Part 6

and the long, limber pole in our hand;

We’ve pried at the jams on the brink of the

dams, and the pole has stood by like a man,

And then in the dash for our lives in the crash

the pole braced us up as we ran,

Hooray!

As we yelled through the smother and ran.

And when in the bellow of up-ending logs it

looked like good-by to our souls

We rode back to life from out of the strife,

vaulting high on the end of our poles.

Ah, these are the friends that stand by you, my

boys: they’re truer than all of the host

Of the fair-spoken gang of the thieves of the

town! Crowd up here and drink to my toast!

The girls were sweeter’n honey

Till they gathered in our money,

And the barkeeps they were pleasant just as

long as we could spend.

Now it’s quite another story,

--Case of throwdown! But, by glory,

We can drink this final jorum to our stout old

friend.

Though the gang has swiped our cash, there is

still the hearty ash,

He is waiting at Seboomook for to cheer your

foolish soul.

After all, we love him most! and he’s still the

last, loud toast

--The driver’s honest helper, oh, the long ash

pole.

MISTER WHAT’S-HIS-NAME OF SEBOOMOOK

Have you ever heard Seboomook with her April

dander up,

With the amber rushing river gorged to high-

est drivin’ pitch?

Have you heard her boom and bellow--rocky

lips a-froth with yellow--

When she spews and spumes the torrents--

oh, the wild and wicked witch?

She has menace in her breath,

And she roars the chant of death,

For the victim that she slavers never sees

the sun again.

And she clutches at the river,

With entreaty that it give her

The morsels for her longing, which are men--

men--men!

Here’s a tale to suit the cynic--’tis a satire from

the woods,

And concerns a certain hero who was hunt-

ing after Fame;

’Tis the grim and truthful story of a mighty

reach for glory,

But, alas, he didn’t get it, for we’ve clean

forgot his name!

He was one of Murphy’s crew,

And he swore that he’d go through

Where no other West Branch driver ever saved

the shirt he wore:

For he vowed he’d shoot the gorge

And allowed that he could dodge

The Death that knelt a-clutching at the prey

the waters bore.

When they said he couldn’t do it, why, he

laughed the crowd to scorn,

--Poled across the dimpling shallows with

a fierce and hoarse good-by

--He was Murphy’s top-notch driver, half a bird

and one-half diver,

But the best who brave Seboomook only

sound the depths to die.

And they found him miles below;

But his mother would not know

The mangled mass Seboomook belched from out

her vap’rous throat.

The first man coming down

Brought the story out to town,

Referring to the hero as a “dretful reckless

goat.”

Then he told the brisk reporters all the grim and

grisly tale,

And the deed was dressed in language in a

way to bring some fame.

But alas for human glory, the galoot who brought

the story,

Remembered all the details, but forgot the

fellow’s name.

Have you ever heard Seboomook roaring at you

in the night,

With her champing jaws a-frothing in a word-

less howl of hate?

’Tis a fierce vociferation to compel our admira-

tion,

For the chap who struck that rugged blow,

cross-countered thus by Fate.

When he lunged his pole at Death,

When the river sucked his breath,

Seboomook gravely listened when he screamed

his humble name;

For the honor of a foe

She would have the people know,

But she vainly dins her message in the deafened

ear of Fame.

HA’NTS OF THE KINGDOM OF SPRUCE

The sheeted ghosts of moated grange

And misty wraiths are passing strange;

The gibbering spooks and elfin freaks

And cackling witches’ maudlin squeaks--

--They have terrified the nations, and have laid

the bravest low,

But intimidate a woodsman up in Maine? Why,

bless you, no!

Merely misty apparitions or some sad ancestral

spook

Serve to terrify a maiden or to warn a death-

marked duke.

But the P. I. scoffs their terrors, though he’ll

never venture loose

’Mongst the ha’nts that roam the woodlands in

the weird domains of Spruce.

