Ev’ry nugget clean and sound,
Red’s a jewel, smooth and round,
Worth a dollar’n ten a pound;
Here’s your gum, ye giddy girls,
Here’s your Maine spruce gum.
The chaps that went off with the Klondike
diggers
For gold—jest gold,
Have slumped in the snow, and they work like
niggers,
And they haven’t got rich, we’re told.
We’re snowshoeing down from the north of
Katahdin,
See here! Yum, yum!
Here’s a tole to tease Maud to come into the
garden
—These rich, rosy lumps o’ spruce gum.
Our fires are dowsed in the lonesome old camps,
We’ve left them to wolves and the foxes and
damps.
The trail of our snowshoes lies snakin’ behind,
For we’re clawing for home with the treasures
we’ve mined.
We’ve no sort of use for the pick and the sluice;
Our Klondike has been the straight trunks of
the spruce.
Let them that elect grub the dirt for a “gleam,”
Our ore is the gum and our lode is the seam
That doesn’t go sneaking in mire and clay,
But grins at the sun and drinks deep of broad day.
Go grope for your gold in the bowels of mud!
We’ll cleave our fresh nuggets of resinous blood
Forced out from the heart through the fibre and
vein
Of the giants who lurk in the woodlands of
Maine.
Just squint through this bubble and gaze at the
blaze:
That red is the fire of hot summer days;
That glimmer is autumn; that glow is the tint
That was lent by some campfire’s guttering glint.
And here is a globe like the eye of a cat,
And this one is amber like honey; and that
Is a tear rosy red with the anger and shame
Of a king glooming down as the axe-heavers
came;
—Staring down as around him his kin roared
to earth
Midst the oaths of the swampers and Labor’s
rude mirth.
That tear of the spruce, may it go to the pearls
Flashing bright ’neath the lips of some sweetest
of girls!
These, then, are the treasures we bring in our
packs,
—Each round, rosy globule as sweet as the
smacks
We’ll get from the kids when they swoop with
a roar
At dad just the second he opens the door.
Clear out your old scraps, Mr. Druggist: we
come
With a good hefty jag of the season’s new gum.
Ey’ry nugget clear and sound,
Red’s a jewel, smooth and round,
Worth a dollar’n ten a pound.
Here’s your gum, ye giddy girls,
Here’s your Maine spruce gum.
The rain has raised the river an’ she’s np to
driving pitch,
An’ it’s oh, an’ grab your peavies an’ go sloppin’
in the wet.
We’ve got ter send ’er whoopin’ now without a
ketch or hitch,
But it won’t be kid-glove bus’ness, oh, my
hearties, you can bet.
Empty the water out of your boots
And gaffle your peavies, you P.I. galoots.
There’s the rips at Rundy’s Corner, and the
sluice at Puzzle Gorge;
You can drive ’em and connive ’em, but the
timber’s bound to lodge.
An’ sticks will buck—with best of luck—as
offish-like as hogs,
For there ain’t no calkerlatin’ how you’ll run a
drive o’ logs.
Chase the heathen with a sword,
Run the cattle with a goad,
All we want’s our Oldtown peavies, when our
drives go overboard.
An’ we’ll foller, sloshin’ in,
Yes, we’ll waller to the chin,
An’ we’ll herd ’em through the wildest stream
that ever frothed and roared.
So, look alive,
It’s after five,
An’ the drouth is a-chasin’ the rear o’ the drive.
Foller down, foller down with your peavies on
your backs,
For the herd that runs ahead of us goes loafin’
’less it’s chased.
They know they’re off to market, an’ they dread
the saw an’ axe,
An’ you’ve got to go and welt ’em, though the
water’s to your waist,
For they balk on Depsconneagon when a sixty-
footer halts;
Ev’ry eddy stands a-ready for to swing ’em in a
waltz.
An’ ev’ry rock is chock-a-block with jack-strawed
pine an’ spruce,
Ontil you’ve got the devil’s job to try and turn
’em loose.
