Part 9

“Hay-teeth worn; can’t chaw his vittles! Vittles therefore disagree,

It’s as tough a case of colic as I think I ever see.”

Some one started then to tell him, but the doc he had the floor,

An’ he snapped ’em up so spiteful that the} didn’t say no more.

Then he wrinkled up his eyebrows, pursed his lips as tight’s a bung,

Pried apart old Iral’s grinders an’ says he, “Le’s see your tongue.”

“Why,” says he, “I see the trouble--you’ve got garget of the blood,

An’ if symptoms hain’t deceivin’, you have also lost your cud.”

“Blame yer soul,” groaned Uncle Irai, “can’t ye see what’s ailin’ me?

That ’ere leg is broke!” “Oh, sartin,” says

the doc, “I see! I see!”

Then he pulled off Iral’s trousers, an’ he spit upon his fist,

Grabbed that leg in good old earnest an’ com- menced to twist an’ twist.

Irai howled an’ yowled an’ fainted, then come to an’ howled some more,

He an’ doc they fit an’ wrassled on the bed an’ on the floor.

Doc, though, held him to the wickin’--let old Irai howl an’ beg,

Said he’d got to do his duty, straight’nin out his blamed old leg.

When the splints come off, though, later, wal- sir, Irai was provoked,

Hain’t surprised it made him ugly, for he sar- tinly was soaked.

Doc had set it so the kneejoint comes behind, jest like a cow’s,

An’’twould make ye die a-laughin’, would that gait of Irai Howes’.

If that case of Uncle Peaslee wasn’t damagin’ enough,

Bet your life that job on Irai made us shy of old Doc Pluff.

THE BALLAD OF HUNNEMAN TWO

Now this is the story of Hunneman Two,

Old Hunneman Two from Andover town;

--A tub with the likeliest, heftiest crew That ever hoorayed in a hot break-’er-down. And I’ll give you the facts, for if any one knows It’s me who was Hunneman’s foreman of hose:

Ev’ry feller we mustered was over six feet And the gang that we brought to a fireman’s meet

They never was licked and they never was downed,

And a crowd up against us would likely get drowned.

Ev’ry man in the forty was six feet and more And their shirts was the reddest that ever men wore;

Whenever they hollered they’d jump up a yard And when they came down they came dreffully hard.

Ev’ry man had a trumpet and some of them tew

--And’twas safest to plug up your ears when they blew.

They’d ballast the tub with a cart-load of stone And stuff her with sody ontil she would groan Then they’d spit on their fists and would gaffle that beam

And whoop fa, la larry, my jinks what a stream!

’Twas h’ist on the beam till your eyeballs gog- gled,

Hump-jump-pump!

Give her the tar till her old sides woggled, Pump-jump-hump!

Down with the beam till it sartin would seem

We were drowndin’ the sun in a hissin’, white stream.

Oh, there never was anything up with the crew

That buckled the beam of old Hunneman Two.

One time we were playin’ at Andover fair

And old Uncle Boomer drove up with his mare.

She cocked up an eye for to see the stream sail

Then she up with her ears and her head and her tail;

And whoosh! she was off down the Bunganuck road

At as lively a clip as a mare ever hoed.

Now the Bunganuck road it was right straight away,

And jest for a hector we started to play

Right over the tailboard, right into his team,

And we followed him up with old Hunneman’s stream.

We followed him one mile, we followed him tew

With the foreman a-swearin’ and all of the crew

A-breakin’ her down and a-crackin’ their heels

Till we lifted her plum fair and square off the wheels.

We followed him three miles, we followed him four

--If he hadn’t shied off we’d a-followed him more.

Old Boomer got rheumatiz out of wet feet

For we kept his old waggin full, clear to the seat.

’Twas h’ist on the beam till your eyeballs gog- gled,

Pump-jump-hump!

Give her the tar till her old sides woggled, Hump-jump-pump!

Down with the beam till it sartin would seem

We were drownin’ the sun in a hissin’ white stream.

Oh, there never was anything up with the crew

That buckled the beam of old Hunneman Two.

ORADUDOLPH MOODY, REPRESENTATIVE-ELECT

Bring on your speechifyin’ runts, yes, bring your biggest gun;

Trot out your high-flown orators, we don’t bar nary one.

From Quoddy Head to Caribou, from there to sassy York,

Bring out your braggadosho chaps who think that they can talk.

We’ve got our man--don’t want no odds’nd warn you fair and true

So’t when the Legislatoor meets you’ll have your men there, too.

He’s jest a’goin’ to sweep the floor, we’ll have you recollect,

--Our Oradudolph Moody, reprusentertive- elect.

