Part 7

Yes, I reckon that the woman would have sartin been a goner,

For you’d thrown the rock--and that hain’t all! You’d’a’ thrown one with a corner!”

Wal, ye’d think a dig of that sort would have shamed him ha’f to death,

But, Land o’ Goshen, neighbor,--hain’t no mor- tifyin’ Seth!

--Jest a waste of breath To jab at Uncle Seth,

He’s holler where the soul should be--hain’t got no human peth.

He’s deef to ev’ry cry of want and don’t know what is meant,

But--bet he’ll hear for ha’f a mile the whisper, “Ten per cent!”

It took a lot of practicin’ to work his hearin’ down

To where he’s never bothered by the troubles in our town.

He never hears the sorrows of some woman who is left

With orphans and a morgidge’bout a thousand times her heft.

He hain’t the one that worries when she says she cannot pay,

The morgidge holds her anchored--the farm can’t git away.

Upon the shattered door-steps of his racked old tenements

He crowds the wolf of hunger when he goes to git his rents.

But he never hears the wailin’ of the troubled folks within,

He simply wants his money and’tis tenant, trot or tin!

He never hears entreaties of his neighbors in the lurch

Unless there’s good endorsers. He never hears the church,

He never hears the knockin’ of a fist upon his door

Unless he knows the thuddin’ means his ten per cent--or more.

(His auditory organs sense no waves from wails of sorrow

But they hear the faintest zephyr from the man who wants to borrow.)

Now, with ears in that condition, when they’re extry dulled by death,

On the Resurrection mornin’ I’ll have fears for Uncle Seth.

When Gab’rel toots his trump And risen spirits jump,

And up before the Throne of Light forthwith proceed to hump,

I reckin Seth will slumber on, not knowin’ what is meant ‘Cause Gab’rel won’t take’special pains to hol- ler, “Ten per cent!”

DIDN’T BUST HIS FORK

He could tell ye what he’d done,

--He was eloquent, my son,

In puttin’ all his doin’s into mighty lively talk.

But I’ve follered him around,

And, by gosh, I never found

That he ever lifted hard enough to Bust

His

Fork!

Pie was always full o’ brag ‘Bout how he could lift a jag That would double up a hossfork and make the horses balk.

But I never see’d no signs That he ever bent the tines Or ever bruk’ the handle of his Old

Pitch

Fork!

MEAN SAM GREEN

Old Sam Green!

What? Mean?

I reckin that a meaner man was skercely ever seen.

People said he’d skin a fly for sake of hide an’ grease;

He wouldn’t grin--it stretched the skin, an’ he begredged the crease.

Sort o’ squirmed when asked to set--didn’t want the chance!

We wondered why; we found at last’twas jest to save his pants.

Never used to shave himself, never combed his

hair;

Used to sort o’ hate to wash, account o’ wear and tear.

Never beau-ed the wimmen’round, never spent a cent,

’Cept the time he bought a girl an ounce of pepperment.

Alius kind o’ groaned o’ that; said the dratted dunce

Set an’ chawnked an’ chawnked an’ chawnked an’ et it all to once.

Said he learned a lesson then to last him all through life;

Said’twould take a millionaire to feed a hearty wife.

So he planned an’ worked an’ saved an’ grubbed his little patch,

Allowed he’d ruther plug along, jest like he was, “old bach.”

Sam, though, shifted later on--the pesky mean old goat--

He struck a find; she’d had a shock that par- alyzed her throat! .

Still, she worked most dretful spry--didn’t need no spurs--

Only “out” that woman had was that ’ere throat of hers. 1

Married her? you bet he did! Straight--right off the reel!

Reckoned that she couldn’t eat a reel, good hearty meal.

Figgered he’d git lots of work an’ only feed her slim;

Wife, though, wopsed it t’other way an’ got the laugh on him!

I reckin that a madder man was skercely ever seen,

Than Green,

Old mean Sam Green.

Soon’s she fairly placed her feet, she called the doctors in,

An’ they commenced to work on her an’ tap old Green for tin.

He swore an’ howled, but she was boss--she run the whole concern--

She said she’d morgidge all he owned to cure that throat of her’n.

The high-priced doctors far an’ near come hustlin’ to the place,

An’ fubbed an’ fussed an’ then discussed that reely puzzlin’ case.

An’ each performed his little stunt with all his skill an’ will,

An’ said that time would do the rest--an’ then put in his bill.

Wal, Land o’ Goshen, Sam took on as though they drawed his blood.

He’d hitch and hunch his wallet out as though ’twas stuck in mud.

Their nuss was quite a hand to tog; she used to say to us

She wished that corsets laced as tight’s the straps on that old puss.

