Chapter 2

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

HEZEKIAH'S ART

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL PICNIC

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

"AUNT 'MANDY"

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

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

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

* * * * *

THE STORY-BOOK BOY

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

THE SCHOOL-COMMITTEE MAN

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

WASTED ENERGY

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

WHEN THE MINISTER COMES TO TEA

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

"YAP"

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

THE MINISTER'S WIFE

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

THE VILLAGE ORACLE

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

THE TIN PEDDLER

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

"SARY EMMA'S PHOTYGRAPHS"

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

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

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