WE FELLERS DIGGIN’ CLAMS
Pluck, pluck,
Pluck, pluck!
Stubbin’ acrost the clam-flat muck!
Ev’ry time I lift my huck,
—Hearin’ the heel of my old boot suck,
It seems to me that a word plops out,
And I’ve listened so often there ain’t no
doubt
It’s pluck, pluck, pluck.
And pluck and the job they jest agree
—Dig clams, my lad, for a while and see!
It’s a stiddy kind of bus’ness an’ it ain’t for
shiny boots,
But still—ye know,’tain’t bad!
It ain’t an occurpation for the millionaire ga-
loots,
But’tain’t so mighty wuss, my lad.
It’s a stiddy kind of bus’ness where there ain’t
no room for doubt
As to what’ull be the profit and where ye’re
cornin’ out.
For there ain’t no books and ledgers, and no
botherin’ with deals,
No dodgin’ law and lawyers and no stock con-
trivin’ steals.
Simply take a leaky dory and a basket and a
hoe,
And you’re fixed for doin’ bus’ness—ev’ry fel-
ler has a show.
When the old Atlantic ocean pulls away his
swashin’ tide
Why, the bank is there ‘before you and the
doors are opened wide;
The flats are there etarnal and you never find
the sign
Sayin’, “Bank has shet up business—pres’-
dent’s skipped acrost the line.”
Shuck away yer co’t and weskit, grab the clam-
hoe’s muddy haft,
And endorsed by grit and muscle you’ll get
cash on ev’ry draft.
For yer check-book’s there, the clam flat; and
yer pen, sir, is the hoe,
And accounts are balanced daily by the ocean’s
ebb and flow.
Then the climbin’, crawlin’ water rubs the dig-
gin’ marks away,
And the clams are jest as plenty when you
come another day.
And the sleep that follers labor kind of smooths’-
us, as the tide
Smooths the nickin’s on the clam-flats where
our busy hoes have pried.
So the nights are nights of comfort and I
mostly can forget
That the days are days of diggin’,—cold and
muddy, lame and wet.
For Fd rather have a backache than a rattled,
burnin’ brain,
And I guess I’m fair contented with the clam
flats here in Maine.
For I’m thinkin’ worried critters in the rushin’,
pushin’ jams
Likely’nough ain’t nigh so happy as we fellers
diggin’ clams.
DAN’L AND DUNK
Dan’l and Dunk and the yaller dog were the
owners and crew of the Pollywog,
A hand-line smack that cuffed the seas’twixt
’Tinicus Head and Point Quahaug.
Dunk owned half and Dan owned half, and the
yaller dog was also joint,
They fished and ate and swapped their bait and
always agreed on every point.
—Dunk to Dan and Dan to Dunk,—
Whenever he chawed would pass the
hunk;
Never a “hitch” more friendly than
That of the dog and Dunk and Dan.
They labored steady and labored square, fairly
dividing every fare,
And never could anything break their bonds,
each to the other would often swear.
But alas, one day in a joking way they fell on
the topic of years and age,
And tackled the subject of boughten teeth, and
spirited argument they did wage.
For Dan insisted that sets of teeth were glued
to the sides of the wearers’ jaws,
—Never had seen ’em, he frankly owned, but
he knew ’twas so, “wal, jest because.”
While Dunk, with notions fully as firm, clawed
at his frosty whisker fringe,
And allowed that he knew that sets of teeth
were hitched together with spring and
hinge.
So, still perverse, they argued on—the quarrel,
you see, was their very first;
’Twas as though they had taken a sip of brine;
the more they quaffed, the worse their
thirst.
They argued early and argued late and the dog
surveyed them with wistful look
For, the more they talked the worse they
balked, and forgot to fish or eat or cook.
Dan at Dunk and Dunk at Dan,
—On contention ran and ran,
And rancor spread its sullen fog
‘Twixt Dunk and Dan and the yaller
dog.
