Part 10

I tackled ev’ry rock and snag that dared dispute my way,

Until the only critter left was one old maple stump,

And I?--I gave the team the gad--and took ’er on the jump!

She split in halves and through I went, but back she slapped, ker-whack,

And gripped Jemimy’s pantaloons right where she’d left the slack.

The team was going double-quick--the oxen plunged along--

I held the old oak handle-bars, I gripped ’em good and strong--

And there I was, the living link’twixt stump and plough, because

The cloth it stuck there good and tight between those maple jaws.

Jemimy never planned on that, in making pants for me;

She made ’em solid, yet of course she gave no guarantee

That they would stand a yank like that--but still I clung and yelled,

Those oxen plunged and tussled and--Je- mimy’s pants, they held!

And the stump came out a-kicking, roots and dirt and stones and all,

But those pants weren’t even started by that most tremendous haul,

And to prove this ’ere is truthful, should some scoffer cast a doubt,

I have saved the chips and hewings where they came and chopped me out.

Aunt Brown--Jemimy Brown--

Was a spinster, spinner-weaver of merited re- nown;

Our town set it down

As a fact beyond disputing there was never any suiting

Like the suiting that was made by Spinster Brown.

BALLADS OF “CAPERS AND ACTIONS”

BALLAD OF ELKANAH B. ATKINSON

Elkanah B. Atkinson’s tarvun was run On a plan that was strictly his own;

And he “reckoned that dudified sons of a gun” Would far better leave him alone.

He allowed that he always had plenty to eat For folks that liked vitt-u-als plain;

An’ when ye came down to pettaters and meat His house was a credit to Maine.

The garding truck they raised themselves, They killed their pork; and the but’ry shelves Jest fairly groaned with jells and jams;

--In a shed out back they smoked their hams. And old Elkanah used to brag They laid down pickles by the kag;

And they had the darndest hens to lay --Got fifty eggs most ev’ry day--

And ev’ry egg was big’s your fist And fresher’n a whiff of mountain mist.

The whole blamed house it used to shake When old Elkanah pounded steak,

For he used to say what made meat tough Was ’cause some cooks warn’t strong enough.

And he piled the grub right on sky-high: Soup and meat and fish and pie --All the courses on first whack--

And then Elkanah he’d stand back And say: “There, people, now hoe in;

When ye’ve et that grub, pass up ag’in;

Of course we hain’t no big hotel,

But some few things, why, we dew well.”

P. Mortimer Perkins came down from New York,

--A salesman for corsets and things;

With his trousers all creased and a lah-de-dah walk,

As if he were jiggered by strings;-- Arrived at the Atkinson tarvun one night And says to Elkanah, says he:

“I want to be called just as soon as it’s light, For I’m going first train, don’t ye see.

It’s very important I go by first train,

But I find in these country hotels The service ye get gives a fellah a pain --They don’t even answer the bells.

Now I want to be called for that train, me good man,

For it’s very important I go;

Now weally, old chappie, please see if you can Just do a thing right once, y’ know-

Ye may call me at four, and at half after four I’ll bweakfast; now recollect, please!

Before I wetire I’ll tell you once more;

--You’ll get the idea by degwees.”

Elkanah B. Atkinson lowered his specs To the very tip-end of his nose;

Says he: “When a feller he really expec’s To go by that train, wal--he goes.

Jest fall right asleep and don’t worry a mite;

This hain’t -no big city hotel,

But we’ll git ye to goin’ termorrer all right, For there’s some things we dew fairly well.”

Elkanah B. Atkinson sat all night And kept the office fire bright.

He nodded some and yawned and smoked,

And at half-past three he went and poked The kitchen fire; then pounded steak And set potatoes in to bake.

Started the coffee and all the rest And then went up to call his guest.

Bangity, whang! on the cracked old door! Whangity, bang! It checked a snore.

P. Mortimer Perkins opened his eyes In the cold dark dawn with much surprise,

And under the coverlet warm and thick On the good, old-fashioned feather tick,

Felt the cold on his nose like a frosty knife

And was never so sleepy in all his life.

But still bang, whang on the cracked old door! And Elkanah shouting, “Mos’ ha’f-pas’ four!” But the louder the old man pounded and yapped The more the drummer garped and gapped.

At last says he: “Is it stormy--oh-h-h?”

“Wall,” says Elkanah, “she’s spittin’ snow.”

P. Mortimer Perkins snuggled down

And says he, “This isn’t a blamed bad town;

I say, old man, now please go’way,

I’ve changed my mind, and I guess I’ll stay.” Elkanah B. Atkinson then says he:

“This changin’ minds is a bad idee;

I’ve set in that office there all night So’s I could git ye up all right.