But our goadstick is the peavy, an’ our cant-dog
is the pup
That’ll worry ’em an’ hurry ’em an’ rush ’em,
chase ’em up.
Oh, the drouth is right behind us, but we’ve
passed the North Twin flume,
An’ we’ll beat the sun in heaven in the race for
Pea Cove boom.
It’s dark in the camp, and the woods outside
Are dark, dark, too!
And a hundred men still open wide
Their loud bay-zoo.
It’s sort of mean to rout ’em jus’
To work once more;
I’d like to let each tired cuss
Jus’ lay and snore.
But I’ve been up for an hour or two
And grub’s all on;
And now as the cook of Pete Long’s crew
I toot my horn.
The weirdest of all wood-sounds, by the way,
Is a cook’s queer cadence at break of day:
Whoo-e-e-e!
Git UP!
The grub is on the table, boys, the coffee’s on
the bile:
The swagon’s hotter’n Tophet and I swear ’twill
make you smile.
There’s whiskers on the gingerbread, the biskit
can’t be beat;
I’ve got molasses sinkers made from mother’s
old receipt.
—Oh, I’ve got molasses sinkers built around
some extra holes;
They’ll make you think of home and friends and
tickle up your souls.
The beans come out a-roarin’ when I boosted
up the lid;
They chuckled when I pried ’em out—they
laughed, I swear they did.
Don’t jolly me about your smells of Araby the
blest,
—Jus’ take a snuff of ground-baked beans all
hot from out their nest.
The grub is on the table, boys, hurroop, hurroop,
whoo-e-e-e!
Come, tumble out, git on a move! Good Lord,
it’s after three!
Rise up and shine, my gentle lambs, surround
your breakfast quick,
Or else you’ll git the sun’s ha-ha from over
Tumble Dick.
And if the timer heaves a growl and docks you
in his book,
Jus’ blame your own durn lazy luck—don’t
lay it on the cook.
For ev’ry man who’s et my cream-of-tartar bis-
kit knows
The cook of this ’ere camp, by smut, ’s the
earliest bird that crows.
For I’m old enough to spell a-a-a-ble!
The grub is all on the ta-a-a-ble!
Whoo-e-e-e!
Git UP!
The duffle is packed, and the babies are smacked,
and the wife has a buss and a hug;
And she’s done it up brown in a-loading me
down with about all the grub I can lug,
So long! Good-by!
I’m off! Don’t cry!
—Just about a month of Sundays and you’ll
see my homely mug.
Now look ye, ye towzled-haired son of a gun,
Be good to your mother or you’ll see some
fun
When your daddy comes down on the drive in
the spring
And fetches a withe with a hornetty sting.
Ha! ha! you young rascal, you’d rather have
gum?
Well, be a good baby and pa’ll fetch you some.
Yes, mother, you’re right, it does seem kinder
wrong
To leave you alone here the whole winter
long.
And it’s tough that I have to pack dunnage and
break
For the big timber wrassle at Chamberlain lake.
But folks are a-waiting for lumber and boards,
They’ve picked up their saws, now they’ve laid
down their swords.
They’re wanting the timbers for new city domes,
They’re wanting the shingles for humble new
homes.
The hammers are waiting, the nails are on end,
And the chorus of clatter’ll commence when we
send
A billion of lumber down race-way and sluice,
From the lonesome dominions of gloomy King
Spruce.
The men who print papers are wanting fresh
sheets,
The folks who build ships will be launching new
fleets,
For, mark me, no matter what Uncle Sam
planned,
He finds he can’t reach his new back lots by
land.
Don’t smile at me, wife, but I feel when I swing
That sweaty old axe from the fall to the spring,
That I hear one grim cry swimming up on the air
Through the dim, silent forest,—a pleading
prayer.
The clank of the press, and the scream of the
saws.
