The Project Gutenberg eBook of Up in Maine: Stories of Yankee Life Told in Verse
Title: Up in Maine: Stories of Yankee Life Told in Verse
Author: Holman Day
Author of introduction, etc.: Charles E. Littlefield
Release date: August 11, 2017 [eBook #55341]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Produced by David Widger from page images generously
provided by the Internet Archive
UP IN MAINE
Stories of Yankee Life Told in Verse
By Holman F. Day
With an Introduction by C. E. Littlefield
Boston: Small, Maynard & Company
1900
AND FELLOW IN THE CRAFT OF LETTERS
WINFIELD M. THOMPSON
TO WHOM I AM INDEBTED
FOR MORE THAN ONE OF THE STORIES
TOLD HEREIN
THIS VOLUME IS DEDICATED
CONTENTS
THE SONG OF THE HARROW AND PLOW
HOORAY FOR THE SEASON OF FAIRS
EPHRUM WADE’S STAND-BY IN HAYING
BUSTED THE “TEST YOUR STRENGTH”
’LONG SHORE CRUISE OF THE “NANCY P.”
CAP’N NUTTER OF THE “PUDDENTAME”
THE LAW ’GAINST SPIKE-SOLE BOOTS
THE SONG OF THE WOODS’ DOG-WATCH
MATIN SONG OF PETE LONG’S COOK
MISTER WHAT’S-HIS-NAME OF SEBOOMOOK
HA’NTS OF THE KINGDOM OF SPRUCE
THEM OLD RAZOOS AT TOPSHAM TRACK
List of Illustrations
PREFACE
I don’t know how to weave a roundelay,
I couldn’t voice a sighing song of love;
No mellow lyre that on which I play;
I plunk a strident lute without a glove.
The rhythm that is running through my stuff
Is not the whisp of maiden’s trailing gown;
The metre, maybe, gallops rather rough,
Like river-drivers storming down to town.
—It’s more than likely something from the
wood,
Where chocking axes scare the deer and
moose;
A homely rhyme, and easy understood
—An echo from the weird domain of Spruce.
Or else it’s just some Yankee notion, dressed
In rough-and-ready “Uncle Dudley” phrase;
Some honest thought we common folks suggest,
—Some tricksy mem’ry-flash from boyhood’s
days.
I cannot polish off this stilted rhyme
With all these homely notions in my brain.
A sonnet, sir, would stick me every time;
Let’s have a chat ’bout common things in
Maine.
Holman F. Day.
|ABOUT three thousand years ago the “Preacher” declared that “of making many books there is no end.” This sublimely pessimistic truism deserves to be considered in connection with the time when it was written; otherwise it might accomplish results not intended by its author.
It must be remembered that in the “Preacher’s” time books were altogether in writing. It should also be borne in mind that if the handwriting which we have in these days, speaking of the period prior to the advent of the female typewriter, is to be accepted as any criterion, —and inasmuch as all concede that history repeats itself, that may well be assumed,—is easy to understand how, by reason of its illegibility, he was also led to declare that “much study is a weariness of the flesh.” It is quite obvious that this was the moving cause of his delightfully doleful utterance as to books. Had he lived in this year nineteen hundred, at either the closing of the nineteenth or the dawning of the twentieth century,—as to whether it is closing or dawning I make no assertion,—he might well have made same criticism, but from an optimistic standpoint.
A competent litterateur informs me that there are now extant 3,725,423,201 books; that in America and England alone during the last year 12,888 books entered upon a precarious existence, with the faint though unexpressed hope of surviving “life’s fitful fever!” If the conditions of the “Preacher’s” time obtained to-day, the vocabulary of pessimism would be inadequate for the expression of similar views.
A careful examination by the writer, of all these well-nigh innumerable monuments of learning, discloses the fact that the work now being introduced to what I trust may be an equally innumerable army of readers has no parallel in literature. If justification were needed, that fact alone justifies its existence. This fact, however, is not necessary, as the all-sufficient fact which warrants the collection of these unique sketches in book form is that no one can read them without being interested, entertained, and amused, as well as instructed and improved. “The stubborn strength of Plymouth Rock” is nowhere better exemplified than on the Maine farm, in the Maine woods, on the Maine coast, or in the Maine workshop. From them, the author of “Up in Maine” has drawn his inspiration. Rugged independence, singleness of purpose, unswerving integrity, philosophy adequate for all occasions, the great realities of life, and a cheerful disregard of conventionalities, are here found in all their native strength and vigor. These peculiarities as delineated may be rough, perhaps uncouth, but they are characteristic, picturesque, engaging, and lifelike. His subjects are rough diamonds. They have the inherent qualities from which great characters are developed, and out of which heroes are made.