An’ breakfus’ is on, an’ the coffee’s hot;

Now, friend, ye can go on that train or not, But I tell ye now, right off- the reel,

Ye’re goin’ to git up and eat that meal.” [Illustration: 0241]

P. Mortimer Perkins cursed and swore,

But Elkanah slammed right through that door, And he pulled that drummer out of bed And brandished a chair’round over his head; He poked his ribs and made him dress So sleepy still that his gait cut S As he staggered down to the dining-room And ate his meal in the cheerless gloom, While over him stood the grim old man With a stick and a steaming coffee can.

“Now, mister,” allowed Elkanah, “sence It’s a special breakfus’ it’s thutty cents.” When the feller paid, as meek’s a pup,

And stuttered “Now, can I be put up?” “Why, sartin, mister,” Elkanah said;

“Ye can go to tophet or back to bed;

There hain’t hard feelin’s, no, none at all, But when a feller he leaves a call At the Atkinson House for an early meal, He gits it served right up genteel,

An’ when it’s served, wal, now you bet There hain’t no peace till that meal’s been et. Of course we hain’t no big hotel,

But some few things we dew quite well.”

BALLAD OF OBADI FRYE

’Twas a battered old, double-B, twisted bass horn,

With a yaw in the flare at its end;

A left-over veteran, relic forlorn Of the halcyon days when a band had been born

To the village of Buckleby Bend.

The band was dismembered by time and by death

As the years went a-scurrying by,

And only one player was left with his breath

And that was old Obadi’ I.

P. Frye.

Old Obadi’ Isaac Pitt Frye.

With a glow in his eye

He would plaintively try

To puff out the tune that they marched to at training;

But the tremolo drone

Of the brassy old tone

Quavered queerly enough with his scant breath remaining.

Ah, the years had been many and bent was his back,

And caved was his chest and departed his knack;

So, though he was filled with musicianly pride

And huffed at the mouthpiece and earnestly tried

To steady his palsied old lip and control

The old-fashioned harmonies stirring his soul--

There was nothing in Buckleby quite so for- lorn

As the oomp-tooty-oomp of that old bass horn.

To the parties and sociables, quiltings and sings They invited old Obadi’ Frye;

He’d give ’em doldrums of old-fashioned things

With occasional bass obligato for strings --Or at least he would zealously try.

The minister coaxed him to buy a cornet And chirk up a bit in his tune,

But none could induce him to ever forget His love for that old bassoon,

Whose tune

Was the solace of life’s afternoon.

So he’d splutter and moan With his thin, gusty tone But his empty old lungs balked his anxious en- deavor.

He hadn’t the starch For a jig or a march,

And with double-F volume he’d parted forever. For he hadn’t the breath for a triple note run, ’Twas a whoof and a pouf! and alas, he was done;

But the pride of his heart was that old double- bass,

He was happy alone with its lips at his face.

So he sat in his old leather chair day by day And whooped the one solo he’d power to play,

An anthem entitled, “All Hail Christmas Morn,”

As rendered by gulps on an old bass horn.

“All hail--hoomp--hoomp--bright Christmas morn,

Hail--hoomp, hoomp--hoomp--fair

hoomp--hoomp--dawn; Turn--hoomp--hoomp, eyes

Hoomp--hoomp,

HOOMP--skies,

When--hoomp--hoomp,

hoomp--H O O M P--born.’’

While a-tooting one morning his breath flick- ered out

With a sort of a farewell purr;

Of course there are many to scoff and to scout, But’twas sucked by that cavernous horn with- out doubt,

At least, so the neighbors aver.

They laid him away in the churchyard to rest And with grief that they sought not to hide, They placed the old battered B-B on his breast And that Christmas hymn score by his side--

His pride,

‘Twas the tune that he played when he died.

Now, who here denies That far in the skies

He is probably calmly and placidly winging; That his spirit new-born With his score and his horn Takes flight where the hosts are triumphantly singing.

Yet it irks me to think that he’s far in that Land

With only the score of one anthem in hand. For the music Above must be novel and strange--

Too intricate far for that double-B range,

But at last when the Christmastide rings in the skies

There’ll be some queer quavers in fair Para- dise,

For an humble old spirit will calmly allow “I reckin I’ll give ’em that horn solo now.” Up there we are certain there’s no one to carp Because Obadiah won’t tackle a harp-- Seraphs and cherubs will hush their refrain When a new note of praise intermingles its strain,

And he’ll add to the jocund delight of that morn

With his anthem, “All hail,” on that old bass horn.

“All hail--hoomp--hoomp--bright Christmas morn,

Hail--hoomp, hoomp--hoomp--fair

hoomp--hoomp--dawn; Turn--hoomp--hoomp, eyes

hoomp--hoomp,

HOOMP--skies,

When--hoomp--hoomp,

hoomp--HOOMP--born.”

