Chapter 1

Cape Cod Ballads

and Other Verse

By

Joseph C. Lincoln

_With Drawings by Edward W. Kemble_

1902

To My Wife

This book is affectionately dedicated

Preface

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

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

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

J.C.L.

CONTENTS

PREFACE

LIST OF DRAWINGS

THE COD-FISHER

THE SONG OF THE SEA

THE WIND'S SONG

THE LIFE-SAVER

"THE EVENIN' HYMN"

THE MEADOW ROAD

THE BULLFROG SERENADE

SUNDAY AFTERNOONS

THE OLD DAGUERREOTYPES

THE BEST SPARE ROOM

THE OLD CARRYALL

OUR FIRST FIRE-CRACKERS

WHEN NATHAN LED THE CHOIR

HEZEKIAH'S ART

THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL PICNIC

"AUNT 'MANDY"

THE STORY-BOOK BOY

THE SCHOOL-COMMITTEE MAN

WASTED ENERGY

WHEN THE MINISTER COMES TO TEA

"YAP"

THE MINISTER'S WIFE

THE VILLAGE ORACLE

THE TIN PEDDLER

"SARY EMMA'S PHOTYGRAPHS"

WHEN PAPA's SICK

THE BALLAD OF MCCARTY'S TROMBONE

SUSAN VAN DOOZEN

SISTER SIMMONS

"THE FIFT' WARD J'INT DEBATE"

HIS NEW BROTHER

CIRCLE DAY

SERMON TIME

"TAKIN' BOARDERS"

A COLLEGE TRAINING

A CRUSHED HERO

A THANKSGIVING DREAM

O'REILLY'S BILLY-GOAT

THE CUCKOO CLOCK

THE POPULAR SONG

MATILDY'S BEAU

"SISTER'S BEST FELLER"

"THE WIDDER CLARK"

FRIDAY EVENING MEETINGS

THE PARSON'S DAUGHTER

MY OLD GRAY NAG

THROUGH THE FOG

THE BALLADE OF THE DREAM-SHIP

LIFE'S PATHS

THE MAYFLOWER

MAY MEMORIES

BIRDS'-NESTING TIME

THE OLD SWORD ON THE WALL

NINETY-EIGHT IN THE SHADE

SUMMER NIGHTS AT GRANDPA'S

GRANDFATHER'S "SUMMER SWEETS"

MIDSUMMER

"SEPTEMBER MORNIN'S"

NOVEMBER'S COME

THE WINTER NIGHTS AT HOME

"THE LITTLE FELLER'S STOCKIN'"

THE ANT AND THE GRASSHOPPER

THE CROAKER

THE OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN

THE LIGHT-KEEPER

THE LITTLE OLD HOUSE BY THE SHORE

WHEN THE TIDE GOES OUT

THE WATCHERS

"THE REG'LAR ARMY MAN"

FIREMAN O'RAFFERTY

LITTLE BARE FEET

A RAINY DAY

THE HAND-ORGAN BALL

"JIM"

IN MOTHER'S ROOM

SUNSET-LAND

THE SURF ALONG THE SHORE

AT EVENTIDE

INDEX OF FIRST LINES

LIST OF DRAWINGS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CAPE COD BALLADS

THE COD-FISHER

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

THE SONG OF THE SEA

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

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

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

* * * * *

THE WIND'S SONG

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

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

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

* * * * *

THE LIFE-SAVER

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

"THE EVENIN' HYMN"

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

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

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

* * * * *

THE MEADOW ROAD

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

THE BULLFROG SERENADE

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

SUNDAY AFTERNOONS

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

THE OLD DAGUERREOTYPES

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

THE BEST SPARE ROOM

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

THE OLD CARRYALL

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

OUR FIRST FIRE-CRACKERS

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

WHEN NATHAN LED THE CHOIR

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