When Mister Moody rises up ’nd ’hams ’nd clears his thro’t

’Nd loosens up his gallowses ’nd lays aside his co’t,

I guess he’ll fool the av’rage man, he looks so cool ’nd carm,

A-dribblin out his words ’nd wavin’ careless- like his arm.

But pretty soon that arm goes and quivers in the air,

His hand a-wrigglin’ up a-top, seems ’sif ’twas spinnin’ there.

It acts as sort of windmill, pumpin’ langwidge I expect

From Oradudolph Moody, reprusentertive-elect.

When Oradudolph Moody speaks he has the durndest knack

Of windin’ up opponents so they never an- swer back.

When yearly meetin’ comes around he alwus swings the town

On anything he advocates from new school- houses down.

The elerquence just bubbles up without no work at all,

He almost mesmerizes everybody in the hall.

’Nd down there to Augusty you’ll parceive the strange effect

Of Oradudolph Moody, reprusentertive-elect.

Magnetic! He’s a dynamo, his pulley never slips,

’Nd eelectricity!--It runs right off his finger- tips.

We’ve tried to send him down before, but no, he wouldn’t go;

He said he had no time to fool with Legisla- tors, so

Our town ain’t never had a man to speak, ex- cept Mulkearn,

Who managed once to stutter out a motion to adjourn.

But now, by gosh jest set right back and wish- fully expect

Our Oradudolph Moody, reprusentertive- elect.

TRIBUTE TO MR. ATKINS’S BASS VOICE

E. Perley Atkins had a low--deep--bass. The noise came out of his face,

But the place

Whence the sound sprung And bubbled toward the bung,

When he sung,

To come lolloping up to his tongue,

In long fortissimo hoots,

Or staccato toots,

--That place was suttin’ly down in his boots. Omp, omp!

That was the kind of a bass

That oozed from the face

Of E. Perley Atkins who lived in our place.

He sung at all the paring bees, the quilting teas, and parti-ees

He sung at all the shindigees we had for miles around.

He opened his lip and let her rip and folks were never obliged to tease,

For he allowed That he was proud

As well as the rest of the awe-struck crowd Of the deep, profundo timbre of that sound. Boomp, boomp!

He wended thus on his deep, bass way Ready to omp, omp night or day.

He sung in the choir Sunday forenoon And an hour later furnished a tune For the Sabbath school and the Bible class, With a voice that was meller’n apple sass.

At evenin’ meetin’ he came around

Full to the neck with that cream-rich sound,

And the way he would lead Coronation hymn Would lift ye off’n your pew, by Jim.

On Monday nights he had a call To sing for the Maltys at Jackson’s Hall. Tuesdays the Masons and Wednesdays he Sung like blazes for the I. G. T.

Thursdays, class-meetings, Fridays, sings With Saturdays open for rackets and things.

A busy week? Well, I guess, but wait,

I mustn’t forget, my friend, to state There warn’t no fun’ral for ten miles’round, No dear departed tucked under ground,

No mourners jammed in a settin’ room,

Sozzled in grief and soaked in gloom,

But Perley was there with his rich, cream bass To trickle like salve on the wounded place. And the tears would dry on each mourner’s nose,

They’d perk right up and forget their woes And nudge each other and say, “Suz me,

What a beautiful funeral voice that be.”

And in time, though he sang for all who asked, For saint and sinner, still he basked In especial favor as one whose ease And voice gave a tone to obsequies.

It’s whispered around, and I guess it’s so That when he hinted he thought he’d go To Rome and Paris to train that bass,

A widow and three old maids in the place,

Who were living along, no man knew why, Decided they’d hurry up and die.

They just stopped breathing and died from choice

For the sake of having that funeral voice Draw copious streams from the mourner’s eyes And give them a send-off toward Paradise.

--No man who’s monkeyed with bass B-flat Got ever a compliment higher’n that.

He sung at all the paring bees, the quilting teas, the parti-ees,

He sung at all the shindigees for twenty miles around.

He opened his lip and let her rip,

Admirers had no need to tease,

And he sprung a bass that joggled the roof and fairly shook the ground.

While the echoes of his “funeral voice”

Made even the cherubim rejoice,

As the melody pulsed against the skies And ushered a soul into Paradise.

JIM’S TRANSLATION

Couldn’t speak of nothin’ smart--no one strong or spry--

’Thout old Talleyrand B. Beals to grab right in an’ lie!

All the thing he’d talk about was chap by name of Jim,

Ev’ry story that he told was sort of hung round him.

--Said the critter’d worked for him twenty years before,

--Yarn at last it got to be the by-word down t’ th’ store,

When we’d hear of biggish things, “That,” we’d say, “I swan,

Beats tophet, taxes, time an’ tide an’ Bealses’ hired man.”

