Part 3

When I warn ye not to do it; don’t ye deed away your farm.

I have seen so many cases--heard ’em tried most ev’ry term--

Where a deed has busted fam’lies, that, I swow, it makes me squirm

If I’m asked to write a transfer to a relative or son.

Tascus, please excuse my meddlin’, but--ye hold it till ye’re done.”

Uncle Tascus, though, insisted. He was allus rather sot.

He allowed he’d show the neighbors jest the kind of son he’d got.

--Said he’d show ’em how a Runnels allus stuck by kith an’ kin,

So the lawyer drew the papers--an’ they started home agin,

Uncle Tascus held the webbin’s--he has allus driv’ the hoss--

John he chuckled kind o’ nervous. Then said he, “Wal, pa, I’m boss!

Now ye’ve never got to worry--I’m the one to take the lead,

Things were gettin’ kind o’ logy--guess I’ll have to put on speed.

An’ as now I head the fam’ly, an’ you’re sort of on the shelf,

Guess I’ll”--John he took the webbin’s-- “guess I’d better drive, myself.”

Wal, s’r, Uncle Tascus pondered, pondered, pondered all that day.

An’ that evenin’ still was pond’rin’, as he rocked an’ smoked away.

John he set dus’ up t’ table, underneath the hangin’ lamp,

Ciph’rin’ out that legal paper with its seal an’ rev’nue stamp.

Then he folded it an’ chuckled. “That’s all right an’ tight,” he said,

“Lawyers tie things tighter’n Jehu. Dad, ye’d better go to bed.

You an’ marm are gettin’ feeble; mustn’t have ye up so late!

I’m the boss--” John sort o’ te-heed, “so I’ll have to keep ye straight. ‘Sides, I’ll need ye bright an’ early. In the mornin’ hitch the mare,

Take that paper down t’ court-house. Have it put on record there.”

Uncle Tascus took the writin’, pulled his specs down on his nose,

Read it over very careful. Then says he, “My son, I s’pose

You are jest as good’s they make ’em; I hain’t got no fault to find,

You are thrifty, smart an’ stiddy; rather bluff, but allus kind,

An’ I guess you’d prob’ly use us jest as well’s ye really knew,

But I hain’t so awful sartin that I’m done an’ out an’ through!

--Tell ye, son, I’ve been a-thinkin’ since ye took an’ driv’ that hoss,

--Since ye sort o’ throwed your shoulders an’ allowed that you was boss!

Hate to act so whiffle-minded, but my father used to say,

‘Men would sometimes change opinions; mules would stick the same old way.’”

Uncle Tascus tore the paper twice acrost, then calmly threw

On the fire the shriv’lin’ pieces. Poof! They vanished up the flue.

“There, bub, run to bed,” said Tascus, with his sweet, old-fashioned smile.

“These old hands are sort of shaky, but I guess I’ll drive a while.”

SONGS OF THE SEA AND SHORE

TALE OF A SHAG-EYED SHARK

The mackerel bit as they crowded an’ fit to grab at our ganglin’ bait,

We were flappin’ ’em in till the ’midship bin held dus’ on a thousand weight;

When all of a sudden they shet right down an’ never a one would bite,

An’ the Old Man swore an’ he r’ared an’ tore till the mains’l nigh turned white,

He’d pass as the heftiest swearin’ man that ever I heard at sea,

An’ that is allowin’ a powerful lot, as sartinly you will agree.

Whenever he cursed his arm shot up an’ his fingers they wiggled about,

Till they seemed to us like a windmill’s fans a-pumpin’ the cuss-words out.

He swore that day by the fodder hay of the Great Jeehookibus whale,

By the Big Skedunk, an’ he bit a hunk from the edge of an iron pail,

For he knowed the reason the fish had dodged, an’ he swore us stiff an’ stark

As he durned the eyes an’ liver an’ lights of a shag-eyed, skulkin’ shark.

Then we baited a line all good an’ fine an’ slung ’er over the side,

An’ the shark took holt with a dretful jolt, an’ he yanked an’ chanked an’ tried To jerk it out, but we held him stout so he couldn’t duck nor swim,

An’ we h’isted him over--that old sea-rover-- we’d business there with him.

A-yoopin’ for air he laid on deck, an’ the skip- per he says, says he:

“You’re the wust, dog-gondest, mis’able hog that swims the whole durn sea.

’Mongst gents as is gents it’s a standin’ rule to leave each gent his own--

If ye note as ye pass he’s havin’ a cinch, stand off an’ leave him alone.

But you’ve slobbered along where you don’t belong, an’ you’ve gone an’ spiled the thing, An’ now, by the pink-tailed Wah-hoo-fish, you’ll take your dose, by jing!”

