Ephrum Eels he had to scratch durned hard to
keep ahead,
—But he always kept three dogs.
He couldn’t keep a dollar bill to save his life,
they said,
—But he always kept three dogs.
He said he might have been some one if he’d
had half a chance,
But getting grub from day to day giv’ Ephrum
such a dance,
He never got where he could shed the patches
off his pants;
—But he always kept three dogs.
Ephrum’s young ones never looked as though
they was half-fed,
—But he always kept three dogs.
The house would be so cold his folks would
have to go to bed;
—But Ephrum kept three dogs.
One was sort of setter dog and two of ’em was
houn’s,
Their skins was full of Satan; they was always
on their roun’s,
Till people durned their pictures in half a dozen
towns,
—But Ephrum kept his dogs.
They ’bated Ephrum’s poll-tax’cause he was too
poor to pay,
—But Ephrum kept his dogs.
How he scraped up cash to license ’em it ain’t
in me to say,
—But I know he kept his dogs.
And when a suff’rin’ neighbor ambuscaded ’em,
Eph swore—
Then in a kind of homesick way he hustled
round for more;
He struck a lucky bargain and, by thunder, he
bought four!
—Jest kept on a-keepin’ dogs.
Sunning themselves on the southern porch,
Where the warm fall rays from the towering
torch
Of the great sun flash in the glowing noons,
The drying apples, in long festoons,
Drink the breath of the crisp fall days,
Borrow the blush of the warming rays;
Storing their sweetness, their rich bouquet,
Against that savage and wintry day
When the housewife’s fingers shall by and by
Mould them into dried-apple pie.
There they mellow and there they brown,
Homely enough to a man from town,
Merely strings of some shrunken fruit,
Swung in the sun. And yet they’re mute
Memory-ticklers to those who know
The ways of the farm in the long-ago:
—The kitchen table, the heaping store
Of round, red apples upon the floor.
The purr of the parer, the mellow snip
As the busy knives thro’ the apples slip.
The merry chatter of boys and girls,
The rosy clutter of paring curls,
As hurrying knives and fingers fly
O ’er the luscious fruit for dried-apple pie.
I’m idly thinking it sure must be
That the rollicking sport of the apple-bee,
—The sweetness of smiles, the touch of the
white
Hands flashing there in the candle-light,—
Must all in a mystic way be blent
In one grand flavor;—that such was lent
To those mellowing strings, those festoons dun
Swinging there in the late fall sun.
For lo, as I look I seem to see
A dream of the past, a fantasy,
—A laughing, black-eyed roguish girl
Whirling a writhing paring curl;
Chanting the words of the old mock spell
That all we children knew so well:
“Three times round and down you go!
Now who is the one that loves me so?”
Merely a fancy, a passing gleam
Of the old, old days;—a sudden dream
Beguiled by some prank of a blurring eye
And the tricking song of a big, blue fly;
—Merely a fancy, and yet, ah me,
How often I’ve wondered where she can be.
There they mellow and there they brown,
Homely objects to folks from town;
Only some apples hung to dry
And doomed to be finally tombed in a pie.
Now there’s Hezekiall Adams—nicest man you
ever saw!
Never had a row with no one; never once got
into law;
Always worked like thunderation, but to save
his blessed life,
Never seemed to get forehanded—and I’ve laid
it to his wife,
For she always kept him meechin’; calls him
down with sour tone,
Till the critter hasn’t gumption for to say his
soul’s his own.
T’other day
Happened to ride along his way;
Heseki’,
Like a gingham rag hung out to dry,
Peak-ed and pale,
Lopped on the gate ’cross the upper rail.
“Howdy!” says I,
“Blamed if I know,” says Heseki’.
“Don’t feel sick,
But marm’s kept my back on a big hot brick
Till I can’t tell
Whuther I’m ailin’ or whuther I’m well.”
“Think,” says I,
“It’s too early to hoe when the ground’s so dry?”
