Part 1

UP IN MAINE

Stories of Yankee Life Told in Verse

By Holman F. Day

With an Introduction by C. E. Littlefield

Boston: Small, Maynard & Company

1900

TO MY FRIEND

AND FELLOW IN THE CRAFT OF LETTERS

WINFIELD M. THOMPSON

TO WHOM I AM INDEBTED FOR MORE THAN ONE OF THE STORIES TOLD HEREIN

THIS VOLUME IS DEDICATED

PREFACE

I don’t know how to weave a roundelay,

I couldn’t voice a sighing song of love;

No mellow lyre that on which I play;

I plunk a strident lute without a glove.

The rhythm that is running through my stuff

Is not the whisp of maiden’s trailing gown;

The metre, maybe, gallops rather rough,

Like river-drivers storming down to town.

--It’s more than likely something from the

wood,

Where chocking axes scare the deer and

moose;

A homely rhyme, and easy understood

--An echo from the weird domain of Spruce.

Or else it’s just some Yankee notion, dressed

In rough-and-ready “Uncle Dudley” phrase;

Some honest thought we common folks suggest,

--Some tricksy mem’ry-flash from boyhood’s

days.

I cannot polish off this stilted rhyme

With all these homely notions in my brain.

A sonnet, sir, would stick me every time;

Let’s have a chat ’bout common things in

Maine.

Holman F. Day.

|A_BOUT three thousand years ago the “Preacher” declared that “of making many books there is no end.” This sublimely pessimistic truism deserves to be considered in connection with the time when it was written; otherwise it might accomplish results not intended by its author.

It must be remembered that in the “Preacher’s” time books were altogether in writing. It should also be borne in mind that if the handwriting which we have in these days, speaking of the period prior to the advent of the female typewriter, is to be accepted as any criterion, --and inasmuch as all concede that history repeats itself, that may well be assumed,--is easy to understand how, by reason of its illegibility, he was also led to declare that “much study is a weariness of the flesh.” It is quite obvious that this was the moving cause of his delightfully doleful utterance as to books. Had he lived in this year nineteen hundred, at either the closing of the nineteenth or the dawning of the twentieth century,--as to whether it is closing or dawning I make no assertion,--he might well have made same criticism, but from an optimistic standpoint.

A competent litterateur informs me that there are now extant 3,725,423,201 books; that in America and England alone during the last year 12,888 books entered upon a precarious existence, with the faint though unexpressed hope of surviving “life’s fitful fever!” If the conditions of the “Preacher’s” time obtained to-day, the vocabulary of pessimism would be inadequate for the expression of similar views.

A careful examination by the writer, of all these well-nigh innumerable monuments of learning, discloses the fact that the work now being introduced to what I trust may be an equally innumerable army of readers has no parallel in literature. If justification were needed, that fact alone justifies its existence. This fact, however, is not necessary, as the all-sufficient fact which warrants the collection of these unique sketches in book form is that no one can read them without being interested, entertained, and amused, as well as instructed and improved. “The stubborn strength of Plymouth Rock” is nowhere better exemplified than on the Maine farm, in the Maine woods, on the Maine coast, or in the Maine workshop. From them, the author of “Up in Maine” has drawn his inspiration. Rugged independence, singleness of purpose, unswerving integrity, philosophy adequate for all occasions, the great realities of life, and a cheerful disregard of conventionalities, are here found in all their native strength and vigor. These peculiarities as delineated may be rough, perhaps uncouth, but they are characteristic, picturesque, engaging, and lifelike. His subjects are rough diamonds. They have the inherent qualities from which great characters are developed, and out of which heroes are made.

Through every chink and crevice of these rugged portrayals glitters the sheen of pure gold, gold of standard weight and fineness, “gold tried in the fire.” Finally it should be said that this is what is now known as a book with a purpose, and that purpose, as the author confidentially informs me, is to sell as many copies as possible, which he confidently expects to do. To this most worthy end I trust I may have, in a small degree, contributed by this introduction._

C. LITTLEFIELD.

Washington, D.C., March 17,1900.