--He’ll mock the fears of mystic and he’ll scorn

the bookish tales

Of the fearsome apparitions of the past, but

courage fails

In the night when he awakens, all a-shiver in

his bunk,

And with ear against the logging hears the

steady, muffled thunk

Of the hairy fists of monsters, beating there in

grisly play,

--Horrid things that stroll o’ night-times, never,

never seen by day,

For he knows that though the spectres of the

storied past are vain,

There is true and ghostly ravage in the forest

depths of Maine.

For even in these days P. I.’s shake

At the great Swamp Swogon of Brassua Lake.

When it blitters and glabbers the long night

through,

And shrieks for the souls of the shivering crew.

And all of us know of the witherlick

That prowls by the shore of the Cup-sup-tic.

Of the Side Hill Ranger whose eyeballs gleam

When the moon hangs gibbous over Abol

stream;

--Of the Dolorous Demon that moans and calls

Through the mists of Abol-negassis falls.

And many a woodsman has felt his bunk

Tossed by the Phantom of Sourdna-hunk.

There’s the Giant Spook who ha’nted Lane’s

Old wangan camp and rended chains

--Great iron links of the snubbing cable--

As though they were straw--who was even

able

To twist the links in a mighty mat

With which he bent the forest flat

From Nahma-kanta to Depsiconneag

--Acres and acres--league after league;

Striding abroad from peak to dale

And laying on with his mighty flail.

Oh, fie for the shade of the manored hall,

A fig for a Thing in a grave-creased pall,

--For wraiths that flitter and flutter and sigh,

With flabby limbs and the sunken eye!

The woodsman recks not ye, frail ghosts,

But he knows and he bows to the deep wood’s

hosts,

Who sound their coming with giant breath,

Who mark their passing with storm and death,

Who shriek through blow-downs and howl o ’er

lakes,

--And he hides and trembles, he shivers and

shakes

When he hears the Desperate Demons loose

In the weird dominions of grim King Spruce.

THE HERO OF THE COONSKIN CAP

When the blaze leaps forth from the camp’s

great hearth,

And the fitful shadows come and go;

When the ruddy beam lights the deacon-seat

And the silent faces in a row;

As the storm-gust drags at the sighing eaves

And moans at the shuddering window-pane,

Some droning voice from a shadowy bank

Intones a song to the wind’s long strain,

And like the soughing, ebbing blast

The gusty chorus bursts and swells;

And then one single, sighing voice

Drones plaintively the tale it tells.

They’re simple songs, they’re homely songs,

And yet they cling in heart and brain,----

Those songs of the darkling forest depths,

These songs of the lumber woods of Maine.

There’s the song of home and the song of love,

And the lilt of battle, bold and free;

There’s the song of the axe in the ringing wood,

And the sighing song of the distant sea.

Yet oft when the choruses are stilled

Some honest woodsman’s voice can wake

A tender thrill with the homely song

Of a nameless hero of Moosehead Lake.

UP IN MAINE

A hero in leggings, he volunteered

--When the treacherous ice lay black as loam

In the melting spring--to risk his life

And bring to others the news from home.

He bore the mail for the lumber camp,

The missives for many an anxious man

Who toiled for the ones he loved so well,

In the wilds of the far Socatean.

He’d fingered each as he studied the names

And sorted the letters with kindly care;

While with honest heart of a friend he guessed

At the news that the precious notes might

hear.

There was one for Kane, and the last had said

That his little girl was sorely ill--

Poor man, he had worried the whole long week!

--And here was one for the Bluenose-Will,

Who had left a sweetheart to come to Maine,

And had looked for a line in a homesick way;

And here were a couple from Henry’s wife,

--And one bore “Forward without delay!”

A tiny message to “Pa John Booth”

Had a cross to show where a rousing smack

Had been pressed on the paper; and here, alas,

Was a letter fringed with a sombre black.