Says he, “’Bout all
I’m sartin’ of is, I shall dig come fall.”
Says I, “Things look
Like we farmers can fatten the pocket-book.”
“Mebbe,” says he,
“But inarm vows there ain’t much she can see.”
“Ye can’t jest crawl,”
Says I, “but there’s money for folks with
sprawl.”
Old Hezekiah shifted legs and give a lonesome
groan;
“I begun with these two hands,” said he,
“And I’ve only held my own.”
He has always worked like blazes, but, has
always seemed to fail;
—Made his grabs at prancin’ Fortune, but has
caught the critter’s tail;
Never jumped and gripped the bridle—wouldn’t
darst to on his life;
Always acts too blasted meechin’—and I’ve laid
it to his wife.
Row-diddy, dow de, my little sis,
Hush up your teasin’ and listen to this:
’Tain’t much of a jingle, ’tain’t much of a tune,
But it’s spang-fired truth about Chester Cahoon.
The thund’rinest fireman Lord ever made
Was Chester Cahoon of the Tuttsville Brigade.
He was boss of the tub and the foreman of hose;
When the ’larm rung he’d start, sis, a-sheddin’
his clothes,
—Slung cote and slung wes’cote and kicked off
his shoes,
A-runnin’ like fun, for he’d no time to lose.
And he’d howl down the ro’d in a big cloud of
dust,
For he made it his brag he was allus there fust.
—Allus there fust, with a whoop and a shout,
And he never shut up till the fire was out.
And he’d knock out the winders and save all the
doors,
And tear off the clapboards, and rip up the
floors,
For he allus allowed ’twas a tarnation sin
To ’low ’em to burn, for you’d want ’em agin.
He gen’rally stirred up the most of his touse
In hustling to save the outside of the house.
And after he’d wrassled and hollered and pried,
He’d let up and tackle the stuff ’twas inside.
To see him you’d think he was daft as a loon,
But that was jest habit with Chester Cahoon.
Row diddy-iddy, my little sis,
Now see what ye think of a doin’ like this:
The time of the fire at Jenkins’ old place
It got a big start—was a desprit case;
The fambly they didn’t know which way to turn.
And by gracious, it looked like it all was to burn.
But Chester Cahoon—oh, that Chester Cahoon,
He sailed to the roof like a reg’lar balloon;
Donno how he done it, but done it he did,
—Went down through the scuttle and shet
down the lid.
And five minutes later that critter he came
To the second floor winder surrounded by
flame.
He lugged in his arms, sis, a stove and a bed,
And balanced a bureau right square on his head.
His hands they was loaded with crockery stuff,
China and glass; as if that warn’t enough,
He’d rolls of big quilts round his neck like a
wreath,
And carried Mis’ Jenkins’ old aunt with his
teeth.
You’re right—gospel right, little sis,—didn’t
seem
The critter’d git down, but he called for the
stream.
And when it comes strong and big round as my
wrist
He stuck out his legs, sis, and give ’em a
twist;
And he hooked round the water jes’ if ’twas a
rope
And down he come easin’ himself on the slope,
—So almighty spry that he made that ’ere
stream
As fit for his pupp’us’ as if ’twas a beam.
Oh, the thund’rinest fireman Lord ever made
Was Chester Cahoon of the Tuttsville Brigade.
Guess that more’n a dozen lawyers, off and on,
from time to time,
Tried to settle down in Hudson, but they
couldn’t earn a dime.
Never got a speck of business, never had a single
case,
Said they never in their travels struck so
blimmed-blammed funny place.
People did a lot of hustling, town was flourish-
ing enough,
—Everybody but the lawyers had his fingers
full of stuff.
Lawyers stayed till they got hungry, then they’d
pull their shingles down
And go tearing off to somewhere, damning right
and left the town.
Told the lawyers round the county, “Hudson’s
bound to starve you out
Till some patriot up and poisons one old cuss
down there named Strout.
