He warn’t 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._
THE TUCKVILLE GRAND BALL
Origen Dickerson called the figgers
With a voice like a cart ex that needed some
grease.
He and his partner would fiddle like niggers
For supper an’ dollar an’ fifty apiece.
With forty couple upon the floor--
There wasn’t an inch for no one more,
We done the honors for all three towns
At the high, old Tuckville spanker-downs.
Yeak, yawk,
Grab for your pardners!
Yawk, yawk,
Wo’ hi-i-ish inter line!
Yankity, yump-de,
Yankity, yah-h de!
--For a fife and two fiddles that music was
fine.
And we pelted the floor and sashayed through
the door,
And balanced to pardners and sashayed some
more.
And when we got orders to “all hands
around!”
Warn’t half of the girls that could stay on the
ground.
For-rud and back! Wo’ haw, there, to Ella.
Wo’ buck inter line and balance to Grace.
Grab holt o’ hands, there, and swing by yer
feller,
Clek--clek, gid-dap-along, git inter place.
And the dust would rise and the lamps would
shake
Till ye’d think their chimblys was goin’ to
break.
For we’tended to dancin’ right up brown
At a high old Tuckville spanker-down.
Squeak, squawk,
Pick out yer feller!
Raw-w-wk, raw-w-wk,
Form on your set!
High-deedle, do-o-o de,
High-deedle, dah-h-h-de!
We swung by the waist in them dances, you
bet.
There wasn’t kid slippers, there wasn’t tight
boots,
There wasn’t silk dresses, there wasn’t dude
suits,
There wasn’t no banquet--ten dollars for two--
But a good brimmin’ bowlful of hot oyster
stew.
We’d darnce twenty numbers and all the en-
cores,
--Get home in the mornin’’bout time for the
chores--
And all the next day the work was like play,
The girls doin’ housework would waltz and
sashay;
The boys would astonish the stock in the yard
By forgettin’ and yellin’, “Hi, all promunard!”
Hi-i-i, yah-h-h!
Ladies to center, there!
Hi-i-i, yah-h-h!
Balance ye all!
Wo’ hi-ish up the middle, bear down on the
fiddle,
By ginger,’twas fun at the Tuckville Grand
Ball.
THE ONE-RING SHOW
The street parade was gorgeous and the show
was mighty fine
--Them fellers on the trick trapeze was cork-
ers in their line,
And all the lady riders was as pretty as they’re
made,
And kept the climate fully up to ninety in the
shade.
The chaps that did the tumbling acts and every
funny clown
Was just as slick an article as ever came to
town.
I’ve got to tell yon, neighbor, that it all was up
in G,
Including all the things I saw and what I
didn’t see.
But though I did a master sight of rubber-
neckin’’round,
A-lookin’ here and gawpin’ there, why, gra-
cious, me, I found
From what the folks have told me since, I
missed the finest things,
--I hadn’t eyes and neck enough for all them
three big rings.
And honest, if 1 had my choice, I’d good deal
ruther go
To just a good, old-fashioned sort of hayseed,
one-ring show.
The people used to gather when Van Amburgh
came to town
With a lion and an elephant, a camel and a
clown.
There wasn’t “miles of splendor,” as the cir-
cus programs say,
But folks got up at daylight, drove in early in
the day;
And they perched along the fences while the
dozen carts or so
Came trailin’ through the village with the old
Van Amburgh show.
It wasn’t just “stupendous,” but the people
didn’t jeer
And say it wasn’t up to what the circus was
last year!
O, no, they crunched their peanuts and they
took things as they’d come,
And heard a lot of music in the rump-rump of
the drum.
For things, you know, seemed fresher in the
days when we were young,
And tinsel passed for solid stuff when lady
riders sprung
Through papered hoops, or danced and frisked
upon their charger’s rump
And vaulters spun to dizzy heights with one
jer-oosly jump.
They did those ding-does master fine some
twenty years ago
And you never missed a wiggle at a one-ring
show.
I won’t pick flaws with modern ways of doing
all these things,
For folks have got to living on the gauge of
three big rings.
But while the whirl is going on, it seems, my
friend, to me
That half of what goes past your nose is things
that you don’t see.
And when the angel cries, “All done,” and
when the lights go out,
You’ll jostle to the dark Beyond amidst a diz-
zied rout.
And life that’s lived at three ring pace I fear
will only seem
A useless sort of patchwork thing--a mixed-
up fruitless dream.
Why wasn’t “father’s way” the best? Though
there was less array,
Though men had less of creeds and cults than
what they have to-day,
The old folks then from Life’s great tent went
slowly thronging out
With calm, well-ordered years behind, unvexed
by care or doubt.
And though in old Van Amburgh’s days the
thing moved rather slow,
You didn’t sprain your moral neck in looking
at Life’s Show.
THE SWITCH FOR HIRAM BROWN
That Hiram Brown he come to school and
brung in seven ticks;
He picked them off his father’s sheep--jes’ like
his dratted tricks!