So, actin’ by orders, the cook fetched up our biggest knife on board,

An’ he ripped that shark in his ’midship bulge; then the Old Man he explored.

An’ after a while, with a nasty smile, he giv’ a yank an’ twist,

“Hurroo!” yells he, an’ then we see the liver clinched in his fist.

Still actin’ by orders, the cook fetched out his needle an’ biggest twine--

With a herrin’-bone stitch sewed up that shark, all right an’ tight an’ fine.

We throwed him back with a mighty smack, an’ the look as he swum away

Was the most reproachfulest kind of a look I’ve seen for many a day.

An’ the liver was throwed in the scuttle-butt, to keep it all fresh an’ cool,

Then we up with our sheet an’ off we beat, a-chasin’ that mackerel school.

We sailed all day in a criss-cross way, but the school it skipped an’ skived,

It dodged an’ ducked, an’ backed an’ bucked, an’ scooted an’ swum an’ dived.

An’ we couldn’t catch ’em, the best we’d do-- an’ oh, how the Old Man swore!

He went an’ he gargled his throat in ile, ’twas peeled so raw an’ sore.

But at last, ’way off at the edge of the sea, we suddenly chanced to spy

A tall back-fin come fannin’ in, ag’inst the sun- set sky.

An’ the sea ahead of it shivered an’ gleamed with a shiftin’ an’ silvery hue,

With here a splash an’ there a dash, an’ a rip- ple shootin’ through.

An’ the Old Man jumped six feet from deck; he hollered an’ says, says he:

“Here comes the biggest mackerel school since the Lord set off the sea!

An’ right behind, if I hain’t blind, by the prong- jawed dog-fish’s bark,

Is a finnin’ that mis’able hog of the sea, that liverless, shag-eyed shark!”

But we out with our bait an’ down with our hooks, an’ we fished an’ fished an’ fished,

While ’round in a circle, a-cuttin’ the sea, that back-fin whished an’ slished;

An’ we noticed at last he was herdin’ the school an’ drivin’ ’em on our bait,

An’ they bit an’ they bit an’ we pulled ’em in at a reg’lar wholesale rate.

We pulled ’em in till the S’airey Ann was wal- lerin’ with her load,

An’ we stopped at last’cause there wa’n’t no room for the mackerel to be stowed.

Then up came a-finnin’ that liverless shark, an’ he showed his stitched-up side,

An’ the look in his eyes was such a look that the Old Man fairly cried.

We rigged a tackle an’ lowered a noose an’ the shark stuck up his neck,

Then long an’ slow, with a heave yo-ho, we h’isted him up on deck.

The skipper he blubbered an’ grabbed a fin an’ gave it a hearty shake;

Says he, “Old man, don’t lay it up an’ we’ll have a drop to take.”

An’, actin’ by orders, the cook fetched up our kag of good old rum;

The shark he had his drink poured first, an’ all of us then took some.

Still actin’ by orders, the cook he took an’ he picked them stitches out,

An’ we all turned to, an’ we lent a hand;

though of course we had some doubt As to how he’d worn it an’ how’twas hitched, an’ whuther’twas tight or slack,

But as best we could--as we understood--we put that liver back.

Then we sewed him up, an’ we shook his fin an’ we giv’ him another drink,

We h’isted him over the rail ag’in an’ he giv’ us a partin’ wink.

Then he swum away, an’ I dast to say, although he was rather sore,

He felt that he’d started the trouble first, an’ we’d done our best an’ more.

’Cause a dozen times’fore the season closed an’ the mackerel skipped to sea,

He herded a school an’ drove ’em in, as gen- tlemanlike as could be.

We’d toss him a drink, an’ he’d tip a wink, as sociable as ye please,

No kinder nor better-mannered shark has ever swum the seas.

Now, the moral is, if you cut a friend before that you know he’s friend,

An’ after he’s shown it, ye do your best his feelin’s to nicely mend,

He’ll meet ye square, an’ he’ll call you quits, providin’ he’s got a spark Of proper feelin’--at least our crew can vouch this for a shark.

THE GREAT JEEHOOKIBUS WHALE

May health and heartiness never fail

My friend the Whale--my friend the Whale!

There are days when the dog-fish are gnawin’ the bait,

And the mud-eels are saggin’ the trawl;

When the brim and the monk-fish and pucker- mouthed skate

Are the yield from a three-mile haul;

--When the dory-bow ducks with the weight that it lugs

Of the riffraff and sculch of the sea,

And sculpins come gogglin’ with wide-open mugs,

And grinnin’ jocosely at me.

It’s h’ist and lug, and pull and tug--

Bow-pulley chuckerin’--chugity-chug!

And all that ye’re gittin’ won’t pay for the weight

Of powder to blow ’em to Beelzebub’s strait.

