When the blaze leaps forth from the camp’s
great hearth,
And the fitful shadows come and go;
When the ruddy beam lights the deacon-seat
And the silent faces in a row;
As the storm-gust drags at the sighing eaves
And moans at the shuddering window-pane,
Some droning voice from a shadowy bank
Intones a song to the wind’s long strain,
And like the soughing, ebbing blast
The gusty chorus bursts and swells;
And then one single, sighing voice
Drones plaintively the tale it tells.
They’re simple songs, they’re homely songs,
And yet they cling in heart and brain,——
Those songs of the darkling forest depths,
These songs of the lumber woods of Maine.
There’s the song of home and the song of love,
And the lilt of battle, bold and free;
There’s the song of the axe in the ringing wood,
And the sighing song of the distant sea.
Yet oft when the choruses are stilled
Some honest woodsman’s voice can wake
A tender thrill with the homely song
Of a nameless hero of Moosehead Lake.
A hero in leggings, he volunteered
—When the treacherous ice lay black as loam
In the melting spring—to risk his life
And bring to others the news from home.
He bore the mail for the lumber camp,
The missives for many an anxious man
Who toiled for the ones he loved so well,
In the wilds of the far Socatean.
He’d fingered each as he studied the names
And sorted the letters with kindly care;
While with honest heart of a friend he guessed
At the news that the precious notes might
hear.
There was one for Kane, and the last had said
That his little girl was sorely ill—
Poor man, he had worried the whole long week!
—And here was one for the Bluenose-Will,
Who had left a sweetheart to come to Maine,
And had looked for a line in a homesick way;
And here were a couple from Henry’s wife,
—And one bore “Forward without delay!”
A tiny message to “Pa John Booth”
Had a cross to show where a rousing smack
Had been pressed on the paper; and here, alas,
Was a letter fringed with a sombre black.
Freighted with sorrow or bringing the smiles,
Fresh from the homes so far away,
He tucked them all in his coon-skin cap
And breasted the sleet of the dreary day.
No one knew how it came about,
No man witnessed the fight for breath,
When the cruel clutch of the great black lake
Reached up and dragged him down to death.
But we always knew that his fiercest strength
Was spent in the supreme flash of life
When he, poor wanderer, thought alone
Of the news for others from home and wife.
For