‘ROUND HOME

AUNT SHAW’S PET JUG

Now there was Uncle Elnathan Shaw,

--Most regular man you ever saw!

Just half-past four in the afternoon

He’d start and whistle that old jig tune,

Take the big blue jug from the but’ry shelf

And trot down cellar, to draw himself

Old cider enough to last him through

The winter ev’nin’. Two quarts would do.

--Just as regular as half-past four

Come round, he’d tackle that cellar door,

As he had for thutty years or more.

And as regular, too, as he took that jug

Aunt Shaw would yap through her old

mug,

“Now, Nathan, for goodness’ sake take care

You allus trip on the second stair;

It seems as though you were just possessed

To break that jug. It’s the very best

There is in town and you know it, too,

And ’twas left to me by my great-aunt Sue.

For goodness’ sake, why don’t yer lug

A tin dish down, for ye’ll break that jug?”

Allus the same, suh, for thirty years,

Allus the same old twits and jeers

Slammed for the nineteenth thousand time

And still we wonder, my friend, at crime.

But Nathan took it meek’s a pup

And the worst he said was “Please shut up.”

You know what the Good Book says befell

The pitcher that went to the old-time well;

Wal, whether ’twas that or his time had come,

Or his stiff old limbs got weak and numb

Or whether his nerves at last giv’ in

To Aunt Shaw’s everlasting chin--

One day he slipped on that second stair,

Whirled round and grabbed at the empty air.

And clean to the foot of them stairs, ker-smack,

He bumped on the bulge of his humped old back

And he’d hardly finished the final bump

When old Aunt Shaw she giv’ a jump

And screamed downstairs as mad’s a bug

“Dod-rot your hide, did ye break my jug?”

Poor Uncle Nathan lay there flat

Knocked in the shape of an old cocked hat,

But he rubbed his legs, brushed off the dirt

And found after all that he warn’t much hurt.

And he’d saved the jug, for his last wild thought

Had been of that; he might have caught

At the cellar shelves and saved his fall,

But he kept his hands on the jug through all.

And now as he loosed his jealous hug

His wife just screamed, “Did ye break my

jug?”

Not a single word for his poor old bones

Nor a word when she heard his awful groans,

But the blamed old hard-shelled turkle just

Wanted to know if that jug was bust.

Old Uncle Nathan he let one roar

And he shook his fist at the cellar door;

“Did ye break my jug?” she was yellin’ still.

“No, durn yer pelt, but I swow I will.”

And you’d thought that the house was a-going

to fall

When the old jug smashed on the cellar wall.

OLD BOGGS’S SLARNT

Old Bill Boggs is always sayin’ that he’d like to

but he carn’t;

He hain’t never had no chances, he hain’t never

got no slarnt.

Says it’s all dum foolish tryin’, ’less ye git the

proper start,

Says he’s never seed no op’nin’ so he’s never

had no heart.

But he’s chawed enough tobacker for to fill a

hogset up

And has spent his time a-trainin’ some all-fired

kind of pup;

While his wife has took in washin’ and his chil-

dren hain’t been larnt

’Cause old Boggs is allus whinin’ that he’s never

got no slarnt.

Them air young uns round the gros’ry hadn’t

oughter done the thing!

Now it’s done, though, and it’s over, ’twas a

cracker-jack, by jing.

Boggs, ye see, has been a-settin’ twenty years on

one old plank,

One end h’isted on a saw hoss, t’other on the

cistern tank.

T’other night he was a-chawin’ and he says, “I

vum-spt-ooo--

Here I am a-owin’ money--not a gol durn thing

to do!

’Tain’t no use er backin’ chances, ner er fightin’

back at Luck,

--Less ye have some way er startin’, feller’s

sartin to be stuck.

Needs a slarnt to git yer going”--then them

young uns give a carnt,

--Plank went up an’ down old Boggs went--

yas, he got it, got his slarnt.

