

Wall.

If ye only knew the backaches in an old stun’

wall!

We read of men

Who with a pen

Have pried away the curses that have crushed

us in their fall.

I don’t begrudge them honor nor the splendor

of their name

For an av’rage Yankee farmer hasn’t any use

for fame,

But the man who lifted curses and the man

who lifted stones

Never’ll hear a mite of diff’runce in the

Heavenly Father’s tones.

For I have the humble notion, bub, that when

all kinds of men,

The chaps that pried with crowbar and the

chaps that pried with pen,

Are waitin’ to be measured for the things

they’ve done below

The angel with the girth-chain’s bound to give

us all fair show.

And the humble man who’s tussled with the

rocks of stubborn Maine

Won’t find that all his labor has been thankless

and in vain.

And while the wise and mighty get the glorious

credit due

The man who took the brunt of toil will be

remembered too.

The man who bent his aching back will earn

his crown, my child,

By the acres he made fertile and the miles of

rocks he piled.

That ain’t my whole religion, for I don’t propose

to shirk

What my duties are to Heaven,--but the gospel

of hard work

Is a mighty solid bed-rock that I’ve built on

more or less;

I believe that God Almighty has it in his heart

to bless

For the good they’ve left behind them rough old

chaps with humped-up backs

Who have gone ahead and smoothed things with

the crowbar and the axe.

For if all our hairs are numbered and He notes

the sparrow’s fall

He understands the backaches in an

Old

Stun’

Wall.

THE STOCK IN THE TIE-UP

I’m workin’ this week in the wood lot; a hearty

old job, you can bet;

I finish my chores with a larntern, and marin has

the table all set

By the time I get in with the milkin’; and after

I wash at the sink,

And marm sets a saucer o’ strainin’s for the cat

and the kittens to drink.

Your uncle is ready for supper, with an appetite

whet to an edge

That’ll cut like a bush-scythe in swale-grass, and

couldn’t be dulled on a ledge.

And marm, she slats open the oven, and pulls

out a heapin’ full tin

Of the rippin’est cream-tartar biskit a man ever

pushed at his chin.

We pile some more wood on the fire, and open

the damper full blare,

And pull up and pitch into supper--and com-

fort--and taste good--wal, there!

And the wind swooshes over the chimbly, and

scrapes at the shingles cross grain,

But good double winders and bankin’ are mighty

good friends here in Maine.

I look ’crost the table to mother, and marm she

looks over at me,

And passes another hot biskit and says, “Won’t

ye have some more tea?”

And while I am stirrin’ the sugar, I relish the

sound of the storm.

For, thank the good Lord, we are cosy and the

stock in the tie-up is warm.

I tell ye, the song o’ the fire and the chirruping

hiss o’ the tea,

The roar of the wind in the chimbly, they sound

dreadful cheerful to me.

But they’d harrer me, plague me, and fret me,

unless as I set here I knew

That the critters are munchin’ their fodder and

bedded and comf’table too.

These biskits are light as a feather, but, boy,

they’d be heavier’n lead

If I thought that my hosses was shiv’rin’, if I

thought that my cattle warn’t fed.

There’s men in the neighborhood ’round me who

pray som’w’at louder than me,

They wear better clothes, sir, on Sunday--chip

in for the heathen Chinee,

But the cracks in the sides o’ their tie-ups are

wide as the door o’ their pew,

And the winter comes in there a-howlin’, with

the sleet and the snow peltin’ through.

Step in there, sir, ary a mornin’ and look at their

critters! ’Twould seem

As if they were bilers or engines, and all o’

them chock full o’ steam.

I’ve got an old-fashioned religion that calkalates

Sundays for rest,

But if there warn’t time, sir, on week days to

batten a tie-up, I’m blest

I’d use up a Sunday or such-like, and let the

durned heathen folks go

While I fastened some boards on the lintel to

keep out the frost and the snow.

I’d stand all the frowns of the parson before I’d

have courage to face

The dumb holler eyes o’ the critters hooked up

in a frosty old place.

And I’ll bet ye that in the Hereafter the men

who have stayed on their knees

And let some poor, fuzzy old cattle stand out in

a tie-up and freeze,

Will find that the heat o’ the Hot Place is keyed

to an extra degree

For the men who forgot to consider that critters

have feelin’s same’s we.