Freighted with sorrow or bringing the smiles,

Fresh from the homes so far away,

He tucked them all in his coon-skin cap

And breasted the sleet of the dreary day.

No one knew how it came about,

No man witnessed the fight for breath,

When the cruel clutch of the great black lake

Reached up and dragged him down to death.

But we always knew that his fiercest strength

Was spent in the supreme flash of life

When he, poor wanderer, thought alone

Of the news for others from home and wife.

For, as far on the edge of the broken ice

As his arm could reach, when he sank and

died,

We found the worn old coon-skin cap

With the letters carefully tucked inside.

A HAIL TO THE HUNTER

Oh, we’re getting under cover, for the “sport” is

on the way,

--Pockets bulge with ammunition, and he’s

coming down to slay;

All his cartridges are loaded and his trigger’s on

the “half,”

And he’ll bore the thing that rustles, from a

deer to Jersey calf.

He will shoot the foaming rapids, and he’ll shoot

the yearling bull.

And the farmer in the bushes--why, he’ll fairly

get pumped full.

For the gunner is in earnest, he is coming down

to kill,

--Shoot you first and then inquire if he hurt

you--yes, he will!

For the average city feller he has big game on

the brain,

And imagines in October there is nothing else in

Maine!

Therefore some absorbed old farmer cutting corn

or pulling beans

Gets most mightily astonished with a bullet in

his jeans.

So, O neighbor, scoot for cover or get out your

armor plate,

--Johnnie’s got his little rifle and is swooping

on the State.

Oh, we’re learning, yes, we’re learning, and I’ll

warn you now, my son,

If you really mean to bore us you must bring a

bigger gun.

For the farmers have decided they will take no

further chance,

And progressive country merchants carry armor-

plated pants;

--Carry shirts of chain-plate metal, lines of coats

all bullet-proof,

And the helmets they are selling beat a Knight

of Malta’s “roof.”

So I reckon that the farmers can proceed to get

their crops,

Yes, and chuckle while the bullet raps their

trouser seats and stops;

And the hissing double-B shot as they criss-cross

over Maine

Will excite no more attention than the patter of

the rain.

And the calf will fly a signal and the Jersey

bull a sign,

And the horse a painted banner, reading “Hoss-,

Don’t Shoot; He’s Mine!”

And every fowl who wanders from the safety of

the pen

Will be taught to cackle shrilly, u Please don’t

plug me; I’m a hen.”

Now with all these due precautions we are ready

for the gang,

We’ll endure the harmless tumult of the rifles’

crack and bang,

For we’re glad to have you with us--shoot the

landscape full of holes;

We will back our brand-new armor for to save

our precious souls.

O you feller in the city, those ’ere woods is full

of fun,

We’ve got on our iron trousers--so come up

and bring your gun!

HOSSES

THEM OLD RAZOOS AT TOPSHAM TRACK

Won’t you poke your buzzin’ stop-watch,

Daddy Time, and click ’er back

To the days of spider high-wheels on the

dinky Topsham track?

When they raced there in October for per-

taters, corn, and oats--

Sometimes paid the purse in shotes--

Drivers wore their buff’ler coats,

And the weather was so juicy that the boys

would take a vote

As to which would drag the better, suh, a sulky

or a boat.

Still ’twas fun, when the sun

Got the moppin’ bus’ness done,

And the field went off a-skatin’, half the pelters

on the run.

There was’Liza, Old Keturah Ann, and Dough-

nut Boy and Pat,

Their pedigrees was barnyard, but we didn’t

care for that;

So hooray! So hooroo! Oh, ye ought to see

’em climb,

They was racers, suh, from ’way back--but no

matter ’bout the time!

There was goers in that pack--

Look at Toggle-jointed Jack

With an action like a windmill, but the critter

he could rack!

And I’d like to have him back,

For I tell you, bub, I stack

On the high-wheel, razoo-races of the good old

Topsham track.

