--Got fifty eggs most ev’ry day--
And ev’ry egg was big’s your fist
And fresher’n a whiff of mountain mist.
The whole blamed house it used to shake
When old Elkanah pounded steak,
For he used to say what made meat tough
Was ’cause some cooks warn’t strong enough.
And he piled the grub right on sky-high:
Soup and meat and fish and pie
--All the courses on first whack--
And then Elkanah he’d stand back
And say: “There, people, now hoe in;
When ye’ve et that grub, pass up ag’in;
Of course we hain’t no big hotel,
But some few things, why, we dew well.”
P. Mortimer Perkins came down from New
York,
--A salesman for corsets and things;
With his trousers all creased and a lah-de-dah
walk,
As if he were jiggered by strings;--
Arrived at the Atkinson tarvun one night
And says to Elkanah, says he:
“I want to be called just as soon as it’s light,
For I’m going first train, don’t ye see.
It’s very important I go by first train,
But I find in these country hotels
The service ye get gives a fellah a pain
--They don’t even answer the bells.
Now I want to be called for that train, me good
man,
For it’s very important I go;
Now weally, old chappie, please see if you can
Just do a thing right once, y’ know-
Ye may call me at four, and at half after four
I’ll bweakfast; now recollect, please!
Before I wetire I’ll tell you once more;
--You’ll get the idea by degwees.”
Elkanah B. Atkinson lowered his specs
To the very tip-end of his nose;
Says he: “When a feller he really expec’s
To go by that train, wal--he goes.
Jest fall right asleep and don’t worry a mite;
This hain’t -no big city hotel,
But we’ll git ye to goin’ termorrer all right,
For there’s some things we dew fairly well.”
Elkanah B. Atkinson sat all night
And kept the office fire bright.
He nodded some and yawned and smoked,
And at half-past three he went and poked
The kitchen fire; then pounded steak
And set potatoes in to bake.
Started the coffee and all the rest
And then went up to call his guest.
Bangity, whang! on the cracked old door!
Whangity, bang! It checked a snore.
P. Mortimer Perkins opened his eyes
In the cold dark dawn with much surprise,
And under the coverlet warm and thick
On the good, old-fashioned feather tick,
Felt the cold on his nose like a frosty knife
And was never so sleepy in all his life.
But still bang, whang on the cracked old door!
And Elkanah shouting, “Mos’ ha’f-pas’ four!”
But the louder the old man pounded and yapped
The more the drummer garped and gapped.
At last says he: “Is it stormy--oh-h-h?”
“Wall,” says Elkanah, “she’s spittin’ snow.”
P. Mortimer Perkins snuggled down
And says he, “This isn’t a blamed bad town;
I say, old man, now please go’way,
I’ve changed my mind, and I guess I’ll stay.”
Elkanah B. Atkinson then says he:
“This changin’ minds is a bad idee;
I’ve set in that office there all night
So’s I could git ye up all right.
An’ breakfus’ is on, an’ the coffee’s hot;
Now, friend, ye can go on that train or not,
But I tell ye now, right off- the reel,
Ye’re goin’ to git up and eat that meal.”
[Illustration: 0241]
P. Mortimer Perkins cursed and swore,
But Elkanah slammed right through that door,
And he pulled that drummer out of bed
And brandished a chair’round over his head;
He poked his ribs and made him dress
So sleepy still that his gait cut S
As he staggered down to the dining-room
And ate his meal in the cheerless gloom,
While over him stood the grim old man
With a stick and a steaming coffee can.
“Now, mister,” allowed Elkanah, “sence
It’s a special breakfus’ it’s thutty cents.”
When the feller paid, as meek’s a pup,
And stuttered “Now, can I be put up?”
“Why, sartin, mister,” Elkanah said;
“Ye can go to tophet or back to bed;
There hain’t hard feelin’s, no, none at all,
But when a feller he leaves a call
At the Atkinson House for an early meal,
He gits it served right up genteel,
An’ when it’s served, wal, now you bet
There hain’t no peace till that meal’s been et.
Of course we hain’t no big hotel,
But some few things we dew quite well.”
