By Holman F. Day

Boston: Small, Maynard & Company

1902

TO THE HONORABLE JOHN ANDREW PETERS, LL.D. FORMER CHIEF JUSTICE OF THE SUPREME JUDICIAL COURT OF MAINE I DEDICATE THIS VOLUME IN MEMORY OF MANY YEARS OF FRIENDSHIP AND IN SINCERE APPRECIATION OF THE JURIST AND WIT WHO HAS IN ALL DIGNITY EVER TURNED A SMILING FACE TOWARD HIS MAINE THAT HAS SMILED LOVINGLY BACK AT HIM

CONTENTS

FOREWORD

PINE TREE BALLADS

OUR HOME FOLKS

FEEDIN’ THE STOCK

JOHN W. JONES

DEED OF THE OLD HOME PLACE

OUR HOME FOLKS

THANKSGIVIN’ JIM

“OLD POSH”

THE SUN-BROWNED DADS OF MAINE

“HEAVENLY CROWN” RICH

OLD “FIGGER-FOUR”

PHEBE AND ICHABOD

WHEN OUR HERO COMES TO MAINE

UNCLE TASCUS AND THE DEED

SONGS OF THE SEA AND SHORE

TALE OF A SHAG-EYED SHARK

THE GREAT JEEHOOKIBUS WHALE

“AS BESEEMETH MEN”

THE NIGHT OF THE WHITE REVIEW

THE BALLAD OF ORASMUS NUTE

THE DORYMAN’S SONG

WE FELLERS DIGGIN’ CLAMS

DAN’L AND DUNK

THE AWFUL WAH-HOOH-WOW

SKIPPER JASON ELLISON

BALLADS OF DRIVE AND CAMP

THE RAPO-GENUS CHRISTMAS BALL

BALLADS OF DRIVE AND CAMP

WHEN THE ALLEGASH DRIVE GOES THROUGH

THE KNIGHT OF THE SPIKE-SOLE BOOTS

’BOARD FOR THE ALLEGASH”

THE WANGAN CAMP

PLUG TOBACCO AT SOURDNAHUNK

O’CONNOR FROM THE DRIVE

JUST HUMAN NATURE

BALLAD OF OZY B. ORR

THE BALLAD OF “OLD SCRATCH”

WHEN ’LISH PLAYED OX

OLD “TEN PER CENT”

DIDN’T BUST HIS FORK

MEAN SAM GREEN

DICKERER JIM

BALLAD OF BENJAMIN BRANN

THE HEIRS

A. B. APPLETON, “PIRUT”

NEXT TO THE HEART

WITH LOVE—FROM MOTHER

THE QUAKER WEDDING

THE MADAWASKA WOOING

THE SONG OF THE MAN WHO DRIVES

THE OLD PEWTER PITCHER

OUR GOOD PREVARICATORS

OUR LIARS HERE IN MAINE

THE BALLAD OF DOC PLUFF

THE BALLAD OF HUNNEMAN TWO

ORADUDOLPH MOODY, REPRESENTATIVE-ELECT

TRIBUTE TO MR. ATKINS’S BASS VOICE

JIM’S TRANSLATION

ELIPHALET JONES—INVENTOR

THE PANTS JEMIMY MADE

BALLADS OF “CAPERS AND ACTIONS”

BALLAD OF ELKANAH B. ATKINSON

BALLAD OF OBADI FRYE

AT THE OLD FOLKS’ WHANG

IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD

DRIVIN’ THE STAGE

“DOC”

ANOTHER “TEA REBELLION”

“LIKE AN OLD COW’S TAIL”

PASSING IT ALONG

A SETTIN’ HEN

BALLAD OF DEACON PEASLEE

THE WORST TEACHER

THE TUCKVILLE GRAND BALL

THE ONE-RING SHOW

THE SWITCH FOR HIRAM BROWN

THE JUMPER

ISHMAEL’S BREED

FOREWORD

|THESE are plain tales of picturesque character-phases in Maine Yankeedom from the Allegash to the ocean. These are the men whose hands are blistered by plow-handle and ax, or whose calloused palms are gouged by the trawls. Their heads are as hard as the stones piled around their acres. Their wit is as keen as the bush-scythes with which they trim their rough pastures. But their hearts are as soft as the feather beds in their spare-rooms.