Oh, you oughter seen the send-offs, and you

oughter seen the tricks!

For the stretch was chock-a-blocko when they

scored ’em down by six.

And the starter he would whang-o on a dented

strip of tin,

But the drivers never minded ’less he cussed the

gang like sin.

The hoss-whips that they carried reached away

beyond the manes,

And they larruped ’em with chains--

Tried to lift ’em by the reins.

’Twas muscle, suh, that won the race in them

old days--not brains!

And you’d think to see the sawin’ and the

jerkin’ and the h’ists,

The boys they was a-usin’ partent webbin’s

made of j’ists.

Their elbows flapped like flyin’ and they yow-

wowed through the dust,

And ’twarn’t through lack of hollerin’ that ev’ry

man warn’t fust.

’Twas “Hi-i yah, cut the corners!” and “Hi-i

yoop, take the pole!”

“Don’t ye keep me in this pocket--let me ont

there, darn yer soul!”

“Gimme room there! don’t ye pinch me or I’ll

bust yer blasted wheel!”

“Hi, you sucker, that’s a steal!”

“That’s a low-down trick, to squeal!”

“Oh, ye want some trouble, do ye? Wal, con-

sarn yer harslet, peel!”

It was tetchy, mister, tetchy, to go sassin’ on ’em

back,

When the crowd got interested at the good old

Topsham track.

There was Savage--Solly Savage--drivin’

Adeline Success--

He had speed to sell at auction, but they bribed

the cuss, I guess--

For he pulled her tight and good--

Pulled her settin’--then he stood.

Jest got up and braced his feet, suh, and he

pulled her all he could.

But the blamed old mare was fussy, wasn’t

posted on the deal,

H’isted up her skeeter-duster and let out one

mighty squeal.

She was leadin’ of ’em easy on the back stretch

at the turn,

And there wasn’t no mistakin’ that the race and

heat were her’n.

Ginger, ginger! She could go!

When she didn’t stub her toe,

Warn’t a horse in all the county stood a show

suh, stood a show!

Sol was madder’n snakes in hayin’--had a string

of catnip fits,

Just unfastened both the traces and she hauled

him by the bits.

And that rank old Adeline

She come snortin’ ’crost the line

Least a dozen lengths a leader, and they soaked

old Sol a fine.

Then the feller that had bribed him played tat-

too on Solly’s face,

And took back the dollar-fifty that he’d give him

for the race;

But the boys they licked the feller. Solly got

his money back,

For we stood for honest dealing at the good old

Topsham track.

Now come join me, all old timers,--hip, hooray

and tiger, too!

For the high-wheel days at Topsham and the

good old-time razoo--

For the days of spider sulkies and the days of

solid fun,

When we had a dozen knock-downs ’fore the

race could be begun;

When ’twas a Huddup, Uncle Eli,” and “H”

along there, John, or bust;”

And the man that finished fust,

Though he argued and he cussed,

Might not always get decisions--’twas accordin’

to the dust;

And ’twas therefore kind of needful, suh, right

after ev’ry heat,

To have another fight or so to settle who had

beat;

But they never left a grudge,

Even when they licked the judge.

And we wasn’t all teetotal, still we went it light

on “budge,”

For we never took no stronger than some good

New England rum--

Jest a mild and pleasant bev’rage--why, the

deacons they took some!

Then there wasn’t pedigrees,

And no chin-kerbumping knees,1

And an av’rage field would manage jest to keep

ahead the breeze.

But come join me, ye old-timers, in this pledge

and one hurrah,

For the spanking, wide-hoofed pelters of the old

days of “Hi yah-h-h,”

For a feller kinder feels

That he’d go without his meals

Jest to hear some more kiwhoopin’ from the old-

time trottin’ spiels.

When the wind was in the drivers--nowadays it’s

in the wheels.

When the tang was in the weather on those

autumn afternoons,

And the band got kind of dreamy in those good

old-fashioned tunes.