At last old Dunk uprose and cried, “Say old
hoss-mack’ril, blast yer hide,
I’m sick of clack and fuss and gab; it’s time, I
reckin, that we divide.
An’ seein’ as how I’ve spoke the fust, I’ll take
the starn-end here for mine.”
With chalk he zoned the dingy deck and roared,
“Git for’rard acrost that line!”
He lighted his pipe and twirled the wheel and
calmly then he crossed his knees.
“Go for’rard,” said he, “this end is mine an’
I’ll steer jest where I gol-durn please.”
For’rard went Dan with never a word, never
protested, never demurred,
But as soon as he reached the cat-head bolt the
sound of hammer on steel was heard.
Splash! went the anchor, and there they swung,
fast to the bottom on Doghead shoal;
“The bow-end’s mine,” yelled Dan to Dunk,
“now steer if ye want to, blast yer soul!”
Dunk to Dan, and Dan to Dunk—
Swore they’d sit there till she sunk.
Neither to compromise would incline,
And the dog stood straddling the mid-
dle line.
I’ll frankly own I cannot state how long en-
dured that sullen wait,
I only know they never returned and no one
ever has learned their fate.
Perhaps a gale with a lashing tail, champing
and roaring and frothing wild,
Clawed them tinder, as there they rode, or a
hooting liner over them piled.
But known it is that for days and weeks the
schooner swayed and sogged and tossed,
Straining her rusty cable-chains, before all
trace of her was lost.
No one knows how they met their death, but
certain it is that Dunk and Dan,
Each decided he’d rather die than surrender a
point to the other man.
Perhaps, at the end of a month or so, Dunk de-
cided he’d sink his half,
Or Dan touched match and burned his end,
then went to death with a scornful laugh.
However it was, this much is sure, that out
from the Grand Banks’ sombre fog,
Never came back the Pollywog smack, or
Dunk or Dan or the yaller dog.
THE AWFUL WAH-HOOH-WOW
She’s ashore in Gloucester harbor, with a
weary, lear y list,
An’ the mud is creepin’, creepin’ to her rail;
She’s sound in ev’ry timber—is the Mary of
the Mist,
But the broom is at her mast-head as a sign
that she’s for sale.
Yet no one wants to try her,
She cannot find a buyer—
The Hoodoo is upon her, an’ here I give the
tale.
(The story has a warnin’ that’s as plain as
plain can be,
An’ ’tis: Never go to triflin’ with the secrets
of the sea.)
Peter Perkinson, a P. I. from Prince Edward
Island, signed
With Foster’s folks of Gloucester for a
“chancin’ trip,” hand-lined;
An’ when we counted noses as we rounded
Giant’s Grist
We found the chap among us on the Mary of
the Mist.
An’ we sized him for a “conjer” ere we’d
fairly got to sea;
The wind was whiffin’ crooked, jest as mean as
mean could be;
“P. I.” is colloquial term for Prince Edward
Islander.
Then the skipper spied the P. I. fubbin’ secret
at the mast,
An’ at once he got suspicious an’ he overhauled
him fast.
The chap had made some markin’s an’ he’d
driven in a nail—
Oh, we understood him perfect—he was raisin’
up a gale.
The skipper gave him tophet, but the damage
then was done—
The gale came up a-roarin’ with the settin’ of
the sun.
Then we wallered to the west’ard an’ we wal-
lered to the east,
An’ we seemed the core an’ bowels of a gob of
wind an’ yeast.
We smashed our way to suth’ard, an’ we clawed
an’ ratched to west,
There was scarcely time for eatin’; there was
never chance for rest,
With the liners slammin’ past us through the
fog an’ spume an’ rain,
An’ the Mary dodgin’ passers like a puppy in a
lane.
The third day found us flappin’ with a mighty
ragged wash,
The lee rail runnin’ under an’ the trawl tubs all
a-swash,
An’ at last the plummet told us we were backin’
to’ards the shoals,
Yet we couldn’t ratch an’ leave ’em with our
canvas rags an’ holes.