The frontispiece to this volume is from a photograph of “Uncle Solon” Chase, the widely known sage of Chase’s Mills in Andros-coggin county.

In Greenback days he won national fame as “Them Steers” and his quaint sayings have traveled from the Atlantic to the Pacific. There is no man in Maine who better typifies the homespun humor, honesty, and intelligence of Yankeedom. The picture opposite page 126 is from a photograph of the late Ezra Stephens of Oxford county, famed years ago as “the P. T. Barnum of Maine.” He originated the dancing turkey, the wonderful bird that appears in the story of “Ozy B. Orr.”

In another picture is shown “Jemimy” at her old loom and beside her are the swifts and the spinning wheel. The pictures illustrating “Elkanah B. Atkinson” (a poem commemorating a real episode in the life of Barney McGonldrick of Cherry field Tavern) and “John W. Jones” are character studies that will appeal to those who are acquainted with Maine rural life.

The thanks of the author and of the publish-ers are due to The Saturday Evening Post of Philadelphia, The Youth’s Companion, Ainslee’s Magazine, and Everybody’s Magazine, for permission to include in this volume verses which originally appeared in their columns, copyrighted by them.

FEEDIN’ THE STOCK

Hear the chorus in that tie-up, runch, ger-

runch, and runch and runch!

—There’s a row of honest critters! Does me

good to hear ’em munch.

When the barn is gettin’ dusky and the sun’s

behind the drifts,

—Touchin’ last the gable winder where the

dancin’ hay-dust sifts,

When the coaxin’ from the tie-up kind o’ hints

it’s five o’clock—

Wal, I’ve got a job that suits me—that’s the

chore of feedin’ stock.

We’ve got patches down to our house—honest

patches, though, and neat,

But we’d rather have the patches than to skinch

on what we eat.

Lots of work, and grub to back ye—that’s a

mighty wholesome creed.

—Critters fust, s’r, that’s my motto—give the

critters all they need. ‘

And the way we do at our house, marm and

me take what is left,

And—wal,—we ain’t goin’ hungry, as you’ll

notice by our heft.

Drat the man that’s calculatin’ when he meas-

ures out his hay,

Groanin’ ev’ry time he pitches ary forkful out

the bay;

Drat the man who feeds out ruff-scuff, wood

and wire from the swale,

’Cause he wants to press his herds’-grass, send

his clover off for sale.

Down to our house we wear patches, but it

ain’t nobody’s biz

Jest as long as them ‘ere critters git the best of

hay there is.

When the cobwebs on the rafters drip with

winter’s early dusk

And the rows of critters’ noses, damp with

breath as sweet as musk,

Toss and tease me from the tie-up—ain’t a job

that suits me more

Than the feedin’ of the cattle—that’s the reg’-

lar wind-up chore.

When I grain ’em or I meal ’em—wal, there’s

plenty in the bin,

And I give ’em quaker measure ev’ry time I

dip down in;

And the hay, wal, now I’ve cut it, and I own

it and it’s mine

And I jab that blamed old fork in, till you’d

think I’d bust a tine.

I ain’t doin’ it for praises—no one sees me but

the pup,

—And I get his apperbation, ‘cause he pounds

his tail, rup, rup!

No, I do it ‘cause I want to; ‘cause I couldn’t

sleep a wink,

If I thought them poor dumb critters lacked for

fodder or for drink.

And to have the scufflin’ barnful give a jolly

little blat

When you open up o’ mornin’s, ah, there’s com-

fort, friend, in that!

And you’ve prob’ly sometimes noticed, when

his cattle hate a man,

That it’s pretty sure his neighbors size him up

on that same plan.

But I’m solid in my tie-up; when I’ve finished

up that chore,

I enjoy it standin’ list’nin’ for a minit at the

door.

And the rustle of the fodder and the nuzzlin’

in the meal

And the runchin’s of their feedin’ make this

humble feller feel

That there ain’t no greater comfort than this

’ere—to understand

That a dozen faithful critters owe their com-

fort to my hand.

Oh, the dim old barn seems homelike, with its

overhanging mows,

With its warm and battened tie-up, full of well-

fed sheep and cows.

Then I shet the door behind me, drop the bar

and drive the pin

And, with Jeff a-waggin’ after, lug the foamin’

milk pails in.