One day that critter put a toad right in our
teacher’s chair,
She squatted down--and then got up! And
warn’t she mad for fair?
He brung in crawly bugs and things, a mouse
and onct a rat,
An’ then he sort o’ wound things up with
suthin’ wusser’n that.
The teacher cotched him that time, though, and
my! she combed him down
An’ I was sent to cut the switch that walloped
Hiram Brown.
Them ticks was in a pill-box doctor left when
Bill was sick,
An’ they was measly lookin’ things;--say,
j’ever see a tick?
While we was readin’ testermunt Hi stirred
’em with a pin,
--We all was wond’rin’ what he’d got, for he
was on the grin.
Then when the teacher turned her back, Hi
made for Ozy Blair
An’ turned the whole blamed seven ticks right
loose in Ozy’s hair.
Then Ozy had a spasm fit like what he’s sub-
jick to;
He squalled and clawed and bumped around till
he was black an’ blue.
An’ teacher took her fine-toothed comb an’
raked an’ scraped his head,
--It come nigh bustin’ up the school that way
that he raised Ned!
The teacher made us all set up as stiff and
straight as sticks,
An’ then says she, all raspy-like, “Who was it
brung them ticks?”
We couldn’t help it--swow to man!--We
looked at Hiram Brown
An’ Hi he set there redd’nin’ up and sort o’
lookin’ down.
An’ teacher sniffed an’ then she scowled an’
giv’ her sleeves a twitch,
An’ turned to me an’ then says she, “Ike, go
an’ cut a switch.”
’Twas dretful nice outdoors that day--it set a
feller wishin’
That he could cut an’ run from school an’ put
his time in fishin’.
’Twas one them soft’nin’ sort of days an’ while
I was a-pickin’
A switch, it come acrost me what a shame to git
a lickin’
On such a mighty pleasant day. So I shinned
up a tree
An’ cut a slimpsy popple switch that wouldn’t
hurt a flea.
Then I went in--there teacher was, a-waitin’
by the door,
The scholars set as still as death an’ Bill stood
in the floor.
But how they snickered when they see that
dinky little switch,
--The teacher broke it up on me an’ giv’ my
ear a twitch,
Says she, “You try that on agin, you’ll
git it
worse, you clown!
Now go, an’ see’f you know enough to cut
that switch for Brown.”
Seems’s if it warn’t so nice outdoors. It kind
o’ stirred my mad
To divvy up that way with Hi--‘Cause ’twasn’t
me ’twas bad!
Says I, “By jing, I’ll even up.” I took my
biggest blade
An’ cut a switch that, honest true, it almost
made me ’fraid.
I didn’t trim it very dus’--by snummy, I felt
wicked,
I left the knobs all stickin’ out--an’ some of ’em
was pick-ed.
I passed ’er in. The teacher she ker-wished it
through the air,
An’ Hi he shivered; ’twas enough to fairly
curl his hair.
She fixed her hairpins so’s her pug it couldn’t
tumble down,
An’ then says she, like bitin’ nails, “Take off
your coat, Hi Brown.”
Then Hiram Brown he got right down an’
begged an’ teased an’ prayed,
She hit him once--an easy clip--an’ then he
fairly brayed.
He acted out in master style;--why, sence he’s
come of age
He’s makin’ money like all sin, play-actin’ on
the stage.
Our teacher was an easy mark--the tender
hearted kind--
When Hiram got to takin on she went and
changed her mind.
Says she, “You’ve been a naughty boy but if
you now repent
I’ll spare the rod but punish you in this way.”
Jee, she went
An’ sent that Hi acrost the room to sit with
Helen Dean,
The girl I liked the best in school; an’ Hi was
jest serene!
That warn’t the wust, for after school he licked
me like the deuce
Because I left them knobs all on. Oh, thun-
der, what’s the use
Of tryin’ to be good, sometimes? I know it’s
wicked talk
To intimate that vice may ride when virtue has
to walk;
To hint that folks of honest ways but moderate
in wits
May have their noses rubbed in dirt by rascal
hypocrites,
But truly, friends, it does appear that only mar-
tyrs’ crowns
Are passed to worth down here on earth;--the
rest to Hiram Browns.
THE JUMPER
Ba gor! J jomp an’ jomp all tam’
Bot jos’ can’t halp dat--dere she am!
Cos’ w’en som’ fellaire he say “Boo!”
Morgee! I jomp an’ holler, too.
Long tam’,’way back ma broder, Joe,
Hav’ gon’roun’ house, an’ off she go.
--Go bang, r-rat clos’ op side ma ear;
Sence w’en I ac’ dis way--dat queer!
I tak’ med’ceen--don’t geet som’ cure.
Gass I got jomp-ops now for sure.
An’ mos’ all tam’ som’ son er gon
T’ink mak’ me jomp--wal, dat ban fon.
I’ll tal yo’ wan t’ing dat ban true--
Las’ spreeng dey beeld dat r-ra’ltrack t’rough
R-rat pas’ ma house, an’ w’at yo’ s’pose?
