“PLUG”
For sixty years he had borne the name
Of “Plug”—plain “Plug.”
Those many years had his village fame
Published the shame of his old-time game,
Till all the folks by custom came
To call him “Plug.”
And so many years at last went by
They hardly knew the reason why;
At least they never stopped to think,
And dropped the old suggestive wink.
And he took the name quite matter-of-fact,
Till most of the folks had forgot his act;
But sometimes a stranger’d wonder at
The why of a nickname such as that,
—Of “Plug”—just “Plug.”
Then some old chap would shift his quid
And tell the story of what he did.
“He owned ten acres of punkin pine,
’Twas straight and tall, and there warn’t a sign
But what ’twas sound as a hickory nut,
And at last he got the price he sut.
They hired him for to chop it down.
He did.—By gosh, it was all unsoun’.
Was a rotten heart in every tree.
But there warn’t none there but him to see.
And quick as ever a tree was cut,
He hewed a saplin’ and plugged the butt.
—Plugged the butt, sir, and hid away
For about two months, for he’d got his pay.
But there warn’t no legal actions took,
They never tackled his pocket-book.
’Twould a-broke his heart, for he’s dretful snug;
But he never squirmed when they called him
’Plug.’
And over the whole of the country-side,
Up to the day that the critter died,
’Twas ‘Plug.’
Till some of the young folks scurcely knew
Which was the nickname, which was the true.
He left five thousand,—putty rich,—
But better less cash than a title sich
As ‘Plug.’”
THE SONG OF THE HARROW AND PLOW
From the acres of Aroostook, broad and mellow
in the sun,
Down to rocky York, the chorus of the farmers
has begun.
They are riding in Aroostook on a patent sulky
plow,
—They are riding, taking comfort, for they’ve
learned the secret how.
They are planting their potatoes with a whirring
new machine,
—Driver sits beneath an awning; slickest thing
you’ve ever seen.
There is not a rock to vex ’em in the acres
spreading wide,
So they sit upon a cushion, cock their legs, and
smoke and ride.
Gee and Bright go lurching onward in the
furrow’s mellow steam;
Over there, with clank of whiffle, tugs a sturdy
Morgan team.
And the man who rides the planter or who plods
the broken earth
Joins and swells the mighty chorus of the
season’s budding mirth.
And they’ve pitched the tune to a jubilant
strain.
They are lilting it merrily now.
We wait for that melody up here in Maine,
—’Tis the song of the harrow and plow.
They are picking rocks in Oxford, and in Waldo
blasting ledge,
And they’re farming down in Lincoln on their
acres set on edge.
Down among the kitchen gardens of the slopes
of Cumberland
They’re sticking in the garden sass as thick as
it will stand.
And every nose is sniffing at the scent of fur-
rowed earth,
And every man is living all of life at what it’s
worth.
Though the farmer in Aroostook sails across a
velvet field,
And his mellow, crumbly acres vomit forth a
spendthrift yield,
All the rest are just as cheerful on their hillside
farms as he,
For there’s cosy wealth in gardens and a fortune
in a tree.
So they’re singing the song of the coming
of Spring,
And the song of the empty mow;
Of the quiver of birth that is stirring the earth,
—’Tis the song of the harrow and plow.
HOORAY FOR THE SEASON OF FAIRS
This is the season for fairs, by gosh, oh, this is
the season for fairs;
They’re thicker than spatter,
But what does it matter?
They scoop up the cash, but who cares?
From now till October they’ll swallow the
change,
These state fairs and town fairs and county and
grange,
But apples blush brighter arrayed on a plate,
And the cattle look scrumptious in dignified
state,
Enthroned in a stall and a-gazing with scorn
On the chaps going by without ribbon or horn.
And the trotters and nags of the blood-royal
strain
Are a-furnishing fun for the people of Maine;
While prouder than princes they prance to the
band,
And ogle the ladies arrayed on the stand.
Ah, every exhibit in stall or in hall,
From hooked rug to hossflesh and punkin and
all,
Takes on a new meaning, assumes a new light,
And is, for the moment, a wonderful sight.
And people hang over the stuff that’s displayed,
They swig up whole barrels of red lemonade,
And hark to the fakirs and tumble to snides,
And treat all the young ones to merry-go rides.