That’s the style of things to our house—marm

and me we don’t pull up

Until ev’ry critter’s eatin’, from the cattle to

the pup.

Then the biskits and the spare-rib and plum

preserves taste good,

For we’re feelin’, me and mother, that we’re

actin’ ’bout’s we should.

Like as can be, after supper mother sews an-

other patch

And she says the duds look trampy, ’cause she

ain’t got goods to match.

Fust of all, though, comes the mealbins and

the hay-mows; after those

If there’s any extry dollars, wal, we’ll see about

new clothes.

But to-night, why, bless ye, mother, pull the

rug acrost the door;

—Warmth and food and peace and comfort—

let’s not pester God for more.

JOHN W. JONES

A sort of a double-breasted face had old John

W. Jones,

Reddened and roughened by sun and wind,

with angular high cheek-bones.

At the fair, one time, of the Social Guild he re-

ceived unique renown

By being elected unanimously the homeliest

man in town.

The maidens giggled, the women smiled, the

men laughed loud and long,

And old John W. leaned right back and ho-

hawed good and strong.

And never was jest too broad for him—for all

of the quip and chaff

That assailed his queer old mug through life

he had but a hearty laugh.

“Ho, ho”, he’d snort, “haw, haw”, he’d roar;

“that’s me, my friends, that’s me!

Now hain’t that the most skew-angled phiz

that ever ye chanced to see?”

And then he would tell us this little tale.

“’Twas one dark night”, said he,

“I was driving along in a piece of woods and

there wasn’t a ray to see,

And all to once my cart locked wheels with

another old chap’s cart;

We gee-ed and backed but we hung there fast,

and neither of us could start.

Then the stranger man he struck a match, to

see how he’d git away,

And I vum, he had the homeliest face I’ve seen

for many a day.

Wal, jest for a joke I grabbed his throat and

pulled my pipe-case out,

And the stranger reckoned I had a gun, and he

wrassled good and stout.

But I got him down on his back at last and

straddled acrost his chest,

And allowed to him that he’d better plan to

go to his last long rest.

He gasped and groaned he was poor and old

and hadn’t a blessed cent,

And almost blubbering asked to know what

under the sun I meant.

Said I, ‘I’ve sworn if I meet a man that’s

homelier ’n what I be,

I’ll kill him. I reckin I’ve got the man.’ Says

he, ‘Please let me see?’

So I loosened a bit while he struck a match;

he held it with trembling hand

While through the tears in his poor old eyes

my cross-piled face he scanned.

Then he dropped the match and he groaned

and said, ‘If truly ye think that I

Am ha’f as homely as what you be—please

shoot! I want to die.’”

And the story always would start the laugh

and Jones would drop his jaw,

And lean’way back and slap his leg and

laugh,

“Ho, haw—haw—haw-w-w!”

That was Jones,

—John W. Jones,

Queer, Gothic old structure of cob-piled bones;

His droll, red face

Had not a trace

Of comeliness or of special grace;

But I tell you, friends, that candor glowed

In those true old eyes—those deep old

eyes,

And love and faith and manhood showed

Without disguise—without disguise.

Though he certainly won a just renown

As the homeliest man we had in town.

He never had married—that old John Jones;

he’d grubbed on his little patch,

Supported his parents until they died, and then

he had lived “old bach”.

We had some suspicions we couldn’t prove:

for years had an unknown man

Distributed gifts to the poor in town on a sort

of a Santa Claus plan.

If a worthy old widow was needing wood—

some night would that wood be left,

There was garden truck placed in the barns of

those by mishap or drought bereft.

And once when the night was clear and bright

in the glorious month of June,

Poor broken-legged Johnson’s garden was

hoed in the light of the great white moon.

And often some farmer by sickness weighed,

and weary, discouraged and poor,

Would find a wad of worn old bills tucked

carefully under his door.

And the tracks in the sod of this man who trod

by night on his secret routes

Were suspiciously like the other tracks that

were left by John Jones’ boots.

And the wheel-marks wobbled extremely like

the trail of Jones’ old cart,

But whatever his mercies he hid them all in the

depths of his warm old heart.

For whenever the neighbors would pin him

down, he’d lift his faded hat,

“Now, say”, he’d laugh, “can a man be good

with a physog such as that?”

