I’m workin’ this week in the wood lot; a hearty
old job, you can bet;
I finish my chores with a larntern, and marin has
the table all set
By the time I get in with the milkin’; and after
I wash at the sink,
And marm sets a saucer o’ strainin’s for the cat
and the kittens to drink.
Your uncle is ready for supper, with an appetite
whet to an edge
That’ll cut like a bush-scythe in swale-grass, and
couldn’t be dulled on a ledge.
And marm, she slats open the oven, and pulls
out a heapin’ full tin
Of the rippin’est cream-tartar biskit a man ever
pushed at his chin.
We pile some more wood on the fire, and open
the damper full blare,
And pull up and pitch into supper—and com-
fort—and taste good—wal, there!
And the wind swooshes over the chimbly, and
scrapes at the shingles cross grain,
But good double winders and bankin’ are mighty
good friends here in Maine.
I look ’crost the table to mother, and marm she
looks over at me,
And passes another hot biskit and says, “Won’t
ye have some more tea?”
And while I am stirrin’ the sugar, I relish the
sound of the storm.
For, thank the good Lord, we are cosy and the
stock in the tie-up is warm.
I tell ye, the song o’ the fire and the chirruping
hiss o’ the tea,
The roar of the wind in the chimbly, they sound
dreadful cheerful to me.
But they’d harrer me, plague me, and fret me,
unless as I set here I knew
That the critters are munchin’ their fodder and
bedded and comf’table too.
These biskits are light as a feather, but, boy,
they’d be heavier’n lead
If I thought that my hosses was shiv’rin’, if I
thought that my cattle warn’t fed.
There’s men in the neighborhood ’round me who
pray som’w’at louder than me,
They wear better clothes, sir, on Sunday—chip
in for the heathen Chinee,
But the cracks in the sides o’ their tie-ups are
wide as the door o’ their pew,
And the winter comes in there a-howlin’, with
the sleet and the snow peltin’ through.
Step in there, sir, ary a mornin’ and look at their
critters! ’Twould seem
As if they were bilers or engines, and all o’
them chock full o’ steam.
I’ve got an old-fashioned religion that calkalates
Sundays for rest,
But if there warn’t time, sir, on week days to
batten a tie-up, I’m blest
I’d use up a Sunday or such-like, and let the
durned heathen folks go
While I fastened some boards on the lintel to
keep out the frost and the snow.
I’d stand all the frowns of the parson before I’d
have courage to face
The dumb holler eyes o’ the critters hooked up
in a frosty old place.
And I’ll bet ye that in the Hereafter the men
who have stayed on their knees
And let some poor, fuzzy old cattle stand out in
a tie-up and freeze,
Will find that the heat o’ the Hot Place is keyed
to an extra degree
For the men who forgot to consider that critters
have feelin’s same’s we.
I dasn’t go thinkin’ o’ tie-ups where winter goes
whistlin’ through.
Where cattle are humped at their stanchions
with scarcely the gumption to moo.
But I’m glad for the sake of Hereafter that
mine ain’t the sin and the guilt,
And I tell you I relish my feelin’s when I pull
up the big patchwork quilt.
I can laugh at the pelt o’ the snowflakes, and
grin at the slat o’ the storm,
And thank the good Lord I can sleep now; the
stock in the tie-up is warm.
Ephram Wade sat down in the shade
And took off his haymaker hat, which he laid
On a tussock of grass; and he pulled out the
plug
That jealously gagged the old iron-stone jug.
And cocking his jug on his elbow he rigged
A sort of a “horse-up,” you know, and he
swigged
A pint of hard cider or so at a crack,
And set down the jug with a satisfied smack.
“Aha!” said he, “that grows the hair on ye,
bub,
My rule durin’ hayin’s more cider, less grub.
I take it, sah, wholly to stiddy my nerves,
And up in the stow hole I pitch ’em some
curves
On a drink of straight cider, in harnsomer shape
Than a feller could do on the juice of the grape.