T ack—tack—tack—
Still a-slippin’ back;
‘Twas a time for meditatin’ on the prospects
for our souls.
Then up spoke Isaac Innis, with a starin’,
glarin’ glance,
An’ he says: “My friends, I’m lookin’
where I look!
I hain’t a saint in no way, an’ I’ll give a man a
chance,
But I think I see a Jonah if I hain’t a lot
mistook.
I reckon ye discern him,
Now over goes he, durn him,
Unless he squares the Hoodoo that he’s
brought, by hook or crook.”
(We stood there, grim an’ solemn, an’ we
bent our gaze upon
The stranger “conjer” sailor, that P. I.—
Perkinson.)
He never flinched nor quivered, though we’d
reckoned that he would,
He simply turned an’ faced us, an’ he says: “I
meant ye good.
I asked a breeze from suth’ard, but it slipped
an’ got away;
Still, you needn’t worry, shipmates! When I
owe a debt I’ll pay.”
He reeved a coil of hawser that the Mary car-
ried spare,
An’ fastened on a gang-hook an’ baited it with
care.
Then he took a magic vial an’ he sprinkled on
the bait
A charm that Splithoof gave him, it is safe to
calkerlate.
He hitched a dagon-sinker an’ he let the line
run free,
An’ overboard he fired it, kersplasho, in the
sea,
We didn’t get the language of the secret spells
he said,
But we gathered he was fishin’ on the deepest
ocean bed.
We heard him as he muttered an’ it seemed
that he could tell
What kind of fish was bitin’, with an eyesight
straight from hell.
“Ah, brim,” he sort o’ chanted as he gave the
line a twig—
An’ must pay his lawful tribute to the awful
Wah-hooh-wow.
We saw Its neck a-curvin’ an’ we heard Its red
tongue lick
As It drooled an’ swoofed the drippin’s, and
then, as one might pick
A ripe an’ juicy cherry, It grabbed that “con-
jer” man
An’ sank with coils a-flashin’ in the light from
old Cape Ann,
An’ we—we towed with dories till we got to
Gloucester shore—
An’ you’ll never get a Banksman on the Mary
any more.
No—no—no!
Not a man will go,
For her towage fee hain’t settled till the Wah-
hooh-wow takes four.
She’s ashore in Gloucester harbor with a
weary, leary list,
An’ the mud is creepin’, creepin’ to her rail;
She’s sound in ev’ry timber—is the Mary of
the Mist,
But the broom is at her mast-head as a sign
that she’s for sale.
Yet no one wants to try her,
She cannot find a buyer—
The Hoodoo is upon her, an’ I’ve given you the
tale.
(The story has a Warnin’ that’s as plain as
plain can be,
An’ ’tis: Never go to triflin’ with the secrets
of the sea.)
SKIPPER JASON ELLISON
His nose was like a liver hung against a Hub-
bard squash,
—That nose of Jason Ellison, the skipper of
the “Hanks.”
His nose was like a liver and the color wouldn’t
wash,
But the men that “chanced” on trips with him,
they always got the dosh,.
For there wa’n’t another skipper who could
touch him on the Banks.
Whether biz was tight or slack,
—When Jase came sailin’ back
A gang was always coaxin’ for a berth upon
his smack.
Not another Gloucester skipper
Had sech easy job to ship a
Topper-notcher fishin’ crew, with ev’ry man a
crack.
For, you see, he was a wizard;—he did won-
ders with that nose,
He could sniff and tell the weather-sign of ev’ry
gust that rose;
You could figure from its color’twas a most
uncommon snoot,
And whenever he predicted no one ventured to
dispute.
His eye could nail a fish-slick off a league or so
away,
—He could look around a corner, so his fel-
lows used to say;
But the thing’twas most uncommon—where
our whole dependence hung,
Was his long and round and peak-ed champion
taster of a tongue.
