Part 11

That word of greedy jealousy is on its travels yet;

All just because the elephant got scared and made a fuss

Alleging he was crowded by the hippopotamus.

A SETTIN’ HEN

When a hen is bound to set,

Seems as though ’tain’t etiket Dowsin’ her in water till She’s connected with a chill.

Seems as though ’twas skursely right Givin’ her a dreadful fright,

Tyin’ rags around her tail,

Poundin’ on an old tin pail,

Chasin’ her around the yard.

--Seems as though ’twas kind of hard Bein’ kicked and slammed and shooed ’Cause she wants to raise a brood.

I sh’d say it’s gettin’ gay Jest’cause natur’ wants its way.

--While ago my neighbor, Penn,

Started bustin’ up a hen;

Went to yank her off the nest,

Hen, though, made a peck and jest Grabbed his thumb-nail good and stout, Almost yanked the darn thing out.

Penn he twitched away and then Tried again to grab that hen.

But, by ginger, she had spunk ’Cause she took and nipped a junk Big’s a bean right out his palm,

Swallered it, and cool and calm Hi’sted up and yelled “Cah-dah,”

--Sounded like she said “Hoo-rah.”

Wal, sir, when that hen done that Penn he bowed, took off his hat,

--Spunk jest suits him, you can bet,

“Set,” says he, “gol darn ye, SET.”

BALLAD OF DEACON PEASLEE

There was Uncle Ezry Cyphers and Uncle Jonas Goff,

And Deacon Simon Peaslee, with his solemn vestry cough;

Mis’ Ann Matilda Bellows and Aunt Almiry Hunt,

--At all the social meetings they performed their earnest stunt.

They were strong in exhortation, and pro- foundly entertained

The belief that talking did it if a Heavenly Home were gained.

So they rose on Tuesday evening, at Friday meeting, too,

And informed their friends and neighbors what the sinners ought to do;

They explained the route to Heaven and ex- horted all to go

In the straight and narrow pathway through the blandishments below;

They were good and they were earnest, but, alas, a little tame,

For month by month and year by year their talks were just the same,

Until the folks who’d listened all those many years could start

And declaim those exhortations, for they had ’em all by heart.

And those old folks talked so constant there was scarcely time to sing,

For they just let in regardless and monopolized the thing.

Now, benign old Parson Johnson died at last. There’s scarcely doubt

That those prosy dissertations sort of wore the old man out.

And he promptly was succeeded ere the church had dried its tears

By a cocky, youthful pastor, who was full of new ideas.

Now, he sized the situation ere he’d been in town a week,

And he set to work to fix it by a plan that was unique,

For he saw unless he did so--and the Lord allowed them breath,

Those devoted saints would surely talk that wearied church to death.

So he came to Tuesday meeting and upon his desk he placed

A nickeled teacher’s call-bell and blandly then he faced

An astonished congregation and explained he thought it best

To condense the exhortations so as not to crowd the rest;

For he said that in the worship all the members ought to share,

And monopoly of talking by the elders wasn’t fair;

Therefore, each could have five minutes, and he’d ring to let each know

When ’twas time to cut the discourse and give t’other one a show.

There were scowls from Uncle Ezry--there were grunts from Uncle Goff,

And Deacon Simon Peaslee gave a scornful vestry cough.

Then he laid his cane beside him and he strug- gled to his feet

And commenced his regular discourse in re- gard to tares and wheat.

He was scarcely fairly going on the punish- ments of hell

When the pastor smiled and nodded and ding- clink-ling went the bell!

All the old folks gasped in horror and a titter soft and low

Ran along the youthful sinners who were back on Devil’s Row;

And for just a thrilling instant Deacon Simon lost his force,

With astonished jaws a-gaping--then continued on his course.

To the pastor’s youthful visage swept a sudden flush of wrath,

As the obstinate old deacon brushed him calmly from his path,

And with all the college muscle that he had at his command

The parson cuffed the call-bell with a swift and steady hand.