’Cause they won’t fork up a fee,
Long’s he’s round to referee.
’Case of difference or doubt
Folks say, 6 Wal, we’ll leave her out
To Uncle Micajah Strout.’”
If a farmer bought a heifer and she didn’t run
to milk,
If a dickerer in horse trades struck a snag or
tried to bilk,
If two parties got to haggling over what a farm
was worth,
Or if breeders split in squabbling over weight or
age or girth;
If a stubborn line-fence quarrel, right-of-way dis-
pute, or deed,
Claim of heirship or of debtor, honest error,
biassed greed,
Rose to foster litigation, no one scurried to the law,
No one belched out objurgations, sputtered oaths,
or threatened war,
For there was a ready resource in a certain plain
old gent,
Unassuming, blunt, and honest. When he said
a thing it went.
So there was no chance for wrangle, disputations,
snarls, or fray,
When the people of the village universally could
say,
“Oh, what’s the use to fuss?
We shall only make a muss.
We can fix it in about
Half a minute. Leave it out
To Uncle Micajah Strout.”
So no wonder all the lawyers banned and cursed
the place, and left;
For contention was but fleeting and the town
was never cleft
By a quarrel or dissension. Rows were always
settled young
By the pacifying magic of. Micajah’s ready
tongue.
When at last his days were ended and he passed
—well, now you bet
That he had the biggest funeral ever seen in
Somerset.
Miss him? Guess we miss Micajah, but if ever
dreams come true,
I’ve a sort of sneaking notion that he hasn’t yet
got through
Settling things for us in Hudson; for I dreamed
—and this is straight—
That I died and went to Heaven, but was yanked
up at the gate.
Peter showed me facts and figures, all the
records, and allowed
That I’d have to take my chances down below
with t’other crowd;
—Said the thing was pretty even, but he had to
draw it fine,
Then commenced to hunt the index for the next
shade in the line.
I protested, and we had it, this and that, and pro
and con,
And I hung and begged and argued when he
told me to move on.
Till at last he called a cherub, sent the little
chap inside,
Owning up that he was bothered as to how he
should decide.
“But I’ll give you all the show.
That I can,” said he. “You know,
I’ve arranged, in case of doubt,
—When it’s close,—to leave it out
To Uncle Micajah’s trout.”
There lived two frogs, so I’ve been told,
In a quiet wayside pool;
And one of those frogs was a blamed bright frog,
But the other frog was a fool.
Now a farmer man with a big milk can
Was wont to pass that way;
And he used to stop and add a drop
Of the aqua pure, they say.
And it chanced one morn in the early dawn,
When the farmer’s sight was dim,
He scooped those frogs in the water he dipped,
—Which same was a joke on him.
The fool frog sank in the swashing tank
As the farmer bumped to town.
But the smart frog flew like a tug-boat screw,
And he swore he’d not go down.
So he kicked and splashed and he slammed and
thrashed,
And he kept on top through all;
And he churned that milk in first-class shape
In a great big butter ball.
Now when the milkman got to town,
And opened the can, there lay
The fool frog drowned; but, hale and sound,
The kicker he hopped away.
Don’t fret your life with needless strife,
Yet let this teaching stick:
You’ll find, old man, in the world’s big can
It sometimes pays to kick.
’Twould make an ox curl up and die
To hear how Zek’l Pratt would lie.
—Why, that blamed Zeke
Could hardly speak
Without he’d let some whopper fly.
Come jest as natchrul to him, too,
—’Twas innocent, and them as knew
Zeke’s failin’s never took great stock,
But jest stood back and let him talk;
Jest let him thrash his peck o’ chart,
Then got behind his back to laugh.
Why, Zeke would—jest hold on and see
What that old liar told to me.
Last fall while gettin’ in his grain
He said he see’d a harrycane
—A cikerloon, as they say West—
A-boomin’ on like all possesst.