They sit on the grand stand, man crushed
against man,
All shouting acclaim to the track’s rataplan;
And all the delight is as fresh and as bright
As though the big crowd had not seen that same
sight.
And the people flock home with the dust in their
eyes,
But with hearts all a-fire with fun and surprise.
The girls are a-humming the tune of the band,
And dads are relating the sights from the stand;
The dames are discussing the fancy work part,
While bub hugs the Midway scenes close to his
heart.
The palms of the men folks still glow from a
grip,
And the women are thinking of lip pressed to
lip,
For all of the folks in the loud, happy throng
Have met with the friends “they’ve not seen
for so long.”
A hail and salute from the press of the mass,
Too brief, as the crowd jammed impatient to
pass,
A moment—that’s all—to renew the old tie,
A handgrasp, a lip-touch, “Hello,” and “Good-
by.”
Oh, this is the season of fairs, by gosh, the
season to lay off your cares,
Each fair is a wonder,
They’re thicker than thunder.
Hooray for the season of fairs!
HAD A SET OF DOUBLE TEETH
Oh, listen while I tell to you a truthful little
tale
Of a man whose teeth was double all the solid
way around;
He could jest as slick as preachin’ bite in two a
shingle nail,
Or squonch a moulded bullet, sah, and ev’ry
tooth was sound.
I’ve seen him lift a kag of pork, a-bitin’ on the
chine,
And he’d clench a rope and hang there like a
puppy to a root;
And a feller he could pull and twitch and yank
upon the line,
But he couldn’t do no bus’ness with tha’
double-toothed galoot.
He was luggin’ up some shingles,—bunch, sah,
underneath each arm,—
The time that he was shinglin’ of the Baptist
meetin’-house;
The ladder cracked and buckled, but he didn’t
think no harm,
When all at once she busted and he started
down kersouse.
His head, sah, when she busted, it was jest
abreast the eaves;
And he nipped, sah, quicker’n lightnin’, and
he gripped there with his teeth,
And he never dropped the shingles, but he hung
to both the sheaves,
Though the solid ground was suttinly more’n
thirty feet beneath.
He held there and he kicked there and he
squirmed, but no one come.
He was workin’ on the roof alone—there
warn’t no folks around.
He hung like death to niggers till his jaws was
set and numb,
And he reely thought he’d have to drop them
shingles on the ground.
But all at once old Skillins come a-toddlin’ down
the street.
Old Skil is sort of hump-backed and he allus
looks straight down;
So he never see’d the motions of them Number
’Leven feet,
And he went a-amblin’ by him—the goramded
blind old clown!
Now this ere part is truthful—ain’t a-stretehin’
it a mite,—
When the feller see’d that Skillins was a-
walkin’ past the place,
Let go his teeth and hollered, but he grabbed
back quick and tight,
’Fore he had a chance to tumble, and he hung
there by the face.
And he never dropped the shingles and he never
missed his grip,
And he stepped out on the ladder when they
raised it underneath.
And up he went a-flukin’ with them shingles on
his hip,
—And there’s the satisfaction of a havin’
double teeth.
GRAMPY’S LULLABY
Your marmy’s mixin’ cream o’ tartar biskit up
for tea;
Fie, deedle, deedle, leetle ba-a-arby!
And I reckon you had better come and roost
upon my knee;
Tumpy, dumpy, deedle, leetle barby!
I s’picion how ye never heard of Ebernezer
Cowles.
Tell ye what, he warn’t brung up to be afraid of
owls.
Reckon that a spryer critter never tailored
boots;
Allus up to monkey tricks and full o’ squirms
and scoots.
Once he done a curis thing, I vummy, on a
stump:
Set a larder up one end and gin’ a mighty jump;
Run right up the larder, jest as nimble as a
monkey,
Balarnced, I sh’d suttin say, a minit—all a-
hunky;
Then he straddled out on air and grabbed the
pesky larder
And run ’er up another length—another length,
suh, farder;
Skittered up that larder ’fore she had a chance
to teeter,
Quicker’n any pussy cat—lighter’n a mos-
keeter.
Soon’s he clambered to the top, grabbed the
upper rung,
Ketched hisself with t’other hand, and there the
critter hung.