There was riot in the vestry--deacon vieing with the bell,

As he strove to paint the terrors of the hot, John Wesley hell,

Till at last he balked and stuttered, gasped a while and tried to speak,

Then sat down with tears a-dropping through the furrows on his cheek.

There he bent in voiceless anguish with his old gray head bowed low,

While the hushed and pitying people mourned to see him grieving so;

And the parson left the platform and contritely crept across

To the side of Deacon Simon and expressed his deep remorse.

But the deacon raised his visage, and, with tears still streaming down,

Glared upon his trembling pastor with a fierce and scornful frown.

“Drat yer hide,” roared Deacon Simon, “do ye think that leetle bell

Scart a warrior sech as I am out of talking truths on hell?

’Tain’t no passon sets me down, sah! ’Tain’t no bell ye ever saw,

But ye went and got me narvous and ye’ve made me eat my chaw.”

Then the deacon, stern and angry, arm in arm with Jonas Goff,

And with Uncle Cyphers trailing, stalked in righteous dudgeon off,

And the sympathizing parish held a meeting there and then,

And extolled the absent deacon as the most abused of men;

And the parson’s walking papers hit his neck below the jaw

In about the same location that the deacon lost his chaw.

THE WORST TEACHER

_That teacher was the worst we ever tackled,

He warnt so very tall, and he was light.

--It is best to lay your egg before you’ve cackled,

Though we never had a notion he could fight._

He acted sort of meechin’ when he opened up the school,

--We sort of got the notion he was “It”-- and we tagged gool,

We gave him lots of jolly in a free and easy way,

And showed him how we handled guys as got to acting gay.

We showed him where the other one had torn away the door

When we lugged him out and dumped him in the snow the year before.

And soon’s we thought we’d scared him, we sat and chawed and spit,

And kind o’ thought we’d run the school--con- cludin’ he was “It.”

It worked along in that way, sir, till Friday afternoon.

--We hadn’t lugged him out that week, but ’lowed to do it soon.

That Friday,’long about three o’clock, he said there’d be recess,

And said, “The smaller kids and girls can go for good, I guess.”

And he mentioned smooth and smily, but with kind of greenish eyes,

That the big boys were requested to remain for exercise.

And when he called us in again he up and locked the door,

Shucked off his co’t and weskit, took the mid- dle of the floor,

And talked about gymnastys in a quiet little speech,

--Then he made a pass at Haskell, who was nearest one in reach.

’Twas hot and stiff and sudden and it took him on the jaw,

And that was all the exercise the Haskell feller saw.

Then jumpin’ over Haskell’s seat, he sauntered up the aisle,

A-hittin’ right and hittin’ left and wearin’ that same smile.

And when a feller started up and tried to hit him back,

’Twas slipper-slapper, whacko-cracker, whango- bango-crack!!

And never, sir, in all your life, did you see flippers whiz

In such a blame, chain-lightnin’ style as them ’ere hands of his.

And though we hit and though we dodged--or rushed by twos and threes,

He simply strolled around that room and licked us all with ease.

And when the thing was nicely done, he dumped us in the yard,

He clicked the padlock on the door and passed us all a card.

And this was what was printed there: “Pro- fessor Joseph Tate,

Athletics made a specialty and champion mid- dleweight.”

_That teacher was the worst we ever tackled,

He warn’t so very tall and he was light.

--It is best to lay your egg before you’ve cackled,

Though we never had a notion he could fight._

THE TUCKVILLE GRAND BALL

Origen Dickerson called the figgers

With a voice like a cart ex that needed some grease.

He and his partner would fiddle like niggers

For supper an’ dollar an’ fifty apiece.

With forty couple upon the floor--

There wasn’t an inch for no one more,

We done the honors for all three towns

At the high, old Tuckville spanker-downs.

Yeak, yawk,

Grab for your pardners!

Yawk, yawk,

Wo’ hi-i-ish inter line!