Then came the days—the black, dread days

when the small-pox swept our town,

With pest-house crowded from sill to eaves and

the nurses “taken down.”

And panic reigned and the best went wild and

even the doctors fled,

And scarce was there one to aid the sick or

bury the awful dead.

But there in that pest house day and night a

man with quiet tones

And steady heart kept still at work—and that

was old John Jones.

While ever his joke was, “What! Afraid?

Why, gracious me, I’m fine,

And if I weren’t, a few more dents won’t harm

this face of mine”.

But those who writhed and moaned in pain

within that loathsome place

Saw beauty not of man and earth upon that

gnarled old face.

And when he eased their pain-racked forms or

brought the cooling draught,

They wondered if this saint could be the man

at whom they’d laughed.

And thus he fought, unwearied, brave, until

the Terror passed,

—And then, poor old John W. Jones, he had

the small-pox last.

And worn by vigils, toil, and fast, the fate he

had defied

Descended on him, stern and fierce,—he died,

my friends, he died.

They held one service at the church for all the

village dead.

The pastor, when he came to Jones, he choked

a bit and said:

“If handsome is as handsome does—and now

I say to you

I verily—I honestly believe that saying true.

—If handsome is as handsome does, we had

right here in town

A man whose beauty fairly shone—from

Heaven itself brought down.

At first, perhaps, we failed to grasp the con-

tour of that face,

But now with God’s own light on it we see its

perfect grace.

And so I say our handsomest man”—the pas-

tor hushed his tones,

With streaming eyes looked up and said, “was

old John W. Jones

Such was Jones,

—John W. Jones,

Queer, Gothic old structure of cob-piled bones;

His quaint, red face

Had not a trace

Of comeliness or of special grace.

But I tell you, friends, we drop this shell,

Just over There—just over There!

Good thoughts, good deeds, good hearts will

tell

In moulding souls, serene and fair,

And Jones will stand with harp and crown,

The handsomest angel from our old town.

DEED OF THE OLD HOME PLACE

Slowly the toil-cramped, gnarled old fist

Wrought at the sheet with a rasping pen;

Halted with tremulous quirk and twist,

Staggered, and then went on again.

The wan sun peeped through the wee patched

pane

And checkered the floor where the pale

beams shone

In a quaint old kitchen up in Maine,

With an old man writing there alone.

And the pen wrought on and the head drooped

low

And a tear plashed down on the rusted pen,

As it traced a verse of the long ago

That his grief had brought to his heart

again.

Be kind to thy father for when thou wast

young,

Who loved thee so fondly as lied

He caught the first accents that fell from

thy tongue.

And joined in thy innocent glee.

Be kind to thy father for now he is old,

His locks intermingled with gray;

His footsteps are feeble, once fearless and

bold

Thy father is passing away.

Be kind to thy mother for lo, on her brow,

May traces of sorrow be seen.

Oh, well mayst thou cherish and comfort

her now,

For loving and kind has she been.

Remember thy mother, for thee she will

pray

As long as God giveth her breath

With accents of kindness; then cheer her

hard way

E’en thro’ the dark valley of death.”

OUR HOME FOLKS

Listlessly threshed in a careless court

The poor, plain tale of a home was told,

Furnishing food for the lawyers’ sport

And a jest at the fond and the foolish old.

The counsel said as he winked an eye,

“Deeded the farm to their only son;

And after’twas deeded they didn’t die

Quite as quick as they should have done.”

Drearily dragged the homely case,

Petty and mean in all its parts;

Quest thro’ the law for an old home place,

—Put never a word of two broken hearts.

Only a suit where the son and wife

Pledged themselves when they coaxed the

deed,

To comfort the close of the old folks’ life:

—Only another case where greed

Sneered at the toil of the long, hard years

Of martyrdom to the hoe and axe,

Writ in wrinkles and etched in tears

And told in the curve of the old bent backs,

—Bent in the strife with the rocky soil,

When the grinding work was never done,

With just one rift in the cloud of toil:

—‘Twas all for the sake of their only son.

Simply a tedious legal maze

With neighbors stirring the thing for sport,

too.

And loungers eyeing with listless gaze

This queer old couple dragged to court.

Meekly they would have granted greed

All that it sought for—all its spoil;

Little they valued a forfeit deed,

Nor selfishly reckoned their years of toil.