Gaffled up his britches’ slack and took a resky
charnce
And thar’ he held hisself right out, arms-length,
suh, by his parnts.
Ye ought ter heerd, my barby dear, the cheerins
and the howls
The crowd let out when they’d obsarved that
trick of Mister Cowles.
Sing’lar thing of which I sing—might not
think ’twas true;
Fie, deedle, deedle, leetle ba-a-arby!
But ye know, my leetle snoozer, grampy wouldn’t
lie to you,
—To his dumpy, dumpy deedle, leetle
barby.
Hush, I guess that mammy isn’t done a-makin’
bread,
We ain’t at all pertic’lar how she overhears
what’s said.
Ye’re over-young, purraps, to hear of Sam’wel
Doubl’yer Strout,
—Weighed about two hundred pounds, and,
chowder, warn’t he stout!
Used to work for me one time as sort of extry
hand,
—Allus planned to ’gage him when I cleared up
any land;
Once I see him lug a rock with fairly mod’rit
ease
So hefty that at ev’ry step he sunk above his
knees.
Hain’t at all surprised to see the wonder in your
eye;
Fie, deedle, deedle, leetle ba-a-arby!
But ye know your poor old grampy wouldn’t
tell ye ary lie,
—To his tumpy, dumpy deedle, leetle
barby.
Course ye’ve never heerd ’em tell of Atha-ni-al
Prime,
For he was round a-raisin’ Cain so long afore
your time.
Used to run the muley saw down to Hopkins
mill,
—Allus euttin’ ding-does up—a master curis
pill!
Once the chaps that tended sluice stood upon a
log,
Got to argyin’ this and that, suthin’ ’bout a dog.
Clean forgot to start the log a-goin’ up the
sluice,
But shook their fists and hollered round and spit
torbarker juice.
Atha-ni-al heerd the towse and grabbed a pick-
pole up,
—Wasn’t goin’ to stop a mill to fight about a
pup,—
Tied a rope around the pole and then he let her
flam,
Speared the end of that air log and yanked her
quicker’n Sam.
Log, suh, come right out the bark, he twitched
the thing so quick;
Fellers never felt the yank, ’twas done so smooth
and slick.
Log come out and up the sluice and left behind
the bark,
—Fellers thought the log was there and stood
and chawed till dark.
Sing’lar things has come to pass when I was
young as you;
Fie, deedle, deedle, leetle ba-a-arby!
And best of all, what grampy sings you bet your
life is true,
Tumpy, deedle, dumpy, leetle barby.
HOSKINS’S COW
Hoskins’s cow got into the pound and the notice
was tacked on the meetin’-house door:
“Come into my yard, one brindle cow with three
white feet, and her shoulders sore,
—Galled by a poke,—and the owner is asked
to call at the pound and take her away.”
Well, Hoskins knew she was his all right, but,
you see, he hadn’t wherewith to pay.
The cow was breachy—she wasn’t to blame,
for Hoskins had turned her abroad to roam;
She had to battle for daily grass, for the bovine
cupboard was bare at home.
So Hoskins had hitched on her withered neck a
wooden “regalia”—sort of a yoke,
Supposed to keep her from breachy tricks, but
the poor old creature employed the “poke”
To rip up fences and let down bars; her hunger
sharpened her slender wits,
And somehow she sneaked through the guarded
gates, and gave the garden sass regular fits.
The neighbors pitied her starving state, but at
last she stubbornly wouldn’t shoo;
They pounded tattoos on her skinny ribs till it
really seemed they would whack ’em through.
But she got so toughened and callous and hard,
and the stiffened frame of her mortised bones
Formed such an excellent armor-plate against
the broadsides of sticks and stones,
That they “pounded” her then in a different
way—in the village pound—whose walls
would hold
The breachiest cow that ever strayed—and the
notice was posted as I have told.
She stood there a day and she stayed there a
night; she cropped the scanty bushes and
grass,
And moo-ed and loo-ed in a yearning way, when-
ever a person chanced to pass.
—She ate the leaves from some alder sprouts
for a scanty breakfast the second day,
And munched the twigs for her dinner, alas,
and longed, oh, so much, for some meadow
hay.
That night she gnawed at her dry old poke,—
a painful meal, for the slivers ran
In her tongue; so she crouched by the high-
barred gate and seemed deserted of God and
man.