Yankity, yump-de,

Yankity, yah-h de!

--For a fife and two fiddles that music was fine.

And we pelted the floor and sashayed through the door,

And balanced to pardners and sashayed some more.

And when we got orders to “all hands around!”

Warn’t half of the girls that could stay on the ground.

For-rud and back! Wo’ haw, there, to Ella.

Wo’ buck inter line and balance to Grace.

Grab holt o’ hands, there, and swing by yer feller,

Clek--clek, gid-dap-along, git inter place.

And the dust would rise and the lamps would shake

Till ye’d think their chimblys was goin’ to break.

For we’tended to dancin’ right up brown

At a high old Tuckville spanker-down.

Squeak, squawk,

Pick out yer feller!

Raw-w-wk, raw-w-wk,

Form on your set!

High-deedle, do-o-o de,

High-deedle, dah-h-h-de!

We swung by the waist in them dances, you bet.

There wasn’t kid slippers, there wasn’t tight boots,

There wasn’t silk dresses, there wasn’t dude suits,

There wasn’t no banquet--ten dollars for two--

But a good brimmin’ bowlful of hot oyster stew.

We’d darnce twenty numbers and all the en- cores,

--Get home in the mornin’’bout time for the chores--

And all the next day the work was like play,

The girls doin’ housework would waltz and sashay;

The boys would astonish the stock in the yard

By forgettin’ and yellin’, “Hi, all promunard!”

Hi-i-i, yah-h-h!

Ladies to center, there!

Hi-i-i, yah-h-h!

Balance ye all!

Wo’ hi-ish up the middle, bear down on the fiddle,

By ginger,’twas fun at the Tuckville Grand Ball.

THE ONE-RING SHOW

The street parade was gorgeous and the show was mighty fine

--Them fellers on the trick trapeze was cork- ers in their line,

And all the lady riders was as pretty as they’re made,

And kept the climate fully up to ninety in the shade.

The chaps that did the tumbling acts and every funny clown

Was just as slick an article as ever came to town.

I’ve got to tell yon, neighbor, that it all was up in G,

Including all the things I saw and what I didn’t see.

But though I did a master sight of rubber- neckin’’round,

A-lookin’ here and gawpin’ there, why, gra- cious, me, I found

From what the folks have told me since, I missed the finest things,

--I hadn’t eyes and neck enough for all them three big rings.

And honest, if 1 had my choice, I’d good deal ruther go

To just a good, old-fashioned sort of hayseed, one-ring show.

The people used to gather when Van Amburgh came to town

With a lion and an elephant, a camel and a clown.

There wasn’t “miles of splendor,” as the cir- cus programs say,

But folks got up at daylight, drove in early in the day;

And they perched along the fences while the dozen carts or so

Came trailin’ through the village with the old Van Amburgh show.

It wasn’t just “stupendous,” but the people didn’t jeer

And say it wasn’t up to what the circus was last year!

O, no, they crunched their peanuts and they took things as they’d come,

And heard a lot of music in the rump-rump of the drum.

For things, you know, seemed fresher in the days when we were young,

And tinsel passed for solid stuff when lady riders sprung

Through papered hoops, or danced and frisked upon their charger’s rump

And vaulters spun to dizzy heights with one jer-oosly jump.

They did those ding-does master fine some twenty years ago

And you never missed a wiggle at a one-ring show.

I won’t pick flaws with modern ways of doing all these things,

For folks have got to living on the gauge of three big rings.

But while the whirl is going on, it seems, my friend, to me

That half of what goes past your nose is things that you don’t see.

And when the angel cries, “All done,” and when the lights go out,

You’ll jostle to the dark Beyond amidst a diz- zied rout.

And life that’s lived at three ring pace I fear will only seem

A useless sort of patchwork thing--a mixed- up fruitless dream.

Why wasn’t “father’s way” the best? Though there was less array,

Though men had less of creeds and cults than what they have to-day,

The old folks then from Life’s great tent went slowly thronging out

With calm, well-ordered years behind, unvexed by care or doubt.