BALLAD OF OBADI FRYE
’Twas a battered old, double-B, twisted bass
horn,
With a yaw in the flare at its end;
A left-over veteran, relic forlorn
Of the halcyon days when a band had been
born
To the village of Buckleby Bend.
The band was dismembered by time and by
death
As the years went a-scurrying by,
And only one player was left with his breath
And that was old Obadi’ I.
P. Frye.
Old Obadi’ Isaac Pitt Frye.
With a glow in his eye
He would plaintively try
To puff out the tune that they marched to at
training;
But the tremolo drone
Of the brassy old tone
Quavered queerly enough with his scant breath
remaining.
Ah, the years had been many and bent was his
back,
And caved was his chest and departed his
knack;
So, though he was filled with musicianly pride
And huffed at the mouthpiece and earnestly
tried
To steady his palsied old lip and control
The old-fashioned harmonies stirring his soul--
There was nothing in Buckleby quite so for-
lorn
As the oomp-tooty-oomp of that old bass horn.
To the parties and sociables, quiltings and sings
They invited old Obadi’ Frye;
He’d give ’em doldrums of old-fashioned
things
With occasional bass obligato for strings
--Or at least he would zealously try.
The minister coaxed him to buy a cornet
And chirk up a bit in his tune,
But none could induce him to ever forget
His love for that old bassoon,
Whose tune
Was the solace of life’s afternoon.
So he’d splutter and moan
With his thin, gusty tone
But his empty old lungs balked his anxious en-
deavor.
He hadn’t the starch
For a jig or a march,
And with double-F volume he’d parted forever.
For he hadn’t the breath for a triple note run,
’Twas a whoof and a pouf! and alas, he was
done;
But the pride of his heart was that old double-
bass,
He was happy alone with its lips at his face.
So he sat in his old leather chair day by day
And whooped the one solo he’d power to play,
An anthem entitled, “All Hail Christmas
Morn,”
As rendered by gulps on an old bass horn.
“All hail--hoomp--hoomp--bright Christmas
morn,
Hail--hoomp, hoomp--hoomp--fair
hoomp--hoomp--dawn;
Turn--hoomp--hoomp, eyes
Hoomp--hoomp,
HOOMP--skies,
When--hoomp--hoomp,
hoomp--H O O M P--born.’’
While a-tooting one morning his breath flick-
ered out
With a sort of a farewell purr;
Of course there are many to scoff and to scout,
But’twas sucked by that cavernous horn with-
out doubt,
At least, so the neighbors aver.
They laid him away in the churchyard to rest
And with grief that they sought not to hide,
They placed the old battered B-B on his breast
And that Christmas hymn score by his side--
His pride,
‘Twas the tune that he played when he died.
Now, who here denies
That far in the skies
He is probably calmly and placidly winging;
That his spirit new-born
With his score and his horn
Takes flight where the hosts are triumphantly
singing.
Yet it irks me to think that he’s far in that
Land
With only the score of one anthem in hand.
For the music Above must be novel and
strange--
Too intricate far for that double-B range,
But at last when the Christmastide rings in the
skies
There’ll be some queer quavers in fair Para-
dise,
For an humble old spirit will calmly allow
“I reckin I’ll give ’em that horn solo now.”
Up there we are certain there’s no one to carp
Because Obadiah won’t tackle a harp--
Seraphs and cherubs will hush their refrain
When a new note of praise intermingles its
strain,
And he’ll add to the jocund delight of that
morn
With his anthem, “All hail,” on that old bass
horn.
“All hail--hoomp--hoomp--bright Christmas
morn,
Hail--hoomp, hoomp--hoomp--fair
hoomp--hoomp--dawn;
Turn--hoomp--hoomp, eyes
hoomp--hoomp,
HOOMP--skies,
When--hoomp--hoomp,
hoomp--HOOMP--born.”
AT THE OLD FOLKS’ WHANG
Flappy-doodle, flam, flam--whack, whack,
whack!
Balance to the corners and forward folks and
back;
Gaffle holt an’ gallop for an eight hands round,
While the brogans and the cowhides they pessle
and they pound;-
No matter for the Agger providin’ there’s the
time.
Jest cuff’er out and jig’er;--jest hoe’er down
and climb!