Oh, ’twas awful good to set there on the sunny

side the stand,

And to have your girl a-smilin’ and a-snugglin’,

hand in hand;

And to hear her, when you mentioned getting

started pretty soon,

Whisper, blushin’, “What’s the hurry? There

will be a lovely moon!”

Ah, there’s moisture on my eyelids and my voice

is gettin’ hoarse.

But ’tis prob’ly jest the mem’ry of the dust of

that old course.

Oh, Daddy Time, if somehow you could only

click your watch

And let a feller start again a race he’s made a

botch,

I wouldn’t ask no better place to start my life

anew.

Than on that stand that afternoon beside that

girl I knew,

With my arm behind her back,

And a hidden, bashful smack

To sweeten all the popcorn balls we munched

at Topsham track.

TO HIM WHO DRIV THE STAGE

Here’s a lyric for the man who’s “druv’ the

stage,”

For the hero of the webbin’s and the whip;

Who has faced the wind and weather, fingers

calloused by the leather,

And in twenty years has never lost a trip.

Here’s a tribute to the sway-back, spotted hoss,

Who has struggled up the stony, gullied hills;

And his dorsal corrugations show the nature of

his rations,

--When he stops, he has to lean against the

thills.

Here’s obituary notice of the stage,

Chief of hopeless and dilapidated wrecks;

With the cracked enamel awning, and its cush-

ions ripped and yawning,

And the body bumping down upon the “ex.”

Here’s alas and oh, the ancient “buff’ler robe,”

With the baldness of a golden-wedding

groom;

When the rain and snow descended, then some

wondrous smells were blended,

Till the stage was scented very like a tomb.

Here’s a word for all the weary miles he

ploughed,

When the drifts had piled the stage-road

mountain high,

When the night shut down around him and the

north wind sought and found him,

And the tempest chilled his blood and blurred

his eye.

There were only country letters in the bags,

And the bags were lank, and yet his word was

“Must.”

And he felt as if the nation knew his fierce

determination

That he’d have the mail sacks through on time

or bust.

Here’s rebuke to those contractors who have

skinned

The stipends of our Uncle Sam’s star routes,

Till the men who drive the stages hardly get

enough in wages

To keep their little shavers’ feet in boots.

Here’s a lyric, then, for him who drives the stage;

When you ride behind his ragged back, don’t

frown,

But endure the bang and slamming, for the

man who’s earned the damning

Is the contract-sharp who bid the wages down.

HE BACKED A BLAMED OLD HORSE

The neighbors came a-nosing ’round and said the

horse could trot

--He oughter up and killed him then, right

there upon the spot;

A-killed him, yas, and tanned his hide and made

it into boots,

Then worn ’em out a-kicking’round them neigh-

borly galoots

Who set the bee to buzzing under Ezry Booker’s

hat,

And filled him up and chucked him full of non-

sense such as that

He’d got a hoss ’twas bound to make his ever-

lasting pile,

And what he got to do, of course, was handle

him in style;

That he must bandage up his legs and figger on

his feed,

And give him reg’lar exercise and work him out

for speed.,

His knees, his neck, his breast, his thighs, the

way he lugged his head,

And all his other symptoms looked to “speed,”

the neighbors said.

So Ezry he just sucked it in, as child-like as

could be,

--It cost him thirteen dollars to look np the

pedigree.

Then one day down to Laneses store he ribbled

off a mess

Of names that struck your Uncle Dud as so much

foolishness.

“I’ve traced him back,” so Ezry said, “to Mor-

gan blood ’nd Drew,”

To what’s-his-name and this and that, and which

and t’other, too.

And Ezry banged the counter, just excited as

could be,

A-arguing out the knots and kinks in that there

pedigree.

Land sakes! He couldn’t seem to think of

nothing but that plug:

--Neglected work, let slide his farm, went crazy

as a bug.