Course the young uns shouldn’t done it--sent

mine off along to bed--

Helped to pry Boggs out the cistern--he warn’t

more’n three-quarters dead.

Didn’t no one ’prove the actions, but when all

them kids was gone,

Thunder mighty! How we hollered! Gab’rel

couldn’t heered his horn.

CY NYE, PREVARICATOR

Gy

Nye

Thunder, how he’ll lie!

Never has to stop and think--never has to try.

Says he had a settin’ hen that acted clean pos-

sessed;

Says a kag o’ powder couldn’t shake her off her

nest;

Didn’t mind a flannel rag tied around her tail;

Ev’ry now and then he’d take ’er, souse ’er in

a pail;

Never had the least effect--feathers even friz;

Then she set and pecked the ice, but ’tended

right to biz.

’Peared to care for nothin’ else ’cept to set and

set;

Didn’t seem to care a tunket what she drunk

or et.

Cy he said he got so mad he thought he’d use

’er ha’ash,

So he went to feedin’ on ’er hemlock sawdust

mash.

Hen she gobbled down the stuff, reg’lar as

could be;

“Reely seemed to fat ’er up,” Cy says he to me.

Shows the power of the mind when it gets a

clutch.

Hen imagined it was bran--helped ’er just as

much.

Then she hid her nest away--laid a dozen eggs;

’Leven chickens that she hatched all had wooden

legs,

T’other egg it wouldn’t hatch--solid junk o’

wood,

Hen’s a-wrasslin’ with it yet--thinks the thing

is good.

Thunder, how he’ll lie!

But he’s dry,

--That Cy.

Cy

Nye

Tells another lie:

Claims to be the strongest man around here;

this is why:

Says he bought a side o’ beef up to Johnson’s store,

Tucked it underneath his arm--didn’t mind it

more

Than a pound o’ pickled tripe; sauntered down

the road,

Got to ponderin’ Bible texts--clean forgot his

load.

All to once he chanced to think he meant to get

some meat,

Hustled back to Johnson’s store t’other end the

street,

Bought another side o’ beef. The boys com-

menced to laugh,

--Vummed he hadn’t sensed till then he lugged

the other half.

Can’t deny

’T he can lie,

--That Cy.

UNCLE BENJY AND OLD CRANE

Once there was a country lawyer and his name

was Hiram Crane,

And he had a reputation as the worst old file in

Maine.

And as soon’s he got a client, why, the first

thing that he’d do

Was to feel the critter’s pocket and then soak

him ’cordin’ to.

Well, sir, one day Benjy Butters bought a hoss,

and oh, ’twas raw

Way old Benjy he got roasted, and he said he’d

have the law.

So he gave the case to Hiram, and then Hiram

brought a suit

And got back the hoss and harness and what

Benjy gave to boot.

When he met him at the gros’ry Benjy asked

him for the bill,

And when Hiram named the figger, it was

steeper’n Hobson’s hill.

Poor old Benjy hammed and swallered--bill jest

sort of took his breath,

And the crowd that stood a-listenin’ thought

perhaps he’d choke to death.

But it happened that the squire felt like jokin’

some that day,

And he says, “Now, Uncle Benjy, there won’t be

a cent to pay

If you’ll right here on the instant make me up a

nice pat rhyme;

Hear you’re pretty good at them things--give

you jest three minutes’ time.”

And the squire grinned like fury, tipped the

crowd a knowing wink,

While old Benjy started in, sir, almost ’fore

you’d time to think:

“Here you see the petty lawyer leanin’ on his

corkscrew cane.

Sartin parties call him Gander, other people call

him Crane.

Though he’s faowl, it’s someways daoubtful

what he is, my friends, but still

You can tell there’s hawk about him by the

gaul-durned qritter’s bill.”

Crane got mad, he wanted money, but the crowd

let on to roar,

And they laughed the blamed old skinflint right

square out the gros’ry store.