The grunt of the grinder that slavers and chaws
At the fibre of pulp wood; the purr of the plane
Are blent in one chorus, attuned to one strain,
—That sighs in the breezes or throbs in the roar
Of the tempest; and ever the cry is for “More.‘’
And we men with our axes and horn-covered
palms
Hear the call as a man hears the summons “To
arms,”
And forward we plunge with no quarter, no
truce,
With axes a-gleam in the realms of King Spruce.
The duffle is packed, and the babies are smacked;
now wife, for a buss and a hug.
Save a smile ’gainst the spring, for I’m going to
bring just all the spruce gum I can lug.
I’m off! Good-bye!
So long! Don’t cry!
In about a month of Sundays you will see my
homely mug.
Hooray for to-day, and hooray for to-night, and
forget all the rest of it, boys.
Hold on, Mister Barkeeper, close up your jaw,
we’re paying for all of this noise.
We won’t mosey out, and we won’t set down,
and you can’t keep a one of us still;
You can charge, if you want to, so much for a
yawp; we’ll settle all right in the bill.
For this is our very last evenin’ on earth; the
last night we’ll be here alive.
To-morrow at six we all cut sticks for the rear of
the West Branch drive.
Hooray!
For Seboomook, and rear of the drive.
Oh, bartender, say, can’t you hustle them up?
Come, push out your reddest of paint,
We’re here for to splatter the carnation on, now
blow us for fools if we ain’t!
So set out your varnish for coffins, my boy,—
that brand called the “Grave-diggers’ Boast.”
I’ve got enough chink—now down with your
drink! and I’ll give ye a riverman’s toast.
While you’re raising up your glasses,
Jest forget the giddy lasses
That have coaxed away your dollars, and have
given you the laugh.
Turn away from them connivers,
And as honest, hearty drivers
Drink a good, round jorum to the stout ash staff.
When the girls have filched your cash,
There is still the hearty ash,
It is waiting at Seboomook for to cheer your
foolish soul.
Ah, you know we love it most; and I give
you this, my toast,
The river driver’s darling, oh, his long ash pole.
We’ve ridden the gorges on rioting logs, and
we’ve always swept safe to the land.
So long as we rode with the spikes in our boots,
and the long, limber pole in our hand;
We’ve pried at the jams on the brink of the
dams, and the pole has stood by like a man,
And then in the dash for our lives in the crash
the pole braced us up as we ran,
Hooray!
As we yelled through the smother and ran.
And when in the bellow of up-ending logs it
looked like good-by to our souls
We rode back to life from out of the strife,
vaulting high on the end of our poles.
Ah, these are the friends that stand by you, my
boys: they’re truer than all of the host
Of the fair-spoken gang of the thieves of the
town! Crowd up here and drink to my toast!
The girls were sweeter’n honey
Till they gathered in our money,
And the barkeeps they were pleasant just as
long as we could spend.
Now it’s quite another story,
—Case of throwdown! But, by glory,
We can drink this final jorum to our stout old
friend.
Though the gang has swiped our cash, there is
still the hearty ash,
He is waiting at Seboomook for to cheer your
foolish soul.
After all, we love him most! and he’s still the
last, loud toast
—The driver’s honest helper, oh, the long ash
pole.
Have you ever heard Seboomook with her April
dander up,
With the amber rushing river gorged to high-
est drivin’ pitch?
Have you heard her boom and bellow—rocky
lips a-froth with yellow—
When she spews and spumes the torrents—
oh, the wild and wicked witch?
She has menace in her breath,
And she roars the chant of death,
For the victim that she slavers never sees
the sun again.
And she clutches at the river,
With entreaty that it give her
The morsels for her longing, which are men—
men—men!
Here’s a tale to suit the cynic—’tis a satire from
the woods,
And concerns a certain hero who was hunt-
ing after Fame;
’Tis the grim and truthful story of a mighty
reach for glory,
But, alas, he didn’t get it, for we’ve clean
forgot his name!