Then’s the chance to be grum if ye’re taken that style

And are sort of inclined to the blues;

When luck is ag’in ye’tis whimper or smile, Whichever’s your notion to choose.

Now I--I am sort of inclined to the grins,

So, after a loaf on the rail,

I whistle him up, my old friend of the fins-- The jolly Jeehookibus Whale!

--The great Jeehookibus, fan-fluke whale, A genial chap with a swivel tail;

Ready for larks and primed for pranks,

--His jokes are the life of the whole Grand Banks.

I’ve knowed him sence summer of’Seventy- four,

When I “chanced” on a hand-liner trip;

I was out in my dory one day and I wore Oiled petticuts strapped to my hip.

I was thinkin’ and smokin’ and fishin’ away, As quiet as quiet could be,

When all of a whew there was dickens to pay In the neighborhood handy to me.

With a whoosh like a rocket I shot in the air, And it seemed like’twas blowin’ a gale;

As I h’isted sky-hootin’ I looked, sor, and there Was the jolly Jeehookibus Whale.

The great Jeehookibus, fan-fluke whale Was under me, swishin’ his swivel tail.

He stood on his head with his tail stuck up,

And the game he was playin’ was ball-and- cup.

I dropped, but he caught me and filliped me quick

And juggled me neat as could be;

’Twas as pretty and clever a sleight-of-tail trick

As ever ye saw on the sea.

At first I was skittish, as you can see why, When I found myself up there on air,

But as soon as I noticed the quirk in his eye I was over my bit of a scare.

’Twas a humorous look he was throwin’ to me As there I continnered to sail,

While under me, finnin’ and grinnin’ in glee, Was the jolly Jeehookibus Whale.

The great Jeehookibus, fan-fluke whale

He fanned and fanned with his big, broad tail,

Till my petticuts filled and I floated there,

Like a thistle-balloon on the summer air.

’Twas the slickest performance, our doryman swore,

That ever was seen on the Banks;

He lowered me back in my dory once more And I giv’ him my heartiest thanks.

And I reckon he liked me and thought I was game,

Because I wa’n’t yowlin’ in fear;

For over and over he’s done jest the same, This many and many a year.

When dog-fish are gnawin’ and other men swear

As they jerk at the sculch-loaded trawl,

I know I have some one to cuff away care,

If only I whistle a call.

Then up from his bed on the dulses he spins, And I boost myself over the rail For a sail on the tail of my friend of the fins-- The jolly Jeehookibus Whale.

--The great Jeehookibus, fan-fluke whale, A jovial chap with a swivel tail;

Ready for larks and primed for pranks, He drives away blues from the whole Grand Banks.

May health and heartiness never fail My friend the Whale--my friend the Whale!

“AS BESEEMETH MEN”

We heard her a mile to west’ard--the liner that cut us through--

As crushing the fog at a twenty-jog she drove with her double screw.

We heard her a mile to west’ard as she bel- lowed to clear her path,

The grum, grim grunt of her whistle, a levia- than’s growl of wrath.

We could tell she was aimed to smash us, so we clashed at our little bell,

But the sound was shredded by screaming wind and we simply rung our knell.

And the feeble breath, that screamed at Death through our horn, was beaten back,

And we knew that doom rode up the sea to- ward the shell of our tossing smack.

Then out of the fog she thundered, the liner, smashing to east;

Her green and her red glared overhead and her bows were spouting yeast.

The eyes of her reddened hawse-holes, her dripping and towering flanks,

Flashed with no gleam of mercy for her quarry on the Banks.

She scornfully spurned us under, the while her whistle brayed,

Nor heeded the crash of our little craft nor the feeble chirp we made;

And as down we swept, her folk that slept-- they slumbered serenely still,

And even the lookout on the bridge scarce felt the thud and thrill.

But they jangled her bells and halted; and the sullen sea they swept

With the goggling gleam of the searchlight’s beam. A dozen of us had crept

On the mass of the tangled wreckage she con- temptuously had tossed

A mile astern in the chop and churn. The others were drowned--were lost!

There was never a whine nor whimper, only some muttered groans,

As the ocean buffeted martyrs who clung there with shattered bones,

And those whose grip was broken as the surge reeled creaming high,

Went out from the ken of the searchlight with a hoarse but brave “Good-by.”

In the great white light no sign of fright stole wrinkling o’er a face,

For the men of the Banks know How to die when Davy trumps their ace.

And better than simply dying--they can cheer- fully, bravely give

Life, heart, and head in a comrade’s stead if they deem that he ought to live.

For there in the searchlight’s glory, the night that they cut us down,

Old Injun Joe gave up his cask that another might not drown.

Old Joe was a lone world-rover, the other had babes on land;

No word was said, but Joe went down with a wave of his dripping hand.