“PLUG”

For sixty years he had borne the name

Of “Plug”--plain “Plug.”

Those many years had his village fame

Published the shame of his old-time game,

Till all the folks by custom came

To call him “Plug.”

And so many years at last went by

They hardly knew the reason why;

At least they never stopped to think,

And dropped the old suggestive wink.

And he took the name quite matter-of-fact,

Till most of the folks had forgot his act;

But sometimes a stranger’d wonder at

The why of a nickname such as that,

--Of “Plug”--just “Plug.”

Then some old chap would shift his quid

And tell the story of what he did.

“He owned ten acres of punkin pine,

’Twas straight and tall, and there warn’t a sign

But what ’twas sound as a hickory nut,

And at last he got the price he sut.

They hired him for to chop it down.

He did.--By gosh, it was all unsoun’.

Was a rotten heart in every tree.

But there warn’t none there but him to see.

And quick as ever a tree was cut,

He hewed a saplin’ and plugged the butt.

--Plugged the butt, sir, and hid away

For about two months, for he’d got his pay.

But there warn’t no legal actions took,

They never tackled his pocket-book.

’Twould a-broke his heart, for he’s dretful snug;

But he never squirmed when they called him

’Plug.’

And over the whole of the country-side,

Up to the day that the critter died,

’Twas ‘Plug.’

Till some of the young folks scurcely knew

Which was the nickname, which was the true.

He left five thousand,--putty rich,--

But better less cash than a title sich

As ‘Plug.’”

THE SONG OF THE HARROW AND PLOW

From the acres of Aroostook, broad and mellow

in the sun,

Down to rocky York, the chorus of the farmers

has begun.

They are riding in Aroostook on a patent sulky

plow,

--They are riding, taking comfort, for they’ve

learned the secret how.

They are planting their potatoes with a whirring

new machine,

--Driver sits beneath an awning; slickest thing

you’ve ever seen.

There is not a rock to vex ’em in the acres

spreading wide,

So they sit upon a cushion, cock their legs, and

smoke and ride.

Gee and Bright go lurching onward in the

furrow’s mellow steam;

Over there, with clank of whiffle, tugs a sturdy

Morgan team.

And the man who rides the planter or who plods

the broken earth

Joins and swells the mighty chorus of the

season’s budding mirth.

And they’ve pitched the tune to a jubilant

strain.

They are lilting it merrily now.

We wait for that melody up here in Maine,

--’Tis the song of the harrow and plow.

They are picking rocks in Oxford, and in Waldo

blasting ledge,

And they’re farming down in Lincoln on their

acres set on edge.

Down among the kitchen gardens of the slopes

of Cumberland

They’re sticking in the garden sass as thick as

it will stand.

And every nose is sniffing at the scent of fur-

rowed earth,

And every man is living all of life at what it’s

worth.

Though the farmer in Aroostook sails across a

velvet field,

And his mellow, crumbly acres vomit forth a

spendthrift yield,

All the rest are just as cheerful on their hillside

farms as he,

For there’s cosy wealth in gardens and a fortune

in a tree.

So they’re singing the song of the coming

of Spring,

And the song of the empty mow;

Of the quiver of birth that is stirring the earth,

--’Tis the song of the harrow and plow.

HOORAY FOR THE SEASON OF FAIRS

This is the season for fairs, by gosh, oh, this is

the season for fairs;

They’re thicker than spatter,

But what does it matter?

They scoop up the cash, but who cares?

From now till October they’ll swallow the

change,

These state fairs and town fairs and county and

grange,

But apples blush brighter arrayed on a plate,

And the cattle look scrumptious in dignified

state,

Enthroned in a stall and a-gazing with scorn

On the chaps going by without ribbon or horn.

And the trotters and nags of the blood-royal

strain

Are a-furnishing fun for the people of Maine;

While prouder than princes they prance to the

band,

And ogle the ladies arrayed on the stand.