Some new folderinos come ’long every day,
All sorts of new jiggers to help git yer hay.
Improvements on cutter bars, hoss forks, and
rakes,
And tedders and spreaders and all of them fakes.
But all of their patents ain’t fixed it so yit
That hayin’ is done without git-up and git.
If ye want the right stuff, sah, to take up the
slack,
The stuff to put buckram right inter yer back,
The stuff that will limber and ile up yer j’ints,
Just trot out some cider and drink it by pints.
It ain’t got no patents—it helps you make hay
As it helped out our dads in their old-fashioned
way.
Molasses and ginger and water won’t do,
’Twill irrigate some, but it won’t see ye through.
And ice water’ll chill ye, and skim milk is durn
Mean stuff any place, sah, except in a churn.
I’m a temperate man as a general rule,
—The man who gits bit by the adder’s a fool,—
But when it comes hayin’ and folks have to strain,
I tell you, old cider’s a stand-by in Maine.”
Then Ephrum Wade reclined in the shade
And patiently gazed on the hay while it “made.”
Old Uncle Ephrum Isaac Way
—He had a fit the other day.
A sort of capuluptic spell;
He hasn’t been in no ways well
Since year ago come next July;
He had a sunstroke; come blamed nigh
To passin’ ’crost. And since, for him,
The poor old man’s been dretful slim.
And ’twarn’t surprisin’ none, I say,
That fit of his the other day.
By time that Dr. Blaisdell come
His legs and arms had growed all numb.
He didn’t sense things source at all,
His lower jaw commenced to fall,
And, jedged from looks, there warn’t no doubt
That Ephrum’s soul was passin’ out.
Fact is, they thought that he was dead;
They tied the bandage round his head,
Laid out his shroud—when first they knew,
Eph kicked awhile and then come to;
Got up and stared with all his eyes,
And said, “Why, this ain’t Paradise!
Gol durn the luck, they let me in;
Now here I’m back on earth agin.
I’ve been to Heaven! I’ve been dead,
I’ve seen it All,” so Ephrum said.
And while we gathered round with awe
He told us all the things he saw.
And while he yarned that tale of Death
The parson came, all out of breath,
Exclaiming o ’er and o ’er again,
“A vision! Wondrous! Blest of men!”
And asked, “Oh, tell us, Mr. Way,
How long were you allowed to stay?”
And then the crowd hung breathless round
A-harkin’ until Ephrum found
Some sort of language in his reach,
—For he was sort of dull in speech.
“Wal, friends,” he slowly said at last,
“I ricolleet that when I passed
The pearly gates and sills of gold
And see that blessed sight unfold
Before my dim old hazy eyes,
I got a shock of such surprise
I couldn’t move,—I couldn’t speak,
—Jest run my tongue down in my cheek
And sort of numbly pronged and pried
The chaw I took before I died.
—That’s been my habit all my days;
When I am nervous anyways
I don’t fly all to gosh. Instid
I simply, calmly shift my quid.
But jest as I had rolled her ’crost—
Wal, suthin’ dropped and I was lost.
And all of Heaven, friends, I saw
Was while I shifted that air chaw.”
I think, dear sir, I scarce need add
That seldom do you see so glad
A resurrection time as they
Who stood there gave old Ephrum Way.
The parson first he tried to screw
His face up solemn, but that crew
Broke out and howled like they was daft.
And so he laughed and laughed and laughed.
Hindsight is clearer than foresight,
But foresight is better and safer, old chap.
Experiment teaches, but common sense reaches
And tests the bright baubles in Dame Future’s
lap.
I’m telling you what Eph Landers did
The time that the critter lost his fid.
He was sort of a quick, impulsive man;
—When others walked, he always ran.
He never waited to calmly view,
But he got right up and slam-banged through.
Believed that the moments a feller took
To give the future a good square look
Was simply so much wasted time;
His plan was, “Never look up; just climb.”