Heartsick they while the lawyers urged,

Mute when the law vouchsafed their prayer;

—Courts soothe not such grief as surged

In the hearts of the old folks trembling there.

What though the jury’s word restored

The walls and roof of the old home place?

Would it give them back the blessed hoard

Of trust that knew no son’s disgrace?

Would it give them back his boyhood smiles,

His boyhood love, their simple joy,

Would it heal the wounds of these afterwhiles,

And make him again their own dear boy?

Would it soothe the smart of the cruel words,

Of sullen looks and cold neglect?

And dull the taunts that pierced like swords

And slashed where the wielders little recked?

No; Justice gives the walls and roof,

—To palsied hands a cancelled deed,

Rebuking with a stern reproof

A son’s unfilial, shameless greed.

But love that made that old home warm,

And hope that made all labor sweet,

The glow of peace that shamed the storm

And melted on the pane the sleet;

And faith and truth and loving hearts

And tender trust in fellow men—

Ah, these, my friend, no lawyers’ arts

Can give again, can give again.

THANKSGIVIN’ JIM

He always dodged ’round in a ragged old

coat,

With a tattered, blue comforter tied on his

throat.

His dusty old cart used to rattle and bang

As he yelled through the village, “Gid dap!”

and “Go ’lang!”

You’d think from his looks that he wa’n’t wuth

a cent;

—Was poorer than Pooduc, to judge how he

went.

But back in the country don’t reckon on style

To give ye a notion of anyone’s pile.

When he died and they figgered his pus’nal

estate,

He was mighty well-fixed—was old “Squeal-

in’ Jim” Waite.

But say, I’d advise ye to sort of look out

How ye say “Squealin’ Jim” when the’s

widders about.

They’re likely to light on ye, hot tar and pitch,

And give ye some points as to what, where and

which;

For if ever a critter was reckoned a saint

By the widders’round here, I’ll be dinged if he

ain’t.

For please understand that the widders call

him,

—Sheddin’ tears while they’re sayin’ it,—

“Thanksgivin’ Jim”.

He was little—why,

Wa’n’t scarce knee high

To a garden toad. But was mighty spry!

He was all of a whew

If he’d things to do!

’Twas a zip and a streak when Jim went

through.

But his voice was twice as big as him

And the boys all called him “Squealin’ Jim”.

He was always a-hurryin’ all through his life

And said there wa’n’t time for to hunt up a

wife.

So he kept bach’s hall and he worked like a

dog,

—Jest whooped right along at a trottin’ hoss

jog-

There’s a yarn that the fellers that knew him

will tell

If they want to set Jim out and set him out

well:

He was bound for the city on bus’ness one day

And whoosh! scooted down to the depot, they

say.

The depot-man says, “Hain’t no rush, Mr.

Waite,

For the train to the city is ten minutes late

Off flew Squealin’ Jim with his grip, on the

run,

And away down the track he went hoofin’ like

fun.

When he tore out of sight, couldn’t see him

for dust

And he squealed, “Train be jiggered! I’ll git

there, now, fust!”

—So nervous and active he jest wouldn’t wait

When they told him the train was a leetle dite

late.

Now that was Jim!

He was stubby and slim

But it took a spry critter to step up with him.

His height when he’d rise

Made ye laugh, but his eyes

Let ye know that his soul wasn’t much under-

size.

And some old widders we had in town

Insisted, reg’lar, he wore a crown.

As he whoopity-larruped along on his way,

There were people who’d turn up their noses

and say

That Squealin’ Jim Waite wasn’t right in his

head;

He was cranky as blazes, the old growlers said.

I can well understand that some things he

would do

Seemed loony as time to that stingy old crew.

For a fact, there was no one jest like him in

town,

He was most always actin’ the part of a clown;

He would say funny things in his queer,

squealin’ style,

And he talked so’s you’d hear him for more

than a mile.

But ev’ry Thanksgivin’ time Waite he would

start

And clatter through town in his rattlin’ old

cart,

And what do ye s’pose? He would whang

down the street,

Yank up at each widder’s; from under the seat

Would haul out a turkey of yaller-legged chick

And holler, “Here, mother, h’ist out with ye,

quick!”

Then he’d toss down a bouncer right into her

lap

And belt off like fury with, “G’long, there!

Gid dap!”