Ah, every exhibit in stall or in hall,

From hooked rug to hossflesh and punkin and

all,

Takes on a new meaning, assumes a new light,

And is, for the moment, a wonderful sight.

And people hang over the stuff that’s displayed,

They swig up whole barrels of red lemonade,

And hark to the fakirs and tumble to snides,

And treat all the young ones to merry-go rides.

They sit on the grand stand, man crushed

against man,

All shouting acclaim to the track’s rataplan;

And all the delight is as fresh and as bright

As though the big crowd had not seen that same

sight.

And the people flock home with the dust in their

eyes,

But with hearts all a-fire with fun and surprise.

The girls are a-humming the tune of the band,

And dads are relating the sights from the stand;

The dames are discussing the fancy work part,

While bub hugs the Midway scenes close to his

heart.

The palms of the men folks still glow from a

grip,

And the women are thinking of lip pressed to

lip,

For all of the folks in the loud, happy throng

Have met with the friends “they’ve not seen

for so long.”

A hail and salute from the press of the mass,

Too brief, as the crowd jammed impatient to

pass,

A moment--that’s all--to renew the old tie,

A handgrasp, a lip-touch, “Hello,” and “Good-

by.”

Oh, this is the season of fairs, by gosh, the

season to lay off your cares,

Each fair is a wonder,

They’re thicker than thunder.

Hooray for the season of fairs!

HAD A SET OF DOUBLE TEETH

Oh, listen while I tell to you a truthful little

tale

Of a man whose teeth was double all the solid

way around;

He could jest as slick as preachin’ bite in two a

shingle nail,

Or squonch a moulded bullet, sah, and ev’ry

tooth was sound.

I’ve seen him lift a kag of pork, a-bitin’ on the

chine,

And he’d clench a rope and hang there like a

puppy to a root;

And a feller he could pull and twitch and yank

upon the line,

But he couldn’t do no bus’ness with tha’

double-toothed galoot.

He was luggin’ up some shingles,--bunch, sah,

underneath each arm,--

The time that he was shinglin’ of the Baptist

meetin’-house;

The ladder cracked and buckled, but he didn’t

think no harm,

When all at once she busted and he started

down kersouse.

His head, sah, when she busted, it was jest

abreast the eaves;

And he nipped, sah, quicker’n lightnin’, and

he gripped there with his teeth,

And he never dropped the shingles, but he hung

to both the sheaves,

Though the solid ground was suttinly more’n

thirty feet beneath.

He held there and he kicked there and he

squirmed, but no one come.

He was workin’ on the roof alone--there

warn’t no folks around.

He hung like death to niggers till his jaws was

set and numb,

And he reely thought he’d have to drop them

shingles on the ground.

But all at once old Skillins come a-toddlin’ down

the street.

Old Skil is sort of hump-backed and he allus

looks straight down;

So he never see’d the motions of them Number

’Leven feet,

And he went a-amblin’ by him--the goramded

blind old clown!

Now this ere part is truthful--ain’t a-stretehin’

it a mite,--

When the feller see’d that Skillins was a-

walkin’ past the place,

Let go his teeth and hollered, but he grabbed

back quick and tight,

’Fore he had a chance to tumble, and he hung

there by the face.

And he never dropped the shingles and he never

missed his grip,

And he stepped out on the ladder when they

raised it underneath.

And up he went a-flukin’ with them shingles on

his hip,

--And there’s the satisfaction of a havin’

double teeth.

GRAMPY’S LULLABY

Your marmy’s mixin’ cream o’ tartar biskit up

for tea;

Fie, deedle, deedle, leetle ba-a-arby!

And I reckon you had better come and roost

upon my knee;

Tumpy, dumpy, deedle, leetle barby!

I s’picion how ye never heard of Ebernezer

Cowles.

Tell ye what, he warn’t brung up to be afraid of

owls.

Reckon that a spryer critter never tailored

boots;

Allus up to monkey tricks and full o’ squirms

and scoots.