No matter’bout your toes or corns; let rheu-
matiz go hang,
For we’re weltin’ out the wickin at the old
folks’ whang.
--At the old folks’ whang
Hear the cowhides bang,
When we “up and down the center” at the old
folks’ whang.
Yang, tangty, yee-yah!--yang, yang, yang!
Old Branscomb plays the fiddle at the old folks’
whang;
And he puts a sight o’ ginger in the chitter of
the string,
--It isn’t frilly playin’ but he makes that fiddle
sing.
He slashes out promis’cus, sort o’ mixin’ up
the tune,
--Takes the _Irish Washerivoman_, slams’er up
agin _Zip Coon_;
And he _Speeds the Plough_ a minute, then he’ll
sort o’change his mind
And go off a-gallivantin’ with the _Girl I left
Behind._
Oh, he mixes up his music queerest way I ever
saw,
For he shifts the tune he’s playin’ ev’ry time
he shifts his chaw;
But we never mind the changes for he keeps us
on the climb,
--He may twist the tune a little but he’s thun-
der on the time!
So line up and choose your pardners--we’re
the old ones out for fun,
You’ll forgit your stiff rheumaticks jest as soon
as you’ve begun.
’Course we ain’t so spry and spiffy as we used
to be, but yet
We can show them waltzy youngsters jest a
thing or two, you bet.
We will dance the good old contras as we used
to years ago,
Jest as long as Uncle Branscomb has the
strength to yank the bow.
There is no one under sixty--we’ve shet out
the youngster gang
And we’re goin’ to welt the wickin’ at the old
folks’ whang.
--At the old folks’ whang
Hear the cowhides bang,
When we canter up the center at the old folks’
whang.
IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD
O, the sleddin’s gettin’ ragged and it’s dodge
and skip and skive,
Till it’s jest an aggravation for to try to start
and drive.
Fust to this side, then to t’other--here some
ice and there some snow,
--Just continyal gee and holler; fust “Gid-
dap,” and then it’s “Whoa!”
Takes a half a day to git there, round by way
o’ Robin Hood;
Like as not ye’ll bust your riggin’ haulin’ out
your hay and wood.
’Tain’t no way o’ doin’ bus’ness; ’tain’t no
way to haul a load,
--You must do your hefty haulin’ in the mid-
dle of the road.
If ye want to keep a-hoein’
Better wait for settled goin’,
For twice the heft goes easy in the middle of
the road.
O, in dealin’s with your neighbors, brother,
sure as you’re alive,
It’s better to go straight ahead and never skip
or skive.
For the man who keeps a-dodgin’ back and
forth across the way
Like enough will find his outfit in the gutter,
stuck to stay.
Till the road is clear and settled, till with can-
dor in your heart
You can see your way before you, guess ye
hadn’t better start;
For to get there square and easy; and to lug
your honest load,
You’ll find it’s best to travel in the middle of
the road.
--So’s to make an honest showin’
Better wait for settled goin’,
Then, s’r, hustle brisk and stiddy in the mid-
dle of the road.
DRIVIN’ THE STAGE
Drivin’ the stage,
Oh, drivin’ the stage,
With the wind fairly peelin’ your hide with its
aidge!
Jest got to git through with the’Nited States
For the contract provisions don’t have the
word “Fail.”
So it’s out and tread drifts while the snow
howls and sifts
For a dollar a trip--and no extrys--no gifts.
For them star-route contractors they figger it
fine
And take it right out of the chaps on the line.
They set in an office and rake in their slice
While the drivers are tusslin’ the snow and the
ice.
It may howl, it may yowl, it may snow, it may
blow
But that’Nited States mail, wal, it jest has to
go.
So it’s out and unhitch, leave the pung where
it’s stuck,
Lo’d the bags on the hosses and then, durn ye,
huck!
And it’s waller and struggle, walk stun’-walls
and rails
For they don’t stand no foolin’--them’Nited
States mails.
And at last when ye git there, jest tuckered
and beat,
And sling in the bags and crowd up to the
heat,
The gang round the stove they don’t give ye
no praise
But set there and toast themselves’side of the
blaze;
And ev’ry old, wobble-shanked son of a gun
Sets up there and tells ye how he would have
done!