He was one of Murphy’s crew,
And he swore that he’d go through
Where no other West Branch driver ever saved
the shirt he wore:
For he vowed he’d shoot the gorge
And allowed that he could dodge
The Death that knelt a-clutching at the prey
the waters bore.
When they said he couldn’t do it, why, he
laughed the crowd to scorn,
—Poled across the dimpling shallows with
a fierce and hoarse good-by
—He was Murphy’s top-notch driver, half a bird
and one-half diver,
But the best who brave Seboomook only
sound the depths to die.
And they found him miles below;
But his mother would not know
The mangled mass Seboomook belched from out
her vap’rous throat.
The first man coming down
Brought the story out to town,
Referring to the hero as a “dretful reckless
goat.”
Then he told the brisk reporters all the grim and
grisly tale,
And the deed was dressed in language in a
way to bring some fame.
But alas for human glory, the galoot who brought
the story,
Remembered all the details, but forgot the
fellow’s name.
Have you ever heard Seboomook roaring at you
in the night,
With her champing jaws a-frothing in a word-
less howl of hate?
’Tis a fierce vociferation to compel our admira-
tion,
For the chap who struck that rugged blow,
cross-countered thus by Fate.
When he lunged his pole at Death,
When the river sucked his breath,
Seboomook gravely listened when he screamed
his humble name;
For the honor of a foe
She would have the people know,
But she vainly dins her message in the deafened
ear of Fame.
The sheeted ghosts of moated grange
And misty wraiths are passing strange;
The gibbering spooks and elfin freaks
And cackling witches’ maudlin squeaks—
—They have terrified the nations, and have laid
the bravest low,
But intimidate a woodsman up in Maine? Why,
bless you, no!
Merely misty apparitions or some sad ancestral
spook
Serve to terrify a maiden or to warn a death-
marked duke.
But the P. I. scoffs their terrors, though he’ll
never venture loose
’Mongst the ha’nts that roam the woodlands in
the weird domains of Spruce.
—He’ll mock the fears of mystic and he’ll scorn
the bookish tales
Of the fearsome apparitions of the past, but
courage fails
In the night when he awakens, all a-shiver in
his bunk,
And with ear against the logging hears the
steady, muffled thunk
Of the hairy fists of monsters, beating there in
grisly play,
—Horrid things that stroll o’ night-times, never,
never seen by day,
For he knows that though the spectres of the
storied past are vain,
There is true and ghostly ravage in the forest
depths of Maine.
For even in these days P. I.‘s shake
At the great Swamp Swogon of Brassua Lake.
When it blitters and glabbers the long night
through,
And shrieks for the souls of the shivering crew.
And all of us know of the witherlick
That prowls by the shore of the Cup-sup-tic.
Of the Side Hill Ranger whose eyeballs gleam
When the moon hangs gibbous over Abol
stream;
—Of the Dolorous Demon that moans and calls
Through the mists of Abol-negassis falls.
And many a woodsman has felt his bunk
Tossed by the Phantom of Sourdna-hunk.
There’s the Giant Spook who ha’nted Lane’s
Old wangan camp and rended chains
—Great iron links of the snubbing cable—
As though they were straw—who was even
able
To twist the links in a mighty mat
With which he bent the forest flat
From Nahma-kanta to Depsiconneag
—Acres and acres—league after league;
Striding abroad from peak to dale
And laying on with his mighty flail.
Oh, fie for the shade of the manored hall,
A fig for a Thing in a grave-creased pall,
—For wraiths that flitter and flutter and sigh,
With flabby limbs and the sunken eye!
The woodsman recks not ye, frail ghosts,
But he knows and he bows to the deep wood’s
hosts,
Who sound their coming with giant breath,
Who mark their passing with storm and death,
Who shriek through blow-downs and howl o ’er
lakes,
—And he hides and trembles, he shivers and
shakes
When he hears the Desperate Demons loose
In the weird dominions of grim King Spruce.