Beals, though, clacked right on an’ on; would set an’ chaw an’ spit,

An’ tell us’bout that hired man--couldn’t make him quit!

Champyun jump or heft or swim-- ’twas all the same to him,

He’d wait till all the rest had shot, then plug the mark with Jim.

Had to laugh the other day--boys were down t’ th’ store,

Talleyrand got started in--the dratted, deef old bore!

Silas Erskine’s boy spoke up--that’s Ez; wal, Ez says he,

“Say, Tal, what ever come o’ Jim?” Old Beals uncrossed his knee,

Said he, “A master cur’us chap, that Jim was, I must say,

--Seemed to like us fine as silk, but off he went one day,

--Went right off without a yip--didn’t take his clothes;

Hank’rin’ struck him all to once--couldn’t wait, don’t s’pose.

Didn’t even take his pay, which was some sur- prise,

--Prob’ly, though, a lord or dook, trav’lin’ in disguise.”

Beals he stopped an’ gnawed his plug; chawed an’ chawed a while,

Then Ben Haskell hitched around an’ smole a sing’lar smile.

“Told that hired man,” said he, “I’d never let it out,

Guess I’d better tell it, though, an’ settle all this doubt.

Want to say right here an’ now, to back up Beals,” says Ben,

“His Jim did sartin wear the crown amongst all hired men.”

S’prised us all when Ben said that,’cause he us’al planned

All the hector, tricks an’ jokes’t were put on Talleyrand.

Ben, though, kept right on his talk. Ben says, then says he,

“Here’s the secret how he went for I’m the man that see.

Happened down in Allen’s field day he disap- peared,

Jim came’crost the intervale; straight as H he steered

To’ards that silver popple tree; up that tree he dim’,

--Set there, sort o’ lost in thought, a-straddle of a limb.

Jest as I’d got underneath he sighed an’ took a piece

Of mutton taller--give his boots a heavy co’t of grease,

Greased his fingers nice an’ slick an’ then--an’ then, I swear,

Grabbed them boot-straps, give a pull an’ up he went in air.”

--Ought to heered us critters laugh--gre’t big “Haw, haw, haw-w-!”

Jason Britt he dropped his teeth, Erskine gulped his chaw,

Talleyrand jest set there grum--fin’ly snorted “Sho!

Think ye’re smart, ye pesky fool! Lemme tell ye, though,

’Tain’t so thund’rin’ big a stretch ye made then when ye lied,

Bet ye Jim could lift himself, providin’ he had tried.

Stout? I see’d him boost a rock--” “Minit,

Tal,” says Ben,

“Hain’t got done my story yit! Jest ye wait till then.

--Soon’s I see’d that critter start, hollered loud’s a loon,

’Jeero cris’mus, Jim,’ said I, ‘startin’ for the moon?’

Jim looked down an’ said, says he, ‘Don’t know where I’ll fetch,

Ner care a rap so long’s I dodge old Beals, the mean old wretch!

Trouble is, consarn his soul, his feed has been so slim

I’ve fell away till northen’s left’cept clothes an’ name o’ Jim.

Reckin then I’ll h’ist myself,’cause, ye see, I’ve found

It’s blame sight easier raisin’ up than holdin’ to the ground.’

“Then he give them straps a tug an’ up he went from sight,

--Stood an’ watched him till he growed to jest a leetle mite!

He’s the champyun hired man, sartin sure, be- cause

Critter went to Paradise, prob’ly jest’s he was.”

Talleyrand he got so mad he actyal wouldn’t speak,

Didn’t come t’ th’ store agin for more’n a solid week. .

Soon’s he edged around some more wa’n’t no talk from him

’Bout no hired men, you bet! Clack was shet on Jim.

ELIPHALET JONES--INVENTOR

Inventor Jones--Eliphalet Jones,

Ah, he was the fellow for schemes!

Though critics might carp and his rivals throw stones,

They never vexed Uncle Eliphalet Jones,

Or troubled his radiant dreams.

He calmly asserted that every day One hundred inventions, or so, came his way; They flocked through his mind in such myriad rout

He hadn’t the leisure to figure them out.

But he said if a fellow should chase him around With a pencil and notebook’twould surely be found

That projects prolific were shed from his brain As a wet bush, when shaken, will scatter the rain.

When he plowed, when he hoed, when he sowed, when he mowed He was steadily throwing off load after load Of notions, he stated--each notion a mint For the chap who would take and develop the hint.

But Eliphalet Jones--Eliphalet Jones Was so busy with farmwork and clearing off stones,

So busy with milking and errands and chores He scattered inventions by dozens and scores With a liberal hand, but with barren effect, For they dried on the cold, arid sands of neglect.