--If there’s any one job gives your temper an
aidge,
It’s drivin’ the stage,
--It’s drivin’ the stage.
“DOC”
In his big, fur coat and with mittens big as
hams,
With his string of bells a-jingling, through the
country side he slams.
There are lots of calls to make and he’s always
on the tear,
A-looming in his cutter like an amiable bear.
And it’s hi-i-i, there!
Johnny don’t ye care,
Though’tis aching something awful and is
most too much to bear.
Just--be--gay!
As soon as it is day,
That pain will go a-flyin’, for the doctor’s on
the way.
There are real, true saints; there are angels all
around,
But there isn’t one that’s welcomer than he is,
I’ll be bound.
When he bustles in the bed-room and he dumps
his buff’ler coat,
And sticks a glass thermometer a-down the
suff’rin throat.
And it’s chirk, cheer up!
Mother, bring a cup!
You’re going to like this bully when you take
a little sup.
There--there--why,
There’s a twinkle in your eye!
You’ll be out again to-morrow, bub; gid-dap,
gid-dap, good-bye!
ANOTHER “TEA REBELLION”
When Mis’ Augusty Nichols joined the Tufts
Minerva Club,
She polished up on manners and she then com-
menced to rub
At the hide of Mister Nichols who, while not
exactly rude,
Was hardly calculated for a howling sort of
dude.
Now when Augusty Nichols got to see how
style was run,
You bet she went for Nichols and she dressed
him down like fun;
And the thing in all his actions that she couldn’t
bear to see
Was to have him fill his saucer and go whoof-
ling up his tea.
After more’n a month of stewing;--making
mis’able his life,
She taught him not to shovel all his vittles
with his knife.
And after more’n a volume of pretty spicy talk
She got him in the hang of eating pie with just
his fork.
She trained him so’s he didn’t slop the vittles
round his plate,
She plagued him till he wouldn’t sit in shirt-
sleeves when he ate,
And then she tried her Waterloo, with faith in
high degree
That she could revolutionize his way of drink-
ing tea.
He drank it as his father always quaffed the
cheering cup,
He poured it in his saucer, raised the brimming
puddle up
And gathered in the liquid with a loud re-
sounding “Swoof”
That now at last inspired Mrs. Nichols’ fierce
reproof.
But here was where the victim--ah, here was
where the worm
Arose and fairly scared her by the vigor of his
squirm,
--Sat down his steaming saucer and with a
dangerous light
A-gleaming in his visage, he upbore a Yan-
kee’s right.
From the days of Boston’s party up to now I
think you’ll see
That a Yankee’s independent when you bother
with his tea.
“Consarn your schoolmarm notions,” thun-
dered Mrs. Nichols’ spouse,
“You’ve kept a’dingin’ at me till I’m meechin
round the house.
I’ve swallered that and t’other for I didn’t like
to row
But ye ain’t a-going to boss me in the thing
ye’ve tackled now.
I’m durned if I’ll be scalded all the time I’m
being stung
So I’ll cool my tea, Mis’ Nichols, while ye jab
me with your tongue.”
There are rights ye cannot smother, tyrants,
whoso’er ye be,
And the good, New England Yankee’s mighty
touchy, sir, on tea.
“LIKE AN OLD COW’S TAIL”
When I was a youngster and lived on the farm
It sickened my heart--did that morning alarm!
When dad came along to the foot of the stairs
And summoned me back to my duties and
cares;
--Put all of my glorious visions to rout
With “Breakfast is ready! LP h’ist out there,
h’ist out!”
And when I came yawningly, sleepily down,
My eyes “full of sticks” and my face all
a-frown,
I got for a greeting this jocular hail,
“Wal, always behind like an old cow’s tail.”
I’ll own to you, neighbor, that work on the
farm
Had features not wholly surrounded by charm.
And when I am fashioning lyrical praise
For matters bucolic of earlier days,
You’ll note that my lyre, sir, operates best
When I tune up and sing of the blessings of
rest.
I’ve stood in the stow-hole and “tread” on the
load,
And waltzed with a bush scythe and worked
on the road,
But somehow or other the language won’t
spring
When prowess of muscle I venture to sing.