He was yankin’ boulders a week ago
And things got balky and movin’ slow.
He strung the chain ’round a good big rock
And found that he lost the little block
To catch the link; it’s used instid
Of a hook and link, and it’s called a fid.
And Eph, he held the unhooked chain
By the ends, and he looked and he got profane.
But he couldn’t find it and wouldn’t wait,
—He was mad as a bug and desperate,
And the crack-brained critter—what do ye
think?
Why, he stuck his thumb in the unhooked link.
He didn’t consider that ’twarn’t his fid,
But the oxen started—and then he did!
He see’d his mistake, as most men do,
When the deed is done and the thing is through:
You stick your thumb where it don’t belong
And the world will yank it, good and strong.
Hindsight is clearer than foresight,
But you’d better ask foresight to give ye a
point;
Or, first thing you’re knowin’, Old World will be
goin’,
And he’ll laugh while you howl with your thumb
out of joint.
Maria’s comb hung lopsy-wise
And flapped athwart her filmy eyes,
Exactly like a slattern’s hair
On washing day; and I declare
She was the slouchiest-looking hen
That pecked in T. B. Tucker’s pen.
Cah-dah! Cah-dut!
She was the butt
Of every sort of jibe and cut.
Maria was a Brahma dame,
Broad and squat and plucked and lame.
The Leghorns cast a pitying smile
Upon her queer, old-fashioned style.
The Plymouth Rocks would jeer and flout
Because her legs were feathered out.
The cocks would strut,
Pah-rutt! Pah-rutt!
And snigger at her bloomers’ cut.
The trim white Cochins tip-toed by
And froze her with disdainful eye;
Each tufted Houdan tossed her plume
And glared Maria’s social doom.
Where ’er she strolled in all the yard
Maria got it good and hard!
Cah-dut! Cah-dah!
Each social star
Just dropped Maria with a jar.
But she pursued her quiet way,
And picked and scratched the livelong day,
Kept early hours and ate bran mash,
Nor sought to cut a social dash.
And then one day she left her nest
With pallid comb and swelling breast.
Cah-dut! Cah-dah!
Hooray, hurrah!
Maria, you’re a queen, you are!
The news went cackling round the pen
—An egg! It measured twelve by ten.
And T. B. Tucker drove to town
To take that gor-rammed big egg down.
The editor put on his specs,
The villagers turned rubber necks,
And some collecting feller paid
Right smart for what Maria laid.
And European news was set
Aside that week by the Gazette
In order that a glowing pen
Might pay due praise to that old hen.
Cah-lip! Cah-lop!
You’ll find, sure pop,
That modest merit lands on top.
Mother fights with Marshy, and Marshy fights
with her,
—Don’t give up yer proputty, I’m tellin’ on yer,
sir!
Don’t give up yer proputty to nary blessed one,
—Don’t keer whuther brother, sir, or nephy,
sir, or son.
Don’t make over northin’, sir, ontil you’re done
and through,
Or ye’ll cuss the day ye done it till the air is
black and blue..
Me and marm got feeble and we couldn’t run
the farm,
Son was newly married and we couldn’t see the
harm
In makin’ on it over, we to have the ell and shed,
Use the sittin’ room in common—and a room
for one spare bed.
And so we made the papers and we signed ’em,
me and wife,
’Lowin’ them the stand and stock, and us our
keep for life.
Twelvemonth isn’t finished, but the trouble has
begun,
An’ it’s one continyal rowin’ ’twixt us and her
and son.
Marshy dings at mother and mother dings at her,
’F things ain’t settled somehow, sir, they’ll git
to clawin’ fur.
Don’t give up yer proputty, I’m tellin’ on ye
straight.
Don’t keer who your family is, ye’ll rue it sure
as fate.
’Fore ye sign the papers they’ll come round ye
slicker’n cream,
But ye’ll notice little later, sir, that things ain’t
what they seem.