AT THE OLD FOLKS’ WHANG

Flappy-doodle, flam, flam--whack, whack, whack!

Balance to the corners and forward folks and back;

Gaffle holt an’ gallop for an eight hands round,

While the brogans and the cowhides they pessle and they pound;-

No matter for the Agger providin’ there’s the time.

Jest cuff’er out and jig’er;--jest hoe’er down and climb!

No matter’bout your toes or corns; let rheu- matiz go hang,

For we’re weltin’ out the wickin at the old folks’ whang.

--At the old folks’ whang Hear the cowhides bang,

When we “up and down the center” at the old folks’ whang.

Yang, tangty, yee-yah!--yang, yang, yang!

Old Branscomb plays the fiddle at the old folks’ whang;

And he puts a sight o’ ginger in the chitter of the string,

--It isn’t frilly playin’ but he makes that fiddle sing.

He slashes out promis’cus, sort o’ mixin’ up the tune,

--Takes the _Irish Washerivoman_, slams’er up agin _Zip Coon_;

And he _Speeds the Plough_ a minute, then he’ll sort o’change his mind

And go off a-gallivantin’ with the _Girl I left Behind._

Oh, he mixes up his music queerest way I ever saw,

For he shifts the tune he’s playin’ ev’ry time he shifts his chaw;

But we never mind the changes for he keeps us on the climb,

--He may twist the tune a little but he’s thun- der on the time!

So line up and choose your pardners--we’re the old ones out for fun,

You’ll forgit your stiff rheumaticks jest as soon as you’ve begun.

’Course we ain’t so spry and spiffy as we used to be, but yet

We can show them waltzy youngsters jest a thing or two, you bet.

We will dance the good old contras as we used to years ago,

Jest as long as Uncle Branscomb has the strength to yank the bow.

There is no one under sixty--we’ve shet out the youngster gang

And we’re goin’ to welt the wickin’ at the old folks’ whang.

--At the old folks’ whang Hear the cowhides bang,

When we canter up the center at the old folks’ whang.

IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD

O, the sleddin’s gettin’ ragged and it’s dodge and skip and skive,

Till it’s jest an aggravation for to try to start and drive.

Fust to this side, then to t’other--here some ice and there some snow,

--Just continyal gee and holler; fust “Gid- dap,” and then it’s “Whoa!”

Takes a half a day to git there, round by way o’ Robin Hood;

Like as not ye’ll bust your riggin’ haulin’ out your hay and wood.

’Tain’t no way o’ doin’ bus’ness; ’tain’t no way to haul a load,

--You must do your hefty haulin’ in the mid- dle of the road.

If ye want to keep a-hoein’

Better wait for settled goin’,

For twice the heft goes easy in the middle of the road.

O, in dealin’s with your neighbors, brother, sure as you’re alive,

It’s better to go straight ahead and never skip or skive.

For the man who keeps a-dodgin’ back and forth across the way

Like enough will find his outfit in the gutter, stuck to stay.

Till the road is clear and settled, till with can- dor in your heart

You can see your way before you, guess ye hadn’t better start;

For to get there square and easy; and to lug your honest load,

You’ll find it’s best to travel in the middle of the road.

--So’s to make an honest showin’ Better wait for settled goin’,

Then, s’r, hustle brisk and stiddy in the mid- dle of the road.

DRIVIN’ THE STAGE

Drivin’ the stage,

Oh, drivin’ the stage,

With the wind fairly peelin’ your hide with its aidge!

Jest got to git through with the’Nited States mail

For the contract provisions don’t have the word “Fail.”

So it’s out and tread drifts while the snow howls and sifts

For a dollar a trip--and no extrys--no gifts.

For them star-route contractors they figger it fine

And take it right out of the chaps on the line.

They set in an office and rake in their slice

While the drivers are tusslin’ the snow and the

ice.

It may howl, it may yowl, it may snow, it may blow

But that’Nited States mail, wal, it jest has to go.

So it’s out and unhitch, leave the pung where it’s stuck,

Lo’d the bags on the hosses and then, durn ye, huck!

And it’s waller and struggle, walk stun’-walls and rails

For they don’t stand no foolin’--them’Nited States mails.

And at last when ye git there, jest tuckered and beat,

And sling in the bags and crowd up to the heat,

The gang round the stove they don’t give ye no praise

But set there and toast themselves’side of the blaze;

And ev’ry old, wobble-shanked son of a gun

Sets up there and tells ye how he would have done!

--If there’s any one job gives your temper an aidge,

It’s drivin’ the stage,

--It’s drivin’ the stage.

