each stream,
Possesses fifty liars to preserve it in esteem.
And he that owns a yaller dog, and he that
owns a hoss
Will never see their laurels dimmed, if words
can add a gloss.
’Tis true the old inhabitant, narrating ancient
tales,
Occasionally soars to heights where homely
language fails.
So then, alas, he’s hampered some, but note
his kindling eye,
And as he gets his second wind, observe how
he can lie!
’Tis no invidious charge I bring against this
worthy crew,
We love the lies they tell to us and love the
liars too.
They hold to truth in business deals, they’d
never lie to cheat;
But when the “sport” comes down from town,
by gracious he’s their meat.
They “torch” him up with narrative until his
fancy steams
And swogons, yaps, and witherlicks go ramp-
ing through his dreams.
For when our solemn ruminants describe the
olden times
They stimulate a state of mind I can’t describe
in rhymes.
[Illustration: 0205]
I pen this humble lyric and I bring a wreath of
bay,
For the good prevaricators doing business down
this way.
May their tongues be ever limber, and im-
agination free,
With no interloping infidel to ask how such
can be.
May the plug from which they nibble spice a
piquant, pungent tale,
May words to paint the details of their fiction
never fail.
Let the chips from which they whittle always
have an even grain,
And we’ll challenge all creation with our liars
here in Maine.
THE BALLAD OF DOC PLUFF
Doctor Pluff, who lived in Cornville, he was
hearty, brisk and bluff,
Didn’t have much extry knowledge, but in
some ways knowed enough;
Knowed enough to doctor hosses, cows an’ dogs
an’ hens an’ sheep,
When he come to doctor humans, wal, he wasn’t
quite so deep.
Still, he kind o’ got ambitious, an’ he went an’
stubbed his toe,
When he tried to tackle subjects that he really
didn’t know.
Doc he started out the fust-off as a vet’rinary
doc,
An’ he made a reputation jest as solid as a rock.
Doct’rin’ hosses’ throats or such like, why, there
warn’t a man in town
Who could take a cone of paper, poof the sul-
phur furder down.
He could handle pips an’ garget in a brisk an’
thorough style,
An’ there wan’t a cow’t would hook him when
he give her castor ile.
As V. S. he had us solid, but he loosened up his
hold
When he doctored Uncle Peaslee for his reg’lar
April cold.
Uncle Peaslee allus caught it when he took
his flannels off,
For a week or two he’d wheezle, sniff an’ snee-
zle, bark an’ cough.
An’ at last, in desperation, when the thing be-
came so tough,
He adopted some suggestions that were made
by Doctor Pluff.
Fust o’ March he started early an’ he reg’lar
ev’ry day
From his heavy winter woolens tore a little
strip away.
For the doc he had insisted that the change
could thus be made,
‘Cause the system wouldn’t notice such an easy,
steady grade.
Walsir,’bout the last of April, Uncle Peaslee
he had on
Jest the wris’ban’s an’ the collar--all the rest
of it was gone.
Then--with Doctor Pluff advisin’--on a mild
an’ pleasant day,
He took off the collar ‘n wris’ban’s, and he
throwed the things away.
An’ in lesser’n thutty hours he was sudden
tooken down
With the wust case of pneumony that we ever
knowed in town.
An’ he dropped away in no time; it was awful
kind of rough,
An’ we had our fust misgivin’s’bout the skill
of Old Doc Pluff.
Reckoned that ’ere scrape would down him an’
he’d stick to hens an’ cows,
But he’d got to be ambitious, an’ he tackled
Irai Howes.
Uncle Iral’s kind o’ feeble, but was bound to
wean a caff;
Went to pull him off from suckin’ when the
critter’d had his haff.
Caff he turned around an’ bunted--made him’s
mad’s a tyke, ye see--
An’ old Iral’s leg was broken, little ways above
the knee.
T’other doctor couldn’t git there’cause the
goin’ was so rough,
So they had to run their chances and they called
on Doctor Pluff.
Doc he found old Irai groanin’ where they’d
laid him on the bed,
An’ he took his old black finger, rolled up Iral’s
lip an’ said,
“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
[Illustration: 0231]
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;
I tackled ev’ry rock and snag that dared dispute
my way,
Until the only critter left was one old maple
stump,
And I?--I gave the team the gad--and took
’er on the jump!
She split in halves and through I went, but
back she slapped, ker-whack,
And gripped Jemimy’s pantaloons right where
she’d left the slack.
The team was going double-quick--the oxen
plunged along--
I held the old oak handle-bars, I gripped ’em
good and strong--
And there I was, the living link’twixt stump
and plough, because
The cloth it stuck there good and tight between
those maple jaws.
Jemimy never planned on that, in making pants
for me;
She made ’em solid, yet of course she gave no
guarantee
That they would stand a yank like that--but
still I clung and yelled,
Those oxen plunged and tussled and--Je-
mimy’s pants, they held!
And the stump came out a-kicking, roots and
dirt and stones and all,
But those pants weren’t even started by that
most tremendous haul,
And to prove this ’ere is truthful, should some
scoffer cast a doubt,
I have saved the chips and hewings where they
came and chopped me out.
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.
BALLADS OF “CAPERS AND ACTIONS”
BALLAD OF ELKANAH B. ATKINSON
Elkanah B. Atkinson’s tarvun was run
On a plan that was strictly his own;
And he “reckoned that dudified sons of a gun”
Would far better leave him alone.
He allowed that he always had plenty to eat
For folks that liked vitt-u-als plain;
An’ when ye came down to pettaters and meat
His house was a credit to Maine.
The garding truck they raised themselves,
They killed their pork; and the but’ry shelves
Jest fairly groaned with jells and jams;
--In a shed out back they smoked their hams.
And old Elkanah used to brag
They laid down pickles by the kag;