Through every chink and crevice of these rugged portrayals glitters the sheen of pure gold, gold of standard weight and fineness, “gold tried in the fire.” Finally it should be said that this is what is now known as a book with a purpose, and that purpose, as the author confidentially informs me, is to sell as many copies as possible, which he confidently expects to do. To this most worthy end I trust I may have, in a small degree, contributed by this introduction.
C. LITTLEFIELD.
Washington, D.C., March 17,1900.
‘ROUND HOME
AUNT SHAW’S PET JUG
Now there was Uncle Elnathan Shaw,
—Most regular man you ever saw!
Just half-past four in the afternoon
He’d start and whistle that old jig tune,
Take the big blue jug from the but’ry shelf
And trot down cellar, to draw himself
Old cider enough to last him through
The winter ev’nin’. Two quarts would do.
—Just as regular as half-past four
Come round, he’d tackle that cellar door,
As he had for thutty years or more.
And as regular, too, as he took that jug
Aunt Shaw would yap through her old
mug,
“Now, Nathan, for goodness’ sake take care
You allus trip on the second stair;
It seems as though you were just possessed
To break that jug. It’s the very best
There is in town and you know it, too,
And ’twas left to me by my great-aunt Sue.
For goodness’ sake, why don’t yer lug
A tin dish down, for ye’ll break that jug?”
Allus the same, suh, for thirty years,
Allus the same old twits and jeers
Slammed for the nineteenth thousand time
And still we wonder, my friend, at crime.
But Nathan took it meek’s a pup
And the worst he said was “Please shut up.”
You know what the Good Book says befell
The pitcher that went to the old-time well;
Wal, whether ’twas that or his time had come,
Or his stiff old limbs got weak and numb
Or whether his nerves at last giv’ in
To Aunt Shaw’s everlasting chin—
One day he slipped on that second stair,
Whirled round and grabbed at the empty air.
And clean to the foot of them stairs, ker-smack,
He bumped on the bulge of his humped old back
And he’d hardly finished the final bump
When old Aunt Shaw she giv’ a jump
And screamed downstairs as mad’s a bug
“Dod-rot your hide, did ye break my jug?”
Poor Uncle Nathan lay there flat
Knocked in the shape of an old cocked hat,
But he rubbed his legs, brushed off the dirt
And found after all that he warn’t much hurt.
And he’d saved the jug, for his last wild thought
Had been of that; he might have caught
At the cellar shelves and saved his fall,
But he kept his hands on the jug through all.
And now as he loosed his jealous hug
His wife just screamed, “Did ye break my
jug?”
Not a single word for his poor old bones
Nor a word when she heard his awful groans,
But the blamed old hard-shelled turkle just
Wanted to know if that jug was bust.
Old Uncle Nathan he let one roar
And he shook his fist at the cellar door;
“Did ye break my jug?” she was yellin’ still.
“No, durn yer pelt, but I swow I will.”
And you’d thought that the house was a-going
to fall
When the old jug smashed on the cellar wall.
OLD BOGGS’S SLARNT
Old Bill Boggs is always sayin’ that he’d like to
but he carn’t;
He hain’t never had no chances, he hain’t never
got no slarnt.
Says it’s all dum foolish tryin’, ’less ye git the
proper start,
Says he’s never seed no op’nin’ so he’s never
had no heart.
But he’s chawed enough tobacker for to fill a
hogset up
And has spent his time a-trainin’ some all-fired
kind of pup;
While his wife has took in washin’ and his chil-
dren hain’t been larnt
’Cause old Boggs is allus whinin’ that he’s never
got no slarnt.
Them air young uns round the gros’ry hadn’t
oughter done the thing!
Now it’s done, though, and it’s over, ’twas a
cracker-jack, by jing.
Boggs, ye see, has been a-settin’ twenty years on
one old plank,
One end h’isted on a saw hoss, t’other on the
cistern tank.