’Twas always out and chasin’ round the edges
of his lip;
When a nasty time was brewin’
It was always out and doin’
Like as though it felt responsible for helpin’
handle ship.
It had tasted ev’ry bottom soil from Quero to
the Cow,
It knew the taste and savor, the place and where
and how.
—Darkest night or wildest hurricane that ever
ramped or blew,
We never lost our bearin’s, for old Jason always
knew.
We would take some mutton taller and we’d
fill the hollowed head
Of the plummet, smooth and even, then a man
would throw the lead.
And we’d pass her back to Jason and he’d turn
the plummet up,
Taste the scrimp of soil that stuck there on the
taller in the cup,
And he’d tell us where we headed, though the
night be black’s a coal,
For he knew the taste of bottoms from the Cow
to Quero Shoal.
—Told us easy, off the reel,
What was underneath our keel,
—Didn’t need the sun or quadrant with old
Jason at the wheel;
He was only once mistaken in the memory of
men,
—And we’ve always kept insistin’ that he
wa’n’t mistaken then.
The storm came down upon us from the nor’-
nor’east by east,
—’Twas an equinoctial pealer,
A reg’lar ring-tail squealer,
The sky was hasty puddin’ and the sea beneath
was yeast.
When the Hanks went tossin’ up’ards it really
seemed we flew,
And the sky seemed splittin’ open for to let
our vessel through;
When we wallowed down wher-rooshin’ in the
gulf that gawped beneath,
We’d’a’ left our hearts behind us if we hadn’t
clinched our teeth.
We’d really seem to feel
Old Hankses’ battered keel
Go bumpin’ on the bottom when she made her
downward reel.
But the more she blew and blew,
Old Jason cheered his crew,
—His whiskers whipping snappin’ as the wind
went screamin’ through.
So we hung to brace and riggin’ and we let her
roar and roll,
While each man pinned to Ellison the safety of
his soul.
Then at last we knew’twas night-time by the
thick’nin’ overhead,
And Jason licked his taster and he yelled:
“Now throw the lead!”
An’ we—we blinked to watch him from the
darkness where we clung,
And waited for the verdict, of that long and
peak-ed tongue.
He tasted—then he waited, and he smacked his
lips a spell,
He tasted—tasted—tasted, then he gave an
awful yell:
“My God, ye critters, pray!”
—He slung the lead away,—
And howled: “The world is endin’! It’s the
final Judgment Day!
That plummet, there, has brought us up a hand-
ful of the loam
From the Widder Abbott’s garden on the Neck
ro’d, back at home.
A tidal wave has lifted us—the Hanks has run
away!
—It has tossed’er over Glo’ster,
And we sartin sure have lost’er,
’Less ye pray, ye sin-struck critters,’less ye
pray, pray, pray!”
Each clung to rope and stanchion, each hung to
stay and brace,
Each prayed up at the heavens while the spin-
drift lashed his face;
We prayed and prayed till mornin’
Till the early, yaller dawnin’
Lit up the sea around us, and it also lit our
case;
Then we found an explanation
Of the sing’lar situation
That was figgered in the darkness of the night
by Uncle Jase.
For we noticed there was settin’ up against the
le’ward rail
Some lavender and other yarbs, a-growin’ in a
pail.
—They’d been brought aboard by Jase
Who had worn a meechin’ face,
For his sparkin’ of the widder was the gossip
of the place.
He knowed a flower-garden looked peecooliar
on the Hanks,
But he wanted some momentum of the widder
on the Banks.
Now, the plummet bein’ handled in the dark-
ness of that night
Somehow cuffed that dirt in passin’—as ye
might say, took a bite.
And Jason knew the flavor of that scrimp of
garden loam,
—There wa’n’t a soil to fool him’twixt Quero
Shoal and home.
By the flavor and the feel
He could tell us off the reel,
The name of any bottom that was underneath
our keel.
He was only once mistaken in the memory of
men,
And his crew will keep insistin’ that he wa’n’t
mistaken then.