But when I am piping of “resting” or fun
Or lauding the time after chores are all done,
Why, somehow--why, blame it, as sure as
you’re born,
I mentally feel that my trolley is on!
And a trolley, you know, would be certain to
fail,
Unless’twas behind like an old cow’s tail.
PASSING IT ALONG
The elephant he started in and made tremen-
dous fuss
Alleging he was crowded by the hippopotamus;
He entertained misgivings that the earth was
growing small,
And arrived at the conclusion that there wasn’t
room for all.
Then the hippo got to thinking and he was
frightened too
And so he passed the word along and sassed the
kangaroo.
The kangaroo as promptly took alarm and
talked of doom
And ordered all the monkeys off the earth to
give him room.
And the monkeys jawed the squirrels and the
squirrels jawed the bees,
While the bees gave Hail Columby to the
minges and the fleas,
--In the microscopic kingdom of the microbes,
I will bet
That word of greedy jealousy is on its travels
yet;
All just because the elephant got scared and
made a fuss
Alleging he was crowded by the hippopotamus.
A SETTIN’ HEN
When a hen is bound to set,
Seems as though ’tain’t etiket
Dowsin’ her in water till
She’s connected with a chill.
Seems as though ’twas skursely right
Givin’ her a dreadful fright,
Tyin’ rags around her tail,
Poundin’ on an old tin pail,
Chasin’ her around the yard.
--Seems as though ’twas kind of hard
Bein’ kicked and slammed and shooed
’Cause she wants to raise a brood.
I sh’d say it’s gettin’ gay
Jest’cause natur’ wants its way.
--While ago my neighbor, Penn,
Started bustin’ up a hen;
Went to yank her off the nest,
Hen, though, made a peck and jest
Grabbed his thumb-nail good and stout,
Almost yanked the darn thing out.
Penn he twitched away and then
Tried again to grab that hen.
But, by ginger, she had spunk
’Cause she took and nipped a junk
Big’s a bean right out his palm,
Swallered it, and cool and calm
Hi’sted up and yelled “Cah-dah,”
--Sounded like she said “Hoo-rah.”
Wal, sir, when that hen done that
Penn he bowed, took off his hat,
--Spunk jest suits him, you can bet,
“Set,” says he, “gol darn ye, SET.”
BALLAD OF DEACON PEASLEE
There was Uncle Ezry Cyphers and Uncle
Jonas Goff,
And Deacon Simon Peaslee, with his solemn
vestry cough;
Mis’ Ann Matilda Bellows and Aunt Almiry
Hunt,
--At all the social meetings they performed
their earnest stunt.
They were strong in exhortation, and pro-
foundly entertained
The belief that talking did it if a Heavenly
Home were gained.
So they rose on Tuesday evening, at Friday
meeting, too,
And informed their friends and neighbors what
the sinners ought to do;
They explained the route to Heaven and ex-
horted all to go
In the straight and narrow pathway through
the blandishments below;
They were good and they were earnest, but,
alas, a little tame,
For month by month and year by year their
talks were just the same,
Until the folks who’d listened all those many
years could start
And declaim those exhortations, for they had
’em all by heart.
And those old folks talked so constant there
was scarcely time to sing,
For they just let in regardless and monopolized
the thing.
Now, benign old Parson Johnson died at last.
There’s scarcely doubt
That those prosy dissertations sort of wore
the old man out.
And he promptly was succeeded ere the church
had dried its tears
By a cocky, youthful pastor, who was full of
new ideas.
Now, he sized the situation ere he’d been in
town a week,
And he set to work to fix it by a plan that was
unique,
For he saw unless he did so--and the Lord
allowed them breath,
Those devoted saints would surely talk that
wearied church to death.
So he came to Tuesday meeting and upon his
desk he placed
A nickeled teacher’s call-bell and blandly then
he faced
An astonished congregation and explained he
thought it best
To condense the exhortations so as not to
crowd the rest;
For he said that in the worship all the members
ought to share,
And monopoly of talking by the elders wasn’t
fair;
Therefore, each could have five minutes, and
he’d ring to let each know
When ’twas time to cut the discourse and give
t’other one a show.