And though in old Van Amburgh’s days the thing moved rather slow,

You didn’t sprain your moral neck in looking at Life’s Show.

THE SWITCH FOR HIRAM BROWN

That Hiram Brown he come to school and brung in seven ticks;

He picked them off his father’s sheep--jes’ like his dratted tricks!

One day that critter put a toad right in our teacher’s chair,

She squatted down--and then got up! And warn’t she mad for fair?

He brung in crawly bugs and things, a mouse and onct a rat,

An’ then he sort o’ wound things up with suthin’ wusser’n that.

The teacher cotched him that time, though, and my! she combed him down

An’ I was sent to cut the switch that walloped Hiram Brown.

Them ticks was in a pill-box doctor left when Bill was sick,

An’ they was measly lookin’ things;--say, j’ever see a tick?

While we was readin’ testermunt Hi stirred ’em with a pin,

--We all was wond’rin’ what he’d got, for he was on the grin.

Then when the teacher turned her back, Hi made for Ozy Blair

An’ turned the whole blamed seven ticks right loose in Ozy’s hair.

Then Ozy had a spasm fit like what he’s sub- jick to;

He squalled and clawed and bumped around till he was black an’ blue.

An’ teacher took her fine-toothed comb an’ raked an’ scraped his head,

--It come nigh bustin’ up the school that way that he raised Ned!

The teacher made us all set up as stiff and straight as sticks,

An’ then says she, all raspy-like, “Who was it brung them ticks?”

We couldn’t help it--swow to man!--We looked at Hiram Brown

An’ Hi he set there redd’nin’ up and sort o’ lookin’ down.

An’ teacher sniffed an’ then she scowled an’ giv’ her sleeves a twitch,

An’ turned to me an’ then says she, “Ike, go an’ cut a switch.”

’Twas dretful nice outdoors that day--it set a feller wishin’

That he could cut an’ run from school an’ put his time in fishin’.

’Twas one them soft’nin’ sort of days an’ while I was a-pickin’

A switch, it come acrost me what a shame to git a lickin’

On such a mighty pleasant day. So I shinned up a tree

An’ cut a slimpsy popple switch that wouldn’t hurt a flea.

Then I went in--there teacher was, a-waitin’ by the door,

The scholars set as still as death an’ Bill stood in the floor.

But how they snickered when they see that dinky little switch,

--The teacher broke it up on me an’ giv’ my ear a twitch,

Says she, “You try that on agin, you’ll

git it worse, you clown!

Now go, an’ see’f you know enough to cut that switch for Brown.”

Seems’s if it warn’t so nice outdoors. It kind o’ stirred my mad

To divvy up that way with Hi--‘Cause ’twasn’t me ’twas bad!

Says I, “By jing, I’ll even up.” I took my biggest blade

An’ cut a switch that, honest true, it almost made me ’fraid.

I didn’t trim it very dus’--by snummy, I felt wicked,

I left the knobs all stickin’ out--an’ some of ’em was pick-ed.

I passed ’er in. The teacher she ker-wished it through the air,

An’ Hi he shivered; ’twas enough to fairly curl his hair.

She fixed her hairpins so’s her pug it couldn’t tumble down,

An’ then says she, like bitin’ nails, “Take off your coat, Hi Brown.”

Then Hiram Brown he got right down an’ begged an’ teased an’ prayed,

She hit him once--an easy clip--an’ then he fairly brayed.

He acted out in master style;--why, sence he’s come of age

He’s makin’ money like all sin, play-actin’ on the stage.

Our teacher was an easy mark--the tender hearted kind--

When Hiram got to takin on she went and changed her mind.

Says she, “You’ve been a naughty boy but if you now repent

I’ll spare the rod but punish you in this way.” Jee, she went

An’ sent that Hi acrost the room to sit with Helen Dean,

The girl I liked the best in school; an’ Hi was jest serene!