T’other night he was a-chawin’ and he says, “I
vum-spt-ooo—
Here I am a-owin’ money—not a gol durn thing
to do!
’Tain’t no use er backin’ chances, ner er fightin’
back at Luck,
—Less ye have some way er startin’, feller’s
sartin to be stuck.
Needs a slarnt to git yer going”—then them
young uns give a carnt,
—Plank went up an’ down old Boggs went—
yas, he got it, got his slarnt.
Course the young uns shouldn’t done it—sent
mine off along to bed—
Helped to pry Boggs out the cistern—he warn’t
more’n three-quarters dead.
Didn’t no one ’prove the actions, but when all
them kids was gone,
Thunder mighty! How we hollered! Gab’rel
couldn’t heered his horn.
CY NYE, PREVARICATOR
Gy
Nye
Thunder, how he’ll lie!
Never has to stop and think—never has to try.
Says he had a settin’ hen that acted clean pos-
sessed;
Says a kag o’ powder couldn’t shake her off her
nest;
Didn’t mind a flannel rag tied around her tail;
Ev’ry now and then he’d take ’er, souse ’er in
a pail;
Never had the least effect—feathers even friz;
Then she set and pecked the ice, but ’tended
right to biz.
’Peared to care for nothin’ else ’cept to set and
set;
Didn’t seem to care a tunket what she drunk
or et.
Cy he said he got so mad he thought he’d use
’er ha’ash,
So he went to feedin’ on ’er hemlock sawdust
mash.
Hen she gobbled down the stuff, reg’lar as
could be;
“Reely seemed to fat ’er up,” Cy says he to me.
Shows the power of the mind when it gets a
clutch.
Hen imagined it was bran—helped ’er just as
much.
Then she hid her nest away—laid a dozen eggs;
’Leven chickens that she hatched all had wooden
legs,
T’other egg it wouldn’t hatch—solid junk o’
wood,
Hen’s a-wrasslin’ with it yet—thinks the thing
is good.
Thunder, how he’ll lie!
But he’s dry,
—That Cy.
Cy
Nye
Tells another lie:
Claims to be the strongest man around here;
this is why:
Says he bought a side o’ beef up to Johnson’s store,
Tucked it underneath his arm—didn’t mind it
more
Than a pound o’ pickled tripe; sauntered down
the road,
Got to ponderin’ Bible texts—clean forgot his
load.
All to once he chanced to think he meant to get
some meat,
Hustled back to Johnson’s store t’other end the
street,
Bought another side o’ beef. The boys com-
menced to laugh,
—Vummed he hadn’t sensed till then he lugged
the other half.
Can’t deny
’T he can lie,
—That Cy.
UNCLE BENJY AND OLD CRANE
Once there was a country lawyer and his name
was Hiram Crane,
And he had a reputation as the worst old file in
Maine.
And as soon’s he got a client, why, the first
thing that he’d do
Was to feel the critter’s pocket and then soak
him ’cordin’ to.
Well, sir, one day Benjy Butters bought a hoss,
and oh, ’twas raw
Way old Benjy he got roasted, and he said he’d
have the law.
So he gave the case to Hiram, and then Hiram
brought a suit
And got back the hoss and harness and what
Benjy gave to boot.
When he met him at the gros’ry Benjy asked
him for the bill,
And when Hiram named the figger, it was
steeper’n Hobson’s hill.
Poor old Benjy hammed and swallered—bill jest
sort of took his breath,
And the crowd that stood a-listenin’ thought
perhaps he’d choke to death.
But it happened that the squire felt like jokin’
some that day,
And he says, “Now, Uncle Benjy, there won’t be
a cent to pay
If you’ll right here on the instant make me up a
nice pat rhyme;
Hear you’re pretty good at them things—give
you jest three minutes’ time.”
And the squire grinned like fury, tipped the
crowd a knowing wink,
While old Benjy started in, sir, almost ’fore
you’d time to think:
“Here you see the petty lawyer leanin’ on his
corkscrew cane.
Sartin parties call him Gander, other people call
him Crane.
Though he’s faowl, it’s someways daoubtful
what he is, my friends, but still
You can tell there’s hawk about him by the
gaul-durned qritter’s bill.”
Crane got mad, he wanted money, but the crowd
let on to roar,
And they laughed the blamed old skinflint right
square out the gros’ry store.