And Zekel see’d to his consarn
’Twas bound plumb straight for his new barn.
“’Twas crickitul,” says he. “Thinks I,
I’ve got to be almighty spry.
If somethin’ ain’t done kind o’ brash
That barn will get chawed inter hash.
It don’t take long for me to think,
And what I done was quicker’n wink.
Jest gafflin’ up a couple boards
I sashayed out deerectly to’ards
That howlin’, growlin’ harrycane
That come a-raisin’ merry Cain.
“When I’d got out as fur’s my wind
Would take me, I slacked up and shinned
That cob-piled monnyment o’ stones
Between my land and Bial Jones.
Though I don’t scare
I’ll own, I swear,
It sent a twitter through my bones
When I got where that I could see
The thing ’twas goin’ to tackle me.
’Twas big and round and blacker’n Zip,
—And powerful? My sakes, ’twould grip
A tree or bam or line o’ fence
And make ’em look like thirty cents.
While all the time it growled and chawed
And spit the slivers forty rod.
—As things looked then a bob-tailed darn
Was too much price for Pratt’s new barn.
“But let me tell ye this, my son,
Me’n them boards warn’t there for fun.
I held one underneath each arm;
The ends stuck out
In front about
Ten feet. I held ’em aidge to aidge
And made a fust-class kind of wedge.
I grit my teeth. There was a calm
For jest a minit, kind o’ ’s ef
That harrycane had stopped itse’f
And snickered, snorted, laughed, and yelled,
Then stopped again and sort o’ held
Its breath; then swellin’ up its breast
Swooped down to knock me galley-west.
“It grabbed them boards and then ’twas fight!
But scare me? Not a gol-durned mite!
It pulled and tugged and yanked and hauled
And tooted, howled, and squealed and squalled;
It picked up sculch and dirt, and threw,
And followed with a tree or two;
It hit me with a rotten squash,
And give me fits with Marm Jones’ wash.
But ’twarn’t no use, suh, Zek’l Pratt
Ain’t built to scare at things like that.
I jest let into that air tyke
And punched its innards reg’lar-like
With them ’ere boards, and honest true,
I split her square and plumb in two.
One half went yowlin’ by to right
And one to left—and out’ of sight.
While Zek’l Pratt was still on deck
With Marm Jones’ night-gown round his neck.”
It doesn’t need eyesight to tell that it’s fall,
Up here in Maine.
Though the glamor of yellow is over it all,
And the cold, swishing rain
Comes peltering down and goes stripping the
leaves,
And smokes in cold spray from the edge of the
eaves.
All, it’s wild out of doors, but come in here with
me
Where mother’s as busy as busy can be.
And you need not your eyes, sir, to know it is fall
In this stifle and stirring and steam like a pall.
For there’s savor of spices and odorous charms
When your nose gets a sniff of these pickles of
marm’s.
You know it is fall without using your eyes,
Up here in Maine.
There is fragrance that floats as the flower-pot
dies
In the tears of the rain.
And the hand of the frost strips the sheltering
leaves
From the pumpkins, those bombs of the sentinel
sheaves
That stiffly and starkly keep gnard in the field,
A desolate rank without weapon or shield.
And the fragrance of death like a delicate musk
Floats up from the field through the crispness of
dusk;
Yet out from the kitchen, more savory far,
Drifts the fragrance of pickles compounded by
ma.
The autumn sweeps past like a dame to a ball,
Up here in Maine.
Her perfumes would stagger shy Springtime, but
Fall,
Like a matron of Spain,
Puts musk in her bosom and scent on her hair,
And prinks her gay robe with elaborate care.
Yet the fragrance she sheds has the savor of
death,
The brain is turned giddy beneath her fierce
breath,
Till over it all floats the vigorous scent
Of spices and hot things and good things, all
blent.
It’s wonderful, friend, how it tickles and calms,
—That whiff from those simmering pickles of
marm’s.