I dasn’t go thinkin’ o’ tie-ups where winter goes

whistlin’ through.

Where cattle are humped at their stanchions

with scarcely the gumption to moo.

But I’m glad for the sake of Hereafter that

mine ain’t the sin and the guilt,

And I tell you I relish my feelin’s when I pull

up the big patchwork quilt.

I can laugh at the pelt o’ the snowflakes, and

grin at the slat o’ the storm,

And thank the good Lord I can sleep now; the

stock in the tie-up is warm.

EPHRUM WADE’S STAND-BY IN HAYING

Ephram Wade sat down in the shade

And took off his haymaker hat, which he laid

On a tussock of grass; and he pulled out the

plug

That jealously gagged the old iron-stone jug.

And cocking his jug on his elbow he rigged

A sort of a “horse-up,” you know, and he

swigged

A pint of hard cider or so at a crack,

And set down the jug with a satisfied smack.

“Aha!” said he, “that grows the hair on ye,

bub,

My rule durin’ hayin’s more cider, less grub.

I take it, sah, wholly to stiddy my nerves,

And up in the stow hole I pitch ’em some

curves

On a drink of straight cider, in harnsomer shape

Than a feller could do on the juice of the grape.

Some new folderinos come ’long every day,

All sorts of new jiggers to help git yer hay.

Improvements on cutter bars, hoss forks, and

rakes,

And tedders and spreaders and all of them fakes.

But all of their patents ain’t fixed it so yit

That hayin’ is done without git-up and git.

If ye want the right stuff, sah, to take up the

slack,

The stuff to put buckram right inter yer back,

The stuff that will limber and ile up yer j’ints,

Just trot out some cider and drink it by pints.

It ain’t got no patents--it helps you make hay

As it helped out our dads in their old-fashioned

way.

Molasses and ginger and water won’t do,

’Twill irrigate some, but it won’t see ye through.

And ice water’ll chill ye, and skim milk is durn

Mean stuff any place, sah, except in a churn.

I’m a temperate man as a general rule,

--The man who gits bit by the adder’s a fool,--

But when it comes hayin’ and folks have to strain,

I tell you, old cider’s a stand-by in Maine.”

Then Ephrum Wade reclined in the shade

And patiently gazed on the hay while it “made.”

RESURRECTION OF EPHRUM WAY

Old Uncle Ephrum Isaac Way

--He had a fit the other day.

A sort of capuluptic spell;

He hasn’t been in no ways well

Since year ago come next July;

He had a sunstroke; come blamed nigh

To passin’ ’crost. And since, for him,

The poor old man’s been dretful slim.

And ’twarn’t surprisin’ none, I say,

That fit of his the other day.

By time that Dr. Blaisdell come

His legs and arms had growed all numb.

He didn’t sense things source at all,

His lower jaw commenced to fall,

And, jedged from looks, there warn’t no doubt

That Ephrum’s soul was passin’ out.

Fact is, they thought that he was dead;

They tied the bandage round his head,

Laid out his shroud--when first they knew,

Eph kicked awhile and then come to;

Got up and stared with all his eyes,

And said, “Why, this ain’t Paradise!

Gol durn the luck, they let me in;

Now here I’m back on earth agin.

I’ve been to Heaven! I’ve been dead,

I’ve seen it All,” so Ephrum said.

And while we gathered round with awe

He told us all the things he saw.

And while he yarned that tale of Death

The parson came, all out of breath,

Exclaiming o ’er and o ’er again,

“A vision! Wondrous! Blest of men!”

And asked, “Oh, tell us, Mr. Way,

How long were you allowed to stay?”

And then the crowd hung breathless round

A-harkin’ until Ephrum found

Some sort of language in his reach,

--For he was sort of dull in speech.

“Wal, friends,” he slowly said at last,

“I ricolleet that when I passed

The pearly gates and sills of gold

And see that blessed sight unfold

Before my dim old hazy eyes,

I got a shock of such surprise

I couldn’t move,--I couldn’t speak,

--Jest run my tongue down in my cheek

And sort of numbly pronged and pried

The chaw I took before I died.

--That’s been my habit all my days;

When I am nervous anyways

I don’t fly all to gosh. Instid

I simply, calmly shift my quid.

But jest as I had rolled her ’crost--

Wal, suthin’ dropped and I was lost.