Dem ra’ltrack fellaires, wal, he goes
Sot pos’ for whees-el side ma door,
An’ den--wal, p’rap I didn’t swore!
Wan tra’n com’ pas’ long jos’ ’bout noon,
An’ go “whoot-toot!” Wal, bamby, soon,
Wa’n’t no whol’ deeshes ’round--for why?
’Cos’, sacre, I jomp op sky-high
An’ keeck dat table’roun’ dat plac’
An’ lat som’ howl com’ off ma face.
Dat vife he skeer mos’ near on death,
An’ all dem shildreen hoi’ deir breath
For saw deir fadder ac’ lak’ dat
An’ geeve dose dinnaire wan beeg slat.
An’ wan tra’n she go pas’ on night,
Long ’bout de tarn’ I sle’p mos’ tight.
An’ w’en she whees-el, “Whoot-too-too!”
I jomp lak’ wil’ cat, I tal you.
I heet ma vife gre’t beeg hard slams
An’ black her eye mos’ seexteen tarn’s.
Till las’ she go off sle’p down stair,
--She say I worse as greezly bear,
Bot w’at yo’ t’ink? I swore dis true,
I nevaire know w’at t’ing I do.
Wal, w’en t’ings geet bos’ op dat way,
I ban saw ra’ltrack boss wan day.
I tal heem ’bout I poun’ ma vife,
--Can’t halp dat t’ing for save ma life--
An’ he--he blor-rt, lak’ wan gre’t caff,
An’ lean way back an’ laff an’ laff.
I don’t saw nottin’s dere for fon
’Bout havin’ dat ol’ ra’ltrack ron
Op pas’ ma house an’ hav’ dem car
Male’ me bos’ op ma home, ba gar!
I tol’ heem dat bam-by dat soun’
Ban mak’ me keeck dat whol’ house down.
“I’ll tal yo’ w’at,” say he bam-by,
--He wap’ hees eye off lak’ he cry--
“I’ll tol’ yo’ w’at dees ro’d weell do:
We’ll send op our construckshong crew,
We’ll beeld, to show dat we hain’t mean,
Wan good, beeg cage an’ pot yo’ een.”
Ba gar! Dat all I geet off heem!
--I weesh dey not fin’ out dat steam!
ISHMAEL’S BREED
Horde of the Great Unwashed! Hobo and
moucher and bum,
Vag and yag and grafter and tramp, we care-
lessly go and come.
Of the morrow we take no heed, no care infests
the day,
Plenty of gump and a train to jump--a grip on
the rods and away!
To the grab for the gear of greed we give no
thought or care,
We own with you the arch of blue--our share
of God’s good air;
--A coin to clear the law, a section of rubber
hose
To soften the chafe of the truss and rod--our
portion of cast-off clothes;
And ours the world--the world! a heritage
won by right,
--By tacit deed to the nomad breed with the
taint of the Ishmaelite.
Some from the wastes of the sage-brush,
some from the orange land,
Some from “God’s own country,” dusty and
tattered and tanned.
Wherefore? ’Tis idle to tell you--you’d
never understand.
Hither and fro,
We come--we go,
Old Father Ishmael’s band.
Yags-will sometimes walk, a tramp will hit the
grit,
But a hobo never will count the ties so long as
he keeps his wit.
There’s the truss of the Wagner freight, the
rods and the jolting truck,
You can grab and swing at the yard-line post
if you’ve muscle enough and pluck.
There’s the perch of the pilot, too, where you’re
target for lumps of coal,
For a shack or a fireman never thinks we’ve
either nerves or soul.
If you’ve taken the full degrees and have cov-
ered the “Honey Route,”
Have fired a rock at the “Fox Train crew,” and
knocked a Doughface out,
You are man for the king-pin act! Here’s hop-
ing you have success
When you risk your neck on the smoke-swept
“deck” of the Limited Express.
Some from the slopes of the Rockies, some
from the Ogden route,
Where the meek old Mormon matrons hand
the milk and honey out,
--West and south and northward--and
t’other way about,
On tank and wall,
You’ll find the scrawl
Of the tramp’s monarka-scout.
Taint of the nomad’s blood! God, if we could
but burst
From the thrall of vags and drop our rags and
cleave to the best--not worst!
Each day on a town’s main-drag, as we’re
flaggin’ some house for prog,
The smile of a child or a maiden’s face will give
our hearts a jog.
And I--yes, even I, have flicked at a sudden tear
And have turned my back on Smoky Jack lest
he see the thing and jeer.
Spur of the nomad’s taint! Back to the ring-
ing rails
That coaxingly curve to the far unknown!
Confusion to courts and jails!
The “goat” is coughing the grade; grab for
the rods, there, Jack,
Look out for your grip, for a bit of a slip will
toss you to grease the track.
Bound for the Greasers’ sage-brush, under
the roaring train,
Decking the fast expresses from Texas north
to Maine,
Grimy and tattered and blinded, Ishmael’s
blood our bane,
We ride--we ride,
To hope denied,
Cursed with the curse of Cain.