But there! The neighbors stood around and

said to go ahead,

And Ezra like a blamed old fool just swallowed

all they said.

Ef they’d turned to and burned his barn ’twould

been a prison crime,

But ’twould have been a better thing for Ezry

ev’ry time.

He could have got insurance then, but ’twas a

total loss

When they torched Ezry up to back

A Blamed

Old

Hoss!

Of course he had to put that horse in some good

trainer’s hands,

And trainers, as the man who’s tried deereckly

understands,

Ain’t driving just to take the air, for scenery or

for health,

But sort of grab a feller’s leg and milk him for

his wealth.

And there were blankets, straps, and girths, and

bandages and boots;

Pnoomatic sulkies, pads, and shoes, and hoods

and stable suits;

And lotions, too, and liniments--the best of

hay and oats,

And Lord knows what of this and that for trot-

ters’ backs and throats!

Then came the entrance fees, of course, and

travelling expense,

For Ezry lugged that trotter round, and didn’t

have the sense

To know when he was fairly licked, but always

would persist

That “that air hoss another year is going in the

list!”

The trainer said he’d have him there; the neigh-

bors thought so, too;

So Ezry pulled his pocketbook and said he’d see

him through.

So ’round the circuit went the hoss and, though

’tis sad to tell,

“The Flying Dutchman” didn’t fly--he never

got a smell.

And when he’d come a-puffing in behind the

whole blamed crowd

Then Ezry swore and shook his fist, and argued

’round, and vowed

That all the rest was down on him and had,

without a doubt,

Just pooled together in a scheme to shut The

Dutchman out.

The driver said so, anyway, and then, you know,

a few

Good neighbors took him out one side and said

they thought so too.

And so--but land, it’s plain enough how Ezry’s

money went

--He wound up his race-hoss career without a

blasted cent.

What’s more, he ain’t the only one who’s sunk

his little pot

In fubbing ’round from track to track with

horses that can’t trot.

--He ain’t the only man in Maine whose ever-

lasting curse

Has been some darn-fool neighbors, and his itch

to win a purse.

And, as I’ve said, if they’d turned to, and burnt

his barn instead

Of cracking up that hoss so much and turning

Ezry’s head,

He could have got insurance then, but ’twas a

total loss

When they torched Ezry up to back

A Blamed

Old

Hoss!

B. BROWN--HOSS ORATOR

I’ve heerd of Demosthenes--b’longed down in

Greece,

--And Cicero, too!

But ’course, never knew

A great deal about ’em except through my niece,

Who’s tended the ’cademy,--lets on to know

’Bout most of the critters who lived years ago,

--Who’d talk to a standstill the chaps of their

day

With a broadside of words like a gatling, they

say.

And folks knuckle down, and praise up, and

kow-tow

To those hefty old tongue-lashing chaps even

now.

So I’m ready for brickbats, and hollers, and howls,

From the folks of the schools, and from hide-

bound old owls,

When I shin the high flag-staff of Fame to tear

down

All colors that flop there for rival renown,

And string up the banner of Bennington Brown.

Don’t think I’ll assert

What he knew ever hurt!

He was mostly considered an ornery squirt.

He traded old hosses, and cattle, and such,

And the sayin’ ’round town was: “Oh, Brown,

he ain’t much!”

But I read t’other day, in a volyum called

“Hints,”

That a speaker is gauged by his gifts to convince.

So I stand on that statement and solemnly swear

That as a star-actor convincer, I’d dare.

Back Bennington Brown up against the best

man

That ever tongue wrassled, grab holts, catch as

can.

Give Cicero Pointer, Directum, or Hanks,

And Brown an old pelter with wobbly shanks,

--Just leave ’em an hour, no odds, a clear field,

No matter how Cicero sputtered and spieled,

I’ll bet he would find himself talked to a stop,

And Brown would unload the old rip, even swap!

I can see how he’d look

When he carefully took