There were scowls from Uncle Ezry--there
were grunts from Uncle Goff,
And Deacon Simon Peaslee gave a scornful
vestry cough.
Then he laid his cane beside him and he strug-
gled to his feet
And commenced his regular discourse in re-
gard to tares and wheat.
He was scarcely fairly going on the punish-
ments of hell
When the pastor smiled and nodded and ding-
clink-ling went the bell!
All the old folks gasped in horror and a titter
soft and low
Ran along the youthful sinners who were back
on Devil’s Row;
And for just a thrilling instant Deacon Simon
lost his force,
With astonished jaws a-gaping--then continued
on his course.
To the pastor’s youthful visage swept a sudden
flush of wrath,
As the obstinate old deacon brushed him calmly
from his path,
And with all the college muscle that he had at
his command
The parson cuffed the call-bell with a swift
and steady hand.
There was riot in the vestry--deacon vieing
with the bell,
As he strove to paint the terrors of the hot,
John Wesley hell,
Till at last he balked and stuttered, gasped a
while and tried to speak,
Then sat down with tears a-dropping through
the furrows on his cheek.
There he bent in voiceless anguish with his old
gray head bowed low,
While the hushed and pitying people mourned
to see him grieving so;
And the parson left the platform and contritely
crept across
To the side of Deacon Simon and expressed his
deep remorse.
But the deacon raised his visage, and, with tears
still streaming down,
Glared upon his trembling pastor with a fierce
and scornful frown.
“Drat yer hide,” roared Deacon Simon, “do
ye think that leetle bell
Scart a warrior sech as I am out of talking
truths on hell?
’Tain’t no passon sets me down, sah! ’Tain’t
no bell ye ever saw,
But ye went and got me narvous and ye’ve
made me eat my chaw.”
Then the deacon, stern and angry, arm in arm
with Jonas Goff,
And with Uncle Cyphers trailing, stalked in
righteous dudgeon off,
And the sympathizing parish held a meeting
there and then,
And extolled the absent deacon as the most
abused of men;
And the parson’s walking papers hit his neck
below the jaw
In about the same location that the deacon lost
his chaw.
THE WORST TEACHER
_That teacher was the worst we ever tackled,
He warnt so very tall, and he was light.
--It is best to lay your egg before you’ve
cackled,
Though we never had a notion he could fight._
He acted sort of meechin’ when he opened up
the school,
--We sort of got the notion he was “It”--
and we tagged gool,
We gave him lots of jolly in a free and easy
way,
And showed him how we handled guys as got
to acting gay.
We showed him where the other one had torn
away the door
When we lugged him out and dumped him in
the snow the year before.
And soon’s we thought we’d scared him, we sat
and chawed and spit,
And kind o’ thought we’d run the school--con-
cludin’ he was “It.”
It worked along in that way, sir, till Friday
afternoon.
--We hadn’t lugged him out that week, but
’lowed to do it soon.
That Friday,’long about three o’clock, he said
there’d be recess,
And said, “The smaller kids and girls can go
for good, I guess.”
And he mentioned smooth and smily, but with
kind of greenish eyes,
That the big boys were requested to remain
for exercise.
And when he called us in again he up and
locked the door,
Shucked off his co’t and weskit, took the mid-
dle of the floor,
And talked about gymnastys in a quiet little
speech,
--Then he made a pass at Haskell, who was
nearest one in reach.
’Twas hot and stiff and sudden and it took him
on the jaw,
And that was all the exercise the Haskell feller
saw.
Then jumpin’ over Haskell’s seat, he sauntered
up the aisle,
A-hittin’ right and hittin’ left and wearin’ that
same smile.
And when a feller started up and tried to hit
him back,
’Twas slipper-slapper, whacko-cracker, whango-
bango-crack!!
And never, sir, in all your life, did you see
flippers whiz
In such a blame, chain-lightnin’ style as them
’ere hands of his.
And though we hit and though we dodged--or
rushed by twos and threes,
He simply strolled around that room and licked
us all with ease.
And when the thing was nicely done, he
dumped us in the yard,
He clicked the padlock on the door and passed
us all a card.
And this was what was printed there: “Pro-
fessor Joseph Tate,
Athletics made a specialty and champion mid-
dleweight.”