Mis’ Green at last got down reel slim; one night--so nuss, she said,

Old Sam come creepin’, creakin’ in; set down ‘longside the bed.

He stooped an’ poked around a spell, picked up Lucindy’s shoe,

An’ then--wal, nuss she vums an’ vows this ’ere is honest true:

He routed’round the fireplace an’ got a cinder- coal,

An’ went to figgerin’ up expense, right there on ’Cindy’s sole.

He talked the items right out loud, but ’Cindy didn’t kick

So long’s he only reckoned things she’d had while she was sick.

But when he got to projickin’’bout what ’twould prob’ly cost

To bury her in decent shape, he sort o’ up an’ crossed

The “mean-man” line, the “tarnal mean” an’ even “gaul-durned mean”--

He formed a brand-new class himself; jest him alone, Sam Green,

Stands serene!

“Green mean,”

Signifies the meanest man that ever ye have seen.

Die? What! ’Cindy up an’ die? You bet she didn’t die!

Got so mad to hear him talk she flew right up sky-high.

Hopped like sixty out o’bed, as hearty’s Paddy’s goat,

An’ that ’ere kink--whatever’twas--it came right out her throat.

An’ talk? She hadn’t talked for years, but soon’s she got her breath,

I swan to man, I reely b’lieve she talked old Green to death.

For ’fore she’d trod around enough to wear the coal marks out,

Old Sam curled up an’ passed away. Some said there wa’n’t much doubt

He’d reely died two years before, but hadn’t let folks know,

Because these undertakin’ chaps tuck on ex- penses so.

Perk Todd was tellin’ down t’ the store he had a dream las’ week--

He dreamed he got in Paradise! Must been a denied close’ squeak!

Wal, Perk he says an angel there was showin’ him around,

“At last,” says Perk, “I ups an’ asks how ’twas I hadn’t found

No people there from where I’d lived. The angel says, says he: ‘Here bub!’ A cherub scooted up. ‘Go git the storehouse key.’”

Says Perk: “The angel took me in. An’ where we were, it’peared

That’bout a billion boxed-up things was there all nicely tiered.

The angel said, ‘When folks on earth do any- thing that’s small

Their souls git squizzled bit by bit; an’ when they die, then all

The little, teenty souls that come are packed in here, ye know,

Jes’ same’s they box tomater plants to giv’ ’em time to grow.’

He hunted’round an’ found a box. ‘There,’ finally said he,

‘We’ve got about as sing’lar thing as ever ye will see.’

Inside that box was nested dus’ a dozen boxes more;

The last box was the smallest box I ever saw before,

An’ in it was a teenty speck. ‘Is that a soul?’ says I.

‘Oh, no,’ said he, ‘the thing you see’s the eye- brow of a fly.

You couldn’t see the soul that’s there, to save your blessed neck,

Because it’s one ten-millionth part as big’s that leetle speck.

In fact it is the smallest soul that we have ever seen;

The label says’--he squinted hard--‘it’s one old Sam’wel Green.’

All serene,

Sam Green

Is ticketed ‘The Limit; Number billion-umpty steen.’”

DICKERER JIM

That Dickerer Jim--Shenanigan Jim.

I never see’d hoss jockey equal to him.

He’d rather swap hosses than eat a good meal,

He’d take all the chances--and Jim wouldn’t squeal!

He’d talk like a cyclone on any old skate

--Take a wheezy old pel ter with hopity gait

And he’d make you believe--would that Dick- erer Jim--

There were all kinds of pedigrees tied up in him.

And you bet your old boots, if he got you in range

He could touch you all right for a sale or a “change.”

--As keen as a brier, as sharp as a knife

He never got phazed except once in his life.

And that was a corker, by ginger, on him,

On Dickerer Jim--Shenanigan Jim.

He loaded a breather--a reg’lar old rip

On a man from the city--just did it by lip.

Talked the man dumb and silly and giv’ him the hooks

Till the chap forked his money just simply on looks.

And he went back to town with a big double cross

In the shape of a whoofity plug of a boss.

Jim--Jim,

Shenanigan Jim,

Didn’t you--didn’t you soak it to him!

Jim--Jim,

As a sample of “trim”

That feller was pruned to the very last limb.

Now Dickerer Jim--Shenanigan Jim--

Was down in the city. His eyesight was dim;

So he couldn’t keep lookout, and first thing he knew

Right plumb up against him that city chap blew.

He recognized Jim--Jim hadn’t seen him--

Till the feller grabbed holt; then the chances seemed slim

For avoidin’ a scrimmage, for seldom is seen

A chap that’s so mad that his face is pea green.

But his tongue wasn’t ready as quick as his sight;

Now Jim couldn’t see, yet his tongue was all right,

And away he went, lickity-whizzle! Talk, talk!