That warn’t the wust, for after school he licked me like the deuce

Because I left them knobs all on. Oh, thun- der, what’s the use

Of tryin’ to be good, sometimes? I know it’s wicked talk

To intimate that vice may ride when virtue has to walk;

To hint that folks of honest ways but moderate in wits

May have their noses rubbed in dirt by rascal hypocrites,

But truly, friends, it does appear that only mar- tyrs’ crowns

Are passed to worth down here on earth;--the rest to Hiram Browns.

THE JUMPER

Ba gor! J jomp an’ jomp all tam’

Bot jos’ can’t halp dat--dere she am!

Cos’ w’en som’ fellaire he say “Boo!” Morgee! I jomp an’ holler, too.

Long tam’,’way back ma broder, Joe,

Hav’ gon’roun’ house, an’ off she go.

--Go bang, r-rat clos’ op side ma ear;

Sence w’en I ac’ dis way--dat queer!

I tak’ med’ceen--don’t geet som’ cure.

Gass I got jomp-ops now for sure.

An’ mos’ all tam’ som’ son er gon T’ink mak’ me jomp--wal, dat ban fon.

I’ll tal yo’ wan t’ing dat ban true--

Las’ spreeng dey beeld dat r-ra’ltrack t’rough R-rat pas’ ma house, an’ w’at yo’ s’pose?

Dem ra’ltrack fellaires, wal, he goes Sot pos’ for whees-el side ma door,

An’ den--wal, p’rap I didn’t swore!

Wan tra’n com’ pas’ long jos’ ’bout noon,

An’ go “whoot-toot!” Wal, bamby, soon, Wa’n’t no whol’ deeshes ’round--for why? ’Cos’, sacre, I jomp op sky-high An’ keeck dat table’roun’ dat plac’

An’ lat som’ howl com’ off ma face.

Dat vife he skeer mos’ near on death,

An’ all dem shildreen hoi’ deir breath For saw deir fadder ac’ lak’ dat An’ geeve dose dinnaire wan beeg slat.

An’ wan tra’n she go pas’ on night,

Long ’bout de tarn’ I sle’p mos’ tight.

An’ w’en she whees-el, “Whoot-too-too!” I jomp lak’ wil’ cat, I tal you.

I heet ma vife gre’t beeg hard slams An’ black her eye mos’ seexteen tarn’s.

Till las’ she go off sle’p down stair,

--She say I worse as greezly bear,

Bot w’at yo’ t’ink? I swore dis true,

I nevaire know w’at t’ing I do.

Wal, w’en t’ings geet bos’ op dat way,

I ban saw ra’ltrack boss wan day.

I tal heem ’bout I poun’ ma vife,

--Can’t halp dat t’ing for save ma life-- An’ he--he blor-rt, lak’ wan gre’t caff,

An’ lean way back an’ laff an’ laff.

I don’t saw nottin’s dere for fon ’Bout havin’ dat ol’ ra’ltrack ron Op pas’ ma house an’ hav’ dem car Male’ me bos’ op ma home, ba gar!

I tol’ heem dat bam-by dat soun’

Ban mak’ me keeck dat whol’ house down.

“I’ll tal yo’ w’at,” say he bam-by,

--He wap’ hees eye off lak’ he cry--

“I’ll tol’ yo’ w’at dees ro’d weell do: We’ll send op our construckshong crew, We’ll beeld, to show dat we hain’t mean, Wan good, beeg cage an’ pot yo’ een.”

Ba gar! Dat all I geet off heem!

--I weesh dey not fin’ out dat steam!

ISHMAEL’S BREED

Horde of the Great Unwashed! Hobo and moucher and bum,

Vag and yag and grafter and tramp, we care- lessly go and come.

Of the morrow we take no heed, no care infests the day,

Plenty of gump and a train to jump--a grip on the rods and away!

To the grab for the gear of greed we give no thought or care,