Man that’s got his proputty, he’s looked to with
respect;
Relations they come meechin’ round to
scratch, sir, where he’s pecked.
Ye see, he rules the family roost and leads the
family flock,
As proud and full of manners as a Cochin China
cock.
But if the years have loosened up his intellect
and grip,
And if he thinks his folks are straight, and lets
the old farm slip,
He’ll find the grin becomes a frown and sweet-
ness turns to greed,
For folks see things in different light when once
they’ve got a deed.
Now Marshy snarls at mother and mother sends
it back,
And all the time, from sun to sun, it’s clack and
clack and clack!
Don’t give up yer propputy, hang on till death,
I say;
It’s time when you are done with it to give your
all away.
Oh, how the devil snickers round when some
old codger drools
About “the laying down of cares”—and jines
the ranks of fools!
And how the lawyers laugh and joke, and how
the angels weep,
To see some old folks deed away their farm for
board and keep!
—Never see’d no better cook than Marshy
used to be,
When first along she’d ask us down to dinner
or to tea.
Used to sweeten grub with smiles when she
would pass a plate,
And me and marm, like two old coots, we swal-
lowed hook and bait.
You bet we git some diff’rent looks, we git some
different feed,
Jest like they’d throw it out to dogs, now son
has got the deed.
An’ Marshy growls at mother, and mother’s
growlin’ wuss,
An’ I—wal, I jest set and smoke and cuss—
and cuss—and cuss!
When all the sky seems blazing down, and sun-
shine curls the bricks,
And General Humidity puts in his biggest licks,
I welcome with a moist and dripping
palm,
A placid old philosopher who runs a little farm,
Who says imagination helps a deal in keeping
cool,
And who to comfort other men makes this his
simple rule:
To talk of piping, biting days, and drifting
winter storm
Whene ’er the weather pipes it up and gets too
thunderin’ warm.
They’re better far than fizz or smash or juleps,
sure’s you’re born,
—The honest little narratives of Frigid Weather
John.
For though the sizzling summer time may boil
and steam and hiss,
Who’d ever, ever think of it while listening to
this?
“I never see’d a winter have a durnder, sharper
aidge
Than in the year of Sixty-one, the year that I
drove stage.
I never had so hard a job attendin’ to my biz,
For everything was frizable, that year you bet
was friz.
At last I done a caper that I hadn’t done for
years:
I got a little careless and I friz up both my ears.
The roads was awful drifted and I trod ten
miles of snow,
And all the time that zippin’ wind did nothin’,
sah, but blow.
Them ears of mine was froze so hard, stuck out
so bloomin’ straight,
I thought the wind would snap ’em off, it blew
at such a rate.
And when at last I hauled up home, the missus
bust in tears
And hollered, ‘John, oh, massy me, you’re going
to lose your ears.’
But I—why, land o’ goodness, I was cooler’n I
be now,”
—And he passed his red bandanna up across
his steaming brow,—
“I jest got out my hatchet and I chopped two
cakes of ice
And held ’em on my friz-up ears—’twas
Granpy Jones’ advice.
I didn’t dast go in the house, but set there in
the shed
A-holdin’ them two chunks of ice to either
side my head.
The chunks weighed fifty pounds apiece—that
doctorin’ didn’t cost—
And so I got ’em big enough to take out all the
frost.
My wife came out at last to see what made me
keep so still,
And there I was, sound asleep and snorin’
fit to kill.
She got me in and gave me tea and helped me
inter bed,
With that ’ere ice a-frozen tight and solid to my
head.
’Twas sort of curi’s, I confess, but still I slept
complete,
A crystal palace on my head and soapstones on
my feet.
It wasn’t really what you’d call a calm and rest-
ful night,
But when the ice peeled off next day them ears
come out all right.”
They’re better far than fizz or smash or juleps,
sure’s you’re born,
—These honest little narratives from Frigid
Weather John.