While the feller was still scoring down in a balk

With his mouth propped apart; oh, he’d plenty

to say,

But Jim, goin’ steady, had levelled away.

And he told that ’ere feller he’d hunted for him,

--Did Dickerer Jim--Shenanigan Jim.

The feller allowed he’d been huntin’ some, too,

But Jim didn’t hesitate--slam-banged it through!

Says he, “I’ve been sorry I sold you that hoss

And the minit I sold him I knew’twas a loss.

For the very same day that you took him away

I met with a chap that I figger will pay

A clean and cool hundred above what you giv’,

--I can load that ’ere hoss on that chap, sure’s you live.

That feller he wants him--lie’s anxious to pay;

Now what shall I say to him--what shall I say?”

Then the sucker he tore and he swore, and says he,

“Go tell him the same blasted lie you told me!

He’ll buy, don’t you worry! You’ll tag him-- he’s It,

--That’s a lie you can never improve on a bit!”

Jim--Jim,

Shenanigan Jim,

That was a side-windin’ answer for him.

Jim--Jim,

Jest turned and he “clim’”

For he see’d there warn’t stretch in the chap’s t’other limb.

BALLAD OF BENJAMIN BRANN

Oh, a positive man--a positive man,

So the people discovered, was Benjamin Brann.

With his household and neighbors and children and hoss

Old Brann allowed he would always be boss.

And the most of the people they’d ruther kow- tow

To his notions than live in the midst of a row.

And whenever you’d see in a faint-hearted crowd,

A man who was hollerin’’specially loud,

You could calculate suttin that positive man

Was the uncontradicted old Benjamin Brann.

For after a while all the folks stood in awe

Of the roar of his voice and the build of his jaw;

He was lookin’ for trouble and carried a chip

And chance for a tussle he never let slip;

He hated to think that the world could still go

When he stood at one side and kept hollerin’ “whoa!”

One day he was teamin’ his oxen to town;

He set on the cart tongue., his feet hangin’ down.

And bein’ a positive kind of a chap,

--Pokin’ out o’ his way for the sake of a scrap--

Whenever he noticed a boulder or stump

He’d gee. and ride over the critter ker-bump!

But it happened one boulder that he came across

Gave Benjamin’s ox-cart too lively a toss;

He was under the broad-tired wheels, s’r. before

He’d gathered his voice for his usual roar.

But just as the ox-cart rolled over him--oh,

You’d a-fallen down stunned at the way he yelled “whoa!”

’Twas so loud and so threat’nin’ that Brindle and Haw

Who bowed to that voice as their Gospel and Law

Were so eager to stop that they backed, s’r, and then

The wheel it rolled over the old man again.

There’s a moral to this as you notice, no doubt,

But I haven’t the patience to ravel it out.

I’ll say to reformers and dogmatists, though,

It’s safest to holler a moderate “whoa!”

THE HEIRS

They hastened to the funeral when Aunt Sa- brina died.

Nephews, nieces, relatives--they came from far and wide.

They hurried in by boat and train; they came by stage and team,

In breasts a jealous bitter greed, in eyes a hun- gry gleam.

I knew the most as decent men, their wives as honest dames,

Who in the common run of things were careful of their names.

And yet, alas, we sadly find that many who be- have

As cooing doves in daily life are buzzards at the grave.

So while the choir softly purred, and while the parson prayed,

The lids of mourning eyes were raised and sneaking glances strayed

From old-style clock to pantry shelf, from par- lor set to rug,

And knitted brows weighed soberly how much each heir could lug.

Anon the lustful glances crossed and scowl re- plied to scowl,

And spoke as plain as though the look were voiced in sullen growl:

Thus when the parson prayed, “Oh, Lord, take Thou this way-worn soul,”

I caught a look that plainly spoke: “I’ll take that china bowl.”

And this look said, “I speak for that,” and that look spoke for this,

The while the parson droned of love and told them of the bliss

That cometh after struggles here; “The peace of rest,” he said,

And then each woman claimed through looks her aunt’s goose-feather bed.

’Twas thus the kindred flocked to town when Aunt Sabrina died,

Ostensibly to bury her, but really to divide.

No will was left,’twas catch as can; and each and every heir,

Came in with desperate intent to scoop the big- gest share.

They passed around with creaking shoes and kissed the silent lip,

And pressed the limp, old, withered hand from out whose jealous grip

The goods of earth had slipped away to heap a funeral pyre,

A tinder pile where torch of Greed would start a roaring fire.

They rode behind in solemn show and stood around the grave,

Until the coffin sank from sight; and then each jealous knave

Hopped back with great celerity in carriage and in hack,

And folks who saw averred those heirs raced horses going back.