But for all he forgot he would cheerfully say There were always as many the very next day. And he figured it up; though enormous it seems

He had fashioned and fired some ten thousand schemes.

Now, out of that number a limited few Eliphalet tackled and engineered through;

A few little notions right out of his head To help out the farmwork, he carelessly said. One patent, a holder to hitch a cow’s tail So she couldn’t keep swatting the man with the pail;

A few dozen scarecrows of hellish design,

Real impish constructions to jig on a line That was jerked by a water-wheel down in the brook;

All the horses that passed, if they got a good look

Tumbled down stiff and dead or else, frantic with fear,

Kicked the wagon in bits and spun’round on one ear.

And he rigged a contrivance by which ev’ry morn

His old Brahma rooster descending for corn, Stepped down on a lever that flipped up a lock

And down came the fodder in front of the stock.

Still, these were but puerile notions beside

The thing that he hoped for--his spur and his pride,

His climax of schemes ere he went back to dust--

For he vowed that he’d fathom the secret or “bust;”

That if motion perpetual ever could be

Discovered by mortal, that man should be he.

So he fussed with his springs and his wee-jees and wings

And all sorts of queer little duflicker things,

And he builded queer whiz-a-jigs, then with a frown

He ruthlessly, scornfully cuffed them all down.

Well, the years hurried by, as the years surely will,

But Eliphalet Jones he was confident still,

For he constantly vowed that some thingumy spring

Put somewhere “would settle the dad-ratted thing.”

Yet the years skittered past and his head was snow-white

And he almost had solved it, but never “jest quite;”

So the neighbors employed some satirical tones

When they chanced to refer to Perpetual Jones.

But hail to his name and remember his fame!

At the last--at the last, friends, he won the great game!

He died at the birth of his triumph,’tis true,

And he left only words--yet I give them to you,

Convinced they’re a gift to the world, without doubt,

Or will be as soon as the thing is worked out.

He sat in his chair by the window one day

While his grandson was out with a puppy at play;

And the boy hitched some meat to the tail of that pup,

Then he gave him a twirl and the puppy “gee- ed up,”

And he spun and he spun and he spun and he spun

Just as fast at the last as when he begun,

But the tail and the meat ever kept just ahead

Of the clamorous jaws as the puppy dog sped.

“There she is,” cried Eliphalet, “darned if she ain’t!

There’s perpetual motion!” and pallid and faint

He fell prone and dying. They lifted him up

And his eyes, glazed with death, looked their last on that pup.

And through the dark shade of mortality’s fog

He gasped, “All you need is the right kind of dog.”

Inventor Jones--Eliphalet Jones,

Ah, he was the fellow for schemes;

Though critics might carp and his rivals throw stones

They never vexed Uncle Eliphalet Jones,

Or troubled his radiant dreams.

THE PANTS JEMIMY MADE

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.

She raised the wool she made it of, she even raised the sheep,

She fed ’em on the toughest straw the hired man could reap

She spun the thread with double-twist and made a warp and woof

So tarnal tough it really seemed’twas almost bullet-proof.

And when the cloth was shrunk and dyed and ready for a suit

The men in town would almost fight, they’d get in such dispute

Concerning who had spoken first--the farthest in advance--

And therefore had the prior claim on Aunt Jemimy’s pants.

The cloth that folks make nowadays is slimpsy, sleazy stuff;

It’s colored up in fairish style and fashionable enough!

But blame the goods! It’s made to sell--it isn’t made to wear--

These trousers here I’ve worn five year, and that is merely fair.

But when you bought a cut of cloth of Aunt Jemimy’s weave,

You got some stuff to last you through, you’d better just believe!

Why, ’bout the time that modern pants are get- ting worn and thin

A pair of Aunt Jemimy’s pants were scarcely broken in.

I’ve got a pair up attic now, made forty years ago

They’re just as tough as iron still and Time has made no show.

They’ve stood the brunt of honest work and dulled the tooth of moth,

And there they stand, as stiff’s a slab, good, plain, old-fashioned cloth.

And so I think it’s only right that tribute should be paid

To those old sturdy pioneers--the pants Je- mimy made.

The day I first put on those pants I held a break-up plough--

The farmers of these later days don’t have such wrassles now;

I drove six oxen on ahead, a pretty hefty team,

For farming in those old, old days took mus- cle, grit and steam;

You didn’t stop for rocks and stumps, nor dodge and skive and skip,

Or else you’d have to lug your meals on ev’ry furrow’s trip,

And so the only thing to do was make the oxen tread

And hold the ploughshare deep and true, and plunk ’er straight ahead.

So back and forth and back and forth I ploughed and ploughed that day;