“DOC”

In his big, fur coat and with mittens big as hams,

With his string of bells a-jingling, through the country side he slams.

There are lots of calls to make and he’s always on the tear,

A-looming in his cutter like an amiable bear.

And it’s hi-i-i, there!

Johnny don’t ye care,

Though’tis aching something awful and is most too much to bear.

Just--be--gay!

As soon as it is day,

That pain will go a-flyin’, for the doctor’s on the way.

There are real, true saints; there are angels all around,

But there isn’t one that’s welcomer than he is, I’ll be bound.

When he bustles in the bed-room and he dumps his buff’ler coat,

And sticks a glass thermometer a-down the suff’rin throat.

And it’s chirk, cheer up!

Mother, bring a cup!

You’re going to like this bully when you take a little sup.

There--there--why,

There’s a twinkle in your eye!

You’ll be out again to-morrow, bub; gid-dap, gid-dap, good-bye!

ANOTHER “TEA REBELLION”

When Mis’ Augusty Nichols joined the Tufts Minerva Club,

She polished up on manners and she then com- menced to rub

At the hide of Mister Nichols who, while not exactly rude,

Was hardly calculated for a howling sort of dude.

Now when Augusty Nichols got to see how style was run,

You bet she went for Nichols and she dressed him down like fun;

And the thing in all his actions that she couldn’t bear to see

Was to have him fill his saucer and go whoof- ling up his tea.

After more’n a month of stewing;--making mis’able his life,

She taught him not to shovel all his vittles with his knife.

And after more’n a volume of pretty spicy talk

She got him in the hang of eating pie with just his fork.

She trained him so’s he didn’t slop the vittles round his plate,

She plagued him till he wouldn’t sit in shirt- sleeves when he ate,

And then she tried her Waterloo, with faith in high degree

That she could revolutionize his way of drink- ing tea.

He drank it as his father always quaffed the cheering cup,

He poured it in his saucer, raised the brimming puddle up

And gathered in the liquid with a loud re- sounding “Swoof”

That now at last inspired Mrs. Nichols’ fierce reproof.

But here was where the victim--ah, here was where the worm

Arose and fairly scared her by the vigor of his squirm,

--Sat down his steaming saucer and with a dangerous light

A-gleaming in his visage, he upbore a Yan- kee’s right.

From the days of Boston’s party up to now I think you’ll see

That a Yankee’s independent when you bother with his tea.

“Consarn your schoolmarm notions,” thun- dered Mrs. Nichols’ spouse,

“You’ve kept a’dingin’ at me till I’m meechin round the house.

I’ve swallered that and t’other for I didn’t like to row

But ye ain’t a-going to boss me in the thing ye’ve tackled now.

I’m durned if I’ll be scalded all the time I’m being stung

So I’ll cool my tea, Mis’ Nichols, while ye jab me with your tongue.”

There are rights ye cannot smother, tyrants, whoso’er ye be,

And the good, New England Yankee’s mighty touchy, sir, on tea.

“LIKE AN OLD COW’S TAIL”

When I was a youngster and lived on the farm It sickened my heart--did that morning alarm! When dad came along to the foot of the stairs And summoned me back to my duties and cares;

--Put all of my glorious visions to rout With “Breakfast is ready! LP h’ist out there, h’ist out!”

And when I came yawningly, sleepily down, My eyes “full of sticks” and my face all a-frown,

I got for a greeting this jocular hail,

“Wal, always behind like an old cow’s tail.”

I’ll own to you, neighbor, that work on the farm

Had features not wholly surrounded by charm. And when I am fashioning lyrical praise For matters bucolic of earlier days,

You’ll note that my lyre, sir, operates best When I tune up and sing of the blessings of rest.

I’ve stood in the stow-hole and “tread” on the load,

And waltzed with a bush scythe and worked on the road,

But somehow or other the language won’t spring

When prowess of muscle I venture to sing.

But when I am piping of “resting” or fun

Or lauding the time after chores are all done,

Why, somehow--why, blame it, as sure as you’re born,

I mentally feel that my trolley is on!

And a trolley, you know, would be certain to fail,

Unless’twas behind like an old cow’s tail.

PASSING IT ALONG

The elephant he started in and made tremen- dous fuss

Alleging he was crowded by the hippopotamus;

He entertained misgivings that the earth was growing small,

And arrived at the conclusion that there wasn’t room for all.

Then the hippo got to thinking and he was frightened too

And so he passed the word along and sassed the kangaroo.

The kangaroo as promptly took alarm and talked of doom

And ordered all the monkeys off the earth to give him room.

And the monkeys jawed the squirrels and the squirrels jawed the bees,

While the bees gave Hail Columby to the minges and the fleas,

--In the microscopic kingdom of the microbes, I will bet