And ere the lifeboats reached us and gathered our scattered few,

We saw that night what so long we’d known, that a Glo’ster fishing crew,

Rude and rough and grimed and gruff, had calmly shown again

That on sea or sod they can meet their God in the way that beseemeth men!

Then over her sullen bulwarks, as she stamped and chafed and rolled,

From the night and wreck to her dazzling deck climbed we--and our tale was told.

And the dainty folk from her staterooms lis- tened and gazed and said,

As they tiptoed across our dripping trail, “How awful!”--then went to bed.

And our half-score left, of all bereft--com- rades and gear and smack--

Sat hoping our wreck would tell no tales till our scattered few came back.

And haughtily unrepentant, the liner, insolent still,

Through foam and spume and fog and gloom drove on to wreak her will.

Were only her zeal less eager, her lust for her prey less keen,

She must have sensed that horrid chill that shuddered from One Unseen.

But onward she plunged unheeding that there in the vast, black sea,

As grim as Fate there lay in wait One mightier than she.

A ghost in white before her--the fog its som- bre pall--

And she crushed herself like dead-ripe fruit against the iceberg’s wall.

Then up from her perfumed cabins came pour- ing the rich and proud,

And I--poor Glo’ster fisher--I blushed for that maddened crowd.

There were men in silken night-gear who fought frail women back,

There were pampered fools who, fierce as ghouls, left murder in their track;

There were shrieking men whose jeweled hands dragged children from a boat

And rode away in the babies’ stead when the life-craft went afloat.

’Tis not for boast that I tell the rest: we’re not of the boasting kind--

We folks that sail from Glo’ster town; but you know you’ll sometimes find

A man who sneers at a tattered coat or a sun- burned fist or face,

And believes that only blood or purse can honor the human race.

Forlorn and few, our battered crew had stared at Death that night;

Perhaps we’d known him so long and well his mien did not affright.

Perhaps we hide here in our hearts, below the rags and tan,

The honest stuff, unplaned and rough, that really makes the man.

For we bared our arms and we stormed the press--of safety took no care;

We dragged those wretches from the boats-- then placed the women there.

No time had we for the courtly “Please!” If a poltroon answered “No,”

We gave him the thing that a man reserves for the coward’s case--a blow.

It isn’t a boast, I say again; but we stayed till all had passed,

Then the ragged coats of those Glo’ster men went over her lee rail last.

And three of the few of our scattered crew, who had twice dared Fate that night,

Went down in the rush of the whirlpool’s tow when the liner swooped from sight.

We ask no praise, we seek no heights above our chosen place,

But the men of the Banks know how to die when Davy trumps their ace.

And if need arise for a sacrifice we’ve shown, and we’ll show again,

That on sea or sod we can meet our God in the way that beseemeth men.

THE NIGHT OF THE WHITE REVIEW

The mandate that summons them nobody knows,

Nor whose is the mystical word

That bids the vast breast of the ocean unclose, When the depths are so eerily stirred.

There are omens of ocean and portents of sky That the eyes of the banksman may read; The wind tells its menace by moan or a sigh To any one giving it heed.

Yet, fathom the whorl of a cloud though he may--

Interpret the purr of the sea--

No weatherwise fisherman truly may say When the Drift of the Drowned shall be.

_This alone we know:

Ere days of the autumn blow,

Up from the swaying ocean deeps appears the grisly show.

And woe to the fated crew Who behold it passing through--

Who gaze on the ghosts of the Gloucester fleets on the Night of the White Review._

Whence issue these fleets for their grim ren- dewous

And their hideous cruise, who may know? Yet they traverse the Banks ere the winter storms brew,

Their pennon the banner of woe.

We know that from Quero far west to the Shoals.-

The prodigal bottom is spread

With bones and with timbers--“Went down with all souls,”

Tells the story of Gloucester’s dead.

And up with those souls come those vessels again

On that mystical eve in the fall;

Then out of the night to the terror of men They sail with the fog for a pall.

_And down the swimming deep,

As the fishers lie asleep,

These craft loom out of the great, black night, and past the living sweep.

And woe to that fated crew

Who behold them passing through--

Who gaze on the ghosts of the Gloucester fleets on the Night of the White Review_.

Now here and now yonder some helmsman sings hail

As the awful procession stalks past,

And the horrified crew tumbles up to the rail To gaze on the marvel, aghast.

And then through that night, when the fishers ride near,

There’s a hail and a husky halloo:

“Did you see”--and the voice has a quiver of fear--

“Did you see the White Banksmen sail through?”

There are those who may see them--and those who may not,

Though they peer to the depths of the night; Ah, ye who behold them, alas for the lot That grants you such ominous sight.

_It augurs death and dole--

That the Gloucester bells will toll-- Means another stone on Windmill Hill: “Went down with every soul.”

For it’s woe to that fated creva Who behold them passing through--