Once he done a curis thing, I vummy, on a

stump:

Set a larder up one end and gin’ a mighty jump;

Run right up the larder, jest as nimble as a

monkey,

Balarnced, I sh’d suttin say, a minit--all a-

hunky;

Then he straddled out on air and grabbed the

pesky larder

And run ’er up another length--another length,

suh, farder;

Skittered up that larder ’fore she had a chance

to teeter,

Quicker’n any pussy cat--lighter’n a mos-

keeter.

Soon’s he clambered to the top, grabbed the

upper rung,

Ketched hisself with t’other hand, and there the

critter hung.

Gaffled up his britches’ slack and took a resky

charnce

And thar’ he held hisself right out, arms-length,

suh, by his parnts.

Ye ought ter heerd, my barby dear, the cheerins

and the howls

The crowd let out when they’d obsarved that

trick of Mister Cowles.

Sing’lar thing of which I sing--might not

think ’twas true;

Fie, deedle, deedle, leetle ba-a-arby!

But ye know, my leetle snoozer, grampy wouldn’t

lie to you,

--To his dumpy, dumpy deedle, leetle

barby.

Hush, I guess that mammy isn’t done a-makin’

bread,

We ain’t at all pertic’lar how she overhears

what’s said.

Ye’re over-young, purraps, to hear of Sam’wel

Doubl’yer Strout,

--Weighed about two hundred pounds, and,

chowder, warn’t he stout!

Used to work for me one time as sort of extry

hand,

--Allus planned to ’gage him when I cleared up

any land;

Once I see him lug a rock with fairly mod’rit

ease

So hefty that at ev’ry step he sunk above his

knees.

Hain’t at all surprised to see the wonder in your

eye;

Fie, deedle, deedle, leetle ba-a-arby!

But ye know your poor old grampy wouldn’t

tell ye ary lie,

--To his tumpy, dumpy deedle, leetle

barby.

Course ye’ve never heerd ’em tell of Atha-ni-al

Prime,

For he was round a-raisin’ Cain so long afore

your time.

Used to run the muley saw down to Hopkins

mill,

--Allus euttin’ ding-does up--a master curis

pill!

Once the chaps that tended sluice stood upon a

log,

Got to argyin’ this and that, suthin’ ’bout a dog.

Clean forgot to start the log a-goin’ up the

sluice,

But shook their fists and hollered round and spit

torbarker juice.

Atha-ni-al heerd the towse and grabbed a pick-

pole up,

--Wasn’t goin’ to stop a mill to fight about a

pup,--

Tied a rope around the pole and then he let her

flam,

Speared the end of that air log and yanked her

quicker’n Sam.

Log, suh, come right out the bark, he twitched

the thing so quick;

Fellers never felt the yank, ’twas done so smooth

and slick.

Log come out and up the sluice and left behind

the bark,

--Fellers thought the log was there and stood

and chawed till dark.

Sing’lar things has come to pass when I was

young as you;

Fie, deedle, deedle, leetle ba-a-arby!

And best of all, what grampy sings you bet your

life is true,

Tumpy, deedle, dumpy, leetle barby.

HOSKINS’S COW

Hoskins’s cow got into the pound and the notice

was tacked on the meetin’-house door:

“Come into my yard, one brindle cow with three

white feet, and her shoulders sore,

--Galled by a poke,--and the owner is asked

to call at the pound and take her away.”

Well, Hoskins knew she was his all right, but,

you see, he hadn’t wherewith to pay.

The cow was breachy--she wasn’t to blame,

for Hoskins had turned her abroad to roam;

She had to battle for daily grass, for the bovine

cupboard was bare at home.

So Hoskins had hitched on her withered neck a

wooden “regalia”--sort of a yoke,

Supposed to keep her from breachy tricks, but

the poor old creature employed the “poke”

To rip up fences and let down bars; her hunger

sharpened her slender wits,

And somehow she sneaked through the guarded

gates, and gave the garden sass regular fits.