And Hoskins knew that they had his cow, and
Hoskins knew of her solemn fast,
For he’d gone up the highway and looked
through the gate in her dumb, reproachful eyes
as he passed.
Yet what, may I ask, could the poor man do?
He was right in a place where he couldn’t
Pay,
—He had three dollars, ’tis true enough,
and ‘twould square the bill, but, you see, that day
The catchers had come and taken his dogs: a
hound, a setter, and brindle-pup,
And a man like Hoskins would ne ’er endure to
have the dog-pound gobble them up,
For he gunned on Sundays behind the hound,
and the bull was entered and backed to fight.
And Hoskins, you see, as a sporting man had a
reputation to keep upright.
I wonder, friends, if you’ve ever thought, while
you’ve stormed at rum as the poor man’s curse,
There are chaps so built on the mental plan that
keeping dogs will warp them worse?
The “dog” man may be reclaimed, but I’ve
been compelled, alas, to see
That there doesn’t appear to be much hope for
the wretched critter condemned to three.
And Hoskins’s duty was plain to him: his
youngsters wailed for the milk they missed,
But Hoskins thought of his poor, poor dogs and
gripped his dollars tight in his fist.
He shut his ears to his children’s cries, he steeled
his heart when he passed the pound,
To the mute appeal in the old cow’s eyes; but
he smiled at last when his dogs were found.
And he gladly proffered the three lone plunks
to sate the greed of the legal hogs,
And proudly he took the highway back, a-lead-
ing his licensed, bailed-out dogs.
And they barked and yipped and yapped and
yawped at a poor old tottering cow they found
Absorbed in a desperate, hungry reach for a
thistle outside the village pound.
AN OLD STUN’ WALL
If ye only knew the backaches in an old stun’
wall!
O, Lordy me,
I’m seventy-three!
—Begun amongst these boulders and I’ve lived
here through it all.
I wasn’t quite to bub’s age there, when dad
commenced to clear
The wust of ninety acres with a hoss team and
a steer.
And we’ve used the stun’s for fencin’ and we’ve
built around the lot,
O, I’ve tugged and worked there, sonny, ontil
gracious me, I’ve sot
And fairly groaned o’ evenings with the twinges
in my back;
Sakes, there warn’t no shirkin,’ them days; it
was tug and lift and sack,
For it needed lots of muscle, lots of gruntin’,
lots of sand
If a feller calculated for to clear a piece of
land.
Bub, it isn’t any wonder that our backs has got
a hump,
That our arms are stretched and awkward like
the handle on a pump,
That our palms are hard and calloused, that we
wobble in our gait
—There’s the reason right before you ’round
the medders in the State.
And I wonder sometimes, sonny, that we’ve
any backs at all
When I figer on the backaches in an
Old
Stun’
Wall.
If ye only knew the backaches in an old stun’
wall!
We read of men
Who with a pen
Have pried away the curses that have crushed
us in their fall.
I don’t begrudge them honor nor the splendor
of their name
For an av’rage Yankee farmer hasn’t any use
for fame,
But the man who lifted curses and the man
who lifted stones
Never’ll hear a mite of diff’runce in the
Heavenly Father’s tones.
For I have the humble notion, bub, that when
all kinds of men,
The chaps that pried with crowbar and the
chaps that pried with pen,
Are waitin’ to be measured for the things
they’ve done below
The angel with the girth-chain’s bound to give
us all fair show.
And the humble man who’s tussled with the
rocks of stubborn Maine
Won’t find that all his labor has been thankless
and in vain.
And while the wise and mighty get the glorious
credit due
The man who took the brunt of toil will be
remembered too.
The man who bent his aching back will earn
his crown, my child,
By the acres he made fertile and the miles of
rocks he piled.
That ain’t my whole religion, for I don’t propose
to shirk
What my duties are to Heaven,—but the gospel
of hard work
Is a mighty solid bed-rock that I’ve built on
more or less;
I believe that God Almighty has it in his heart
to bless
For the good they’ve left behind them rough old
chaps with humped-up backs
Who have gone ahead and smoothed things with
the crowbar and the axe.
For if all our hairs are numbered and He notes
the sparrow’s fall
He understands the backaches in an
Old
Stun’
Wall.