This is no fairy tale, my friend! I’m giving you the facts,

’Tis just an instance where the heirs came round and brought an axe;

Where folks of pretty honest stripe could hardly bear to wait

To decently inter the corpse ere carving the estate;

--All ready at the prayer’s “Amen” to scratch and haul and claw

With nails of jealous rancor and the talons of the law.

My brother, I’ve a notion, that it is sinful pride

When we pose before the heathen as a highly moral guide.

For here in old New England are some capers that would--hush!--

This is strictly on the quiet--put a savage to the blush.

You know that when a savage leaves his rela- tives bereft,

There isn’t any scrapping over what the heathen left.

They bury all his queer stone tools, his arrows and his bow,

They stuff his pack with grub for snack; put in his wampum “dough;”

They kill his horse and slay his dog and then they sing a song,

And kill off all his weeping wives and send them right along.

There’s no annoying probate court, no long, litigious fuss,

No lawyer’s fees, no family row, no will-de- stroying cuss.

The estate is executed in a brisk and thorough style

And though some certain features suit all right a heathen isle,

Some squeamish person might arise and prop- erly complain

There’s too much execution for adoption here in Maine.

So I’ll not commend the custom, yet I firmly will abide

In the notion that we have no right to pose as moral guide

To the heathen; for it’s evident, untutored though they are,

The heirs at least show manners in Borrioboola Gha.

A. B. APPLETON, “PIRUT”

Abbott B. Appleton went to the fair

_(Sing hey! for the wind among his whiskers)_,

Saw curious “dewin’s” while he was down there

‘Mongst the gamblers, the sports and the frisk- ers.

He carried his bills in a wallet laid flat--

An old-fashioned calf-skin as black as your hat;

He was feeling so well he was easy to touch-- Then he hadn’t as much; no, there wasn’t as much.

He noticed a crowd’round a pleasant-faced man

Whose business seemed based on a curious plan; He asked for a quarter from each in the crowd, Put the coin in his hat, and he forthwith al- lowed

That simply to advertise he would restore His quarter to each, adding three quarters more.

Now Abbott B. Appleton he did invest-- Anxious to share in these spoils with the rest. Man asked for ten dollars, and Abbott, said he: “Why, sartin! And then we’ll git thutty back free.”

But the man who was running the charity game

Informed him it didn’t work always the same, And Abbott B. Appleton got for his ten A smile--and the man didn’t play it again. Then Abbott, in order to make himself square, Got after the rest of the snides at the fair.

He hunted the pea, but he never could tell When “the darned little critter” was under the shell.

He shot at a peg with a big, swinging ball, Five dollars a shot--didn’t hit it at all.

And he finally found himself “gone all to smash,”

With wisdom, a lot--and two dollars in cash.

Abbott B. Appleton cursed at the fair _(Sing fie! for a man who ’tended meetin’)_, And he said to himself, “Gaul swat it, I swear Them games is just rigged up for heatin’.

I thought they was honest down here in this town;

I swow if I hadn’t I wouldn’t come down;

But if cheatin’s their caper I guess there’s idees That folks up in Augerville have, if ye please. I’m a pretty straight man when they use me all square,

But I’m pirut myself at a Pirut-town fair.

I won’t pick their pockets to git back that dough,

But I reckin’ I’ll giv’ ’em an Augerville show.”

Abbott B. Appleton “barked” at the fair _(Sing sakes! how the people they did gather)_, And his cross-the-lot voice it did bellow and blare

Till it seemed that his lungs were of leather.

He said that he had there inside of his pen Most singular fowl ever heard of by men:

“The Giant Americanized Cock-a-too,”

With his feathers, some red and some white, and some blue.

He promised if ever its like lived before He’d give back their money right there at the door.

Then he vowed that the sight of the age was within.

“’Twill never,” he shouted. “be seen here agin.. ’Tis an infant white annercononda, jest brought From the African wilds, where it lately was caught.

The only one ever heern tell of before,

All wild and untamed, that far foreign shore.”

Abbott B. Appleton raked in the tin.

_(Sing chink! for the money that he salted.)_ Then he opened the gates and he let ’em all in, And then--well, then Abbott defaulted.

It was time that he did, for the people had found

Just a scared Brahma hen squatting there on the ground;

Her plumage was decked in a way to surprise, With turkey-tail streamers all colored with dyes;

And above, on a placard, this sign in plain sight:

“There’s nothin’ else like her. I trimmed her last night”

In a little cracked flask was an angle-worm curled--

“Young annercononda, sole one in the world.”

And another sign stated, “He’s small, I sup- pose,

But if he hain’t big enough, wait till he grows.”

And Abbott B. Appleton, speeding afar,

Was counting his roll in a hurrying car,

Saying still, “As a general rule I’m all square,

But I’m pirut myself at a Pirut-town fair.”