And all of Heaven, friends, I saw

Was while I shifted that air chaw.”

I think, dear sir, I scarce need add

That seldom do you see so glad

A resurrection time as they

Who stood there gave old Ephrum Way.

The parson first he tried to screw

His face up solemn, but that crew

Broke out and howled like they was daft.

And so he laughed and laughed and laughed.

LOOK OUT FOR YOUR THUMB

Hindsight is clearer than foresight,

But foresight is better and safer, old chap.

Experiment teaches, but common sense reaches

And tests the bright baubles in Dame Future’s

lap.

I’m telling you what Eph Landers did

The time that the critter lost his fid.

He was sort of a quick, impulsive man;

--When others walked, he always ran.

He never waited to calmly view,

But he got right up and slam-banged through.

Believed that the moments a feller took

To give the future a good square look

Was simply so much wasted time;

His plan was, “Never look up; just climb.”

He was yankin’ boulders a week ago

And things got balky and movin’ slow.

He strung the chain ’round a good big rock

And found that he lost the little block

To catch the link; it’s used instid

Of a hook and link, and it’s called a fid.

And Eph, he held the unhooked chain

By the ends, and he looked and he got profane.

But he couldn’t find it and wouldn’t wait,

--He was mad as a bug and desperate,

And the crack-brained critter--what do ye

think?

Why, he stuck his thumb in the unhooked link.

He didn’t consider that ’twarn’t his fid,

But the oxen started--and then he did!

He see’d his mistake, as most men do,

When the deed is done and the thing is through:

You stick your thumb where it don’t belong

And the world will yank it, good and strong.

_Hindsight is clearer than foresight,

But you’d better ask foresight to give ye a

point;

Or, first thing you’re knowin’, Old World will be

goin’,

And he’ll laugh while you howl with your thumb

out of joint_.

THE TRIUMPH OF MODEST MARIA

Maria’s comb hung lopsy-wise

And flapped athwart her filmy eyes,

Exactly like a slattern’s hair

On washing day; and I declare

She was the slouchiest-looking hen

That pecked in T. B. Tucker’s pen.

Cah-dah! Cah-dut!

She was the butt

Of every sort of jibe and cut.

Maria was a Brahma dame,

Broad and squat and plucked and lame.

The Leghorns cast a pitying smile

Upon her queer, old-fashioned style.

The Plymouth Rocks would jeer and flout

Because her legs were feathered out.

The cocks would strut,

Pah-rutt! Pah-rutt!

And snigger at her bloomers’ cut.

The trim white Cochins tip-toed by

And froze her with disdainful eye;

Each tufted Houdan tossed her plume

And glared Maria’s social doom.

Where ’er she strolled in all the yard

Maria got it good and hard!

Cah-dut! Cah-dah!

Each social star

Just dropped Maria with a jar.

But she pursued her quiet way,

And picked and scratched the livelong day,

Kept early hours and ate bran mash,

Nor sought to cut a social dash.

And then one day she left her nest

With pallid comb and swelling breast.

Cah-dut! Cah-dah!

Hooray, hurrah!

Maria, you’re a queen, you are!

The news went cackling round the pen

--An egg! It measured twelve by ten.

And T. B. Tucker drove to town

To take that gor-rammed big egg down.

The editor put on his specs,

The villagers turned rubber necks,

And some collecting feller paid

Right smart for what Maria laid.

And European news was set

Aside that week by the Gazette

In order that a glowing pen

Might pay due praise to that old hen.

Cah-lip! Cah-lop!

You’ll find, sure pop,

That modest merit lands on top.

SON HAS GOT THE DEED

Mother fights with Marshy, and Marshy fights

with her,

--Don’t give up yer proputty, I’m tellin’ on yer,

sir!

Don’t give up yer proputty to nary blessed one,

--Don’t keer whuther brother, sir, or nephy,

sir, or son.

Don’t make over northin’, sir, ontil you’re done

and through,

Or ye’ll cuss the day ye done it till the air is

black and blue..

Me and marm got feeble and we couldn’t run

the farm,

Son was newly married and we couldn’t see the

harm

In makin’ on it over, we to have the ell and shed,

Use the sittin’ room in common--and a room

for one spare bed.

And so we made the papers and we signed ’em,

me and wife,

’Lowin’ them the stand and stock, and us our

keep for life.

Twelvemonth isn’t finished, but the trouble has

begun,

An’ it’s one continyal rowin’ ’twixt us and her

and son.

Marshy dings at mother and mother dings at her,

’F things ain’t settled somehow, sir, they’ll git

to clawin’ fur.

Don’t give up yer proputty, I’m tellin’ on ye

straight.

Don’t keer who your family is, ye’ll rue it sure

as fate.

’Fore ye sign the papers they’ll come round ye

slicker’n cream,

But ye’ll notice little later, sir, that things ain’t

what they seem.

Man that’s got his proputty, he’s looked to with

respect;

Relations they come meechin’ round to

scratch, sir, where he’s pecked.

Ye see, he rules the family roost and leads the

family flock,

As proud and full of manners as a Cochin China

cock.

But if the years have loosened up his intellect

and grip,

And if he thinks his folks are straight, and lets

the old farm slip,

He’ll find the grin becomes a frown and sweet-

ness turns to greed,

For folks see things in different light when once

they’ve got a deed.

Now Marshy snarls at mother and mother sends

it back,

And all the time, from sun to sun, it’s clack and

clack and clack!

Don’t give up yer propputy, hang on till death,

I say;

It’s time when you are done with it to give your

all away.

Oh, how the devil snickers round when some

old codger drools

About “the laying down of cares”--and jines

the ranks of fools!

And how the lawyers laugh and joke, and how

the angels weep,

To see some old folks deed away their farm for

board and keep!

--Never see’d no better cook than Marshy

used to be,

When first along she’d ask us down to dinner

or to tea.

Used to sweeten grub with smiles when she

would pass a plate,

And me and marm, like two old coots, we swal-

lowed hook and bait.

You bet we git some diff’rent looks, we git some

different feed,

Jest like they’d throw it out to dogs, now son

has got the deed.

An’ Marshy growls at mother, and mother’s

growlin’ wuss,

An’ I--wal, I jest set and smoke and cuss--

and cuss--and cuss!

AN IDYL OF COLD WEATHER

When all the sky seems blazing down, and sun-

shine curls the bricks,

And General Humidity puts in his biggest licks,

I welcome with a moist and dripping

palm,

A placid old philosopher who runs a little farm,

Who says imagination helps a deal in keeping

cool,

And who to comfort other men makes this his

simple rule:

To talk of piping, biting days, and drifting

winter storm

Whene ’er the weather pipes it up and gets too

thunderin’ warm.

They’re better far than fizz or smash or juleps,

sure’s you’re born,

--The honest little narratives of Frigid Weather

John.

For though the sizzling summer time may boil

and steam and hiss,

Who’d ever, ever think of it while listening to

this?

“I never see’d a winter have a durnder, sharper

aidge

Than in the year of Sixty-one, the year that I

drove stage.

I never had so hard a job attendin’ to my biz,

For everything was frizable, that year you bet

was friz.

At last I done a caper that I hadn’t done for

years:

I got a little careless and I friz up both my ears.

The roads was awful drifted and I trod ten

miles of snow,

And all the time that zippin’ wind did nothin’,

sah, but blow.

Them ears of mine was froze so hard, stuck out

so bloomin’ straight,

I thought the wind would snap ’em off, it blew

at such a rate.

And when at last I hauled up home, the missus

bust in tears

And hollered, ‘John, oh, massy me, you’re going

to lose your ears.’

But I--why, land o’ goodness, I was cooler’n I

be now,”

--And he passed his red bandanna up across

his steaming brow,--

“I jest got out my hatchet and I chopped two

cakes of ice

And held ’em on my friz-up ears--’twas

Granpy Jones’ advice.

I didn’t dast go in the house, but set there in

the shed

A-holdin’ them two chunks of ice to either

side my head.

The chunks weighed fifty pounds apiece--that

doctorin’ didn’t cost--

And so I got ’em big enough to take out all the

frost.

My wife came out at last to see what made me

keep so still,

And there I was, sound asleep and snorin’

fit to kill.

She got me in and gave me tea and helped me

inter bed,

With that ’ere ice a-frozen tight and solid to my

head.

’Twas sort of curi’s, I confess, but still I slept

complete,

A crystal palace on my head and soapstones on

my feet.

It wasn’t really what you’d call a calm and rest-

ful night,

But when the ice peeled off next day them ears

come out all right.”

They’re better far than fizz or smash or juleps,

sure’s you’re born,

--These honest little narratives from Frigid

Weather John.

BUSTED THE “TEST YOUR STRENGTH”

When pa was down to Topsham fair

I snooped around and heard him swear

To Jotham Briggs that it seemed to him

That muscle nowadays was slim,

For he said he’d stood there quite a length,

Seein’ folks whang at the “test your strength,”

And there wasn’t a one in all that spell

Who’d hit a crack that had tapped the bell.

And pa talked loud and he sassed the crowd,

And the crowd sassed pa, and he allowed

He’d show ’em what; and so old Jote

Just held his hat and his vest and coat;

And pa he rolled his sleeves up tight,

Hauled out his plug and took a bite.

He whirled one arm in wind-mill style,

--Then whirled the other one awhile.

He picked his pessle out at length

And sassed the great, tall “test your strength.”

“I’m goin’ to soak ye now,” says pa,

“You’ll think it’s y’earthquakes by the jar.

Git out the way and giv’ me swing,

--I’ll bust the ha’slet out the thing.”

And pa he spit in both his fists

And give the handle two three twists,

And swung the beetle round and round

To give one big, gol-rippin’ pound.

One knee was right up’ginst his chin,

His eyes stuck out, his lips sucked in,

And down he fetched her with a jolt,

But pa--but pa--he missed his holt!

He lost his grip, the pessle flew,

And folks they scattered, I tell you.

Some chaps fell down and some they ducked,

And them fur off, by gosh, they hucked.

For that air pessle, sir, it come

Sky-hootin’ like a ten-inch bomb.

It landed more’n eight rods away

Right through the top of Drew’s new shay,

--Right ’twixt the gal and Ezry Drew,

And hully gee, it scart ’em blue.

While pa--wal, pa, he jest turned green

--Gawked fust at Drew, then that machine.

And hammed and stuttered out at length,

“I aimed ’er at that to test your strength’!”

“Good eye!” says Ez, as mad as sin,

And then he snorted, “Drunk agin!”

And pa--wal, warn’t a thing to say,

’Cept pull,--and ask Ez, “What’s to pay?”

“WHEN A MAN GETS OLD”

The clash and the clatter of mowing-machines

Float up where the old man stands and leans

His trembling hands on the worn old snath,

As he looks afar in the broadening path,

Where the shivering grasses melt beneath

A seven-foot bar and its chattering teeth.

When a man gits old, says he,

When a man gits old,

He is mighty small pettaters

As I’ve just been told.

I used to mow at the head of the crew,

And I cut a swath that was wide as two.

--Covered a yard, sah, at every sweep;

The man that follered me had to leap.

I made the best of the critters squeal,

And nary a feller could nick my heel.

The crowd that follered, they took my road

As I walked away from the best that mowed.

But I can’t keep up with the boys no more,

My arms are stiff and my cords are sore:

And they’ve given this rusty scythe to me

--It has hung two years in an apple-tree--

And told me to trim along the edge

Where the mowing-machine has skipped the

ledge.

It seems, sah, skurcely a year ago

That I was a-showin’ ’em how to mow,

A-showin’ ’em how, with the tanglin’ grass

Topplin’ and failin’, to let me pass;

A-showing ’em how, with a five-foot steel,

And never a man who could nick my heel.

But now it’s the day of the hot young blood,

And I’m doin’ the job of the fuddy-dud;

Hacking the sides of the dusty road

And the corner clumps where the men ain’

mowed.

And that’s the way, a man gits told,

He’s smaller pettaters when he grows old.

I’VE GOT THEM CALVES TO VEAL

It’s a jolly sort of season, is the spring--is the

spring,

And there isn’t any reason for not feeling like a

king.

The sun has got flirtatious and he kisses Mis-

tress Maine,

And she pouts her lips, a-saying, “Mister, can’t

you come again?”

The hens are all a-laying, the potatoes sprouting

well,

And fodder spent so nicely that I’ll have some

hay to sell.

But when I get to feeling just as well as I can feel,

All to once it comes across me that I’ve got

them calves to veal.

Oh! I can’t go in the stanchion, look them

mothers in the eye,

For I’m meditatin’ murder; planning how their

calves must die.

Every time them little shavers grab a teat, it

wrings my heart,

--Hate to see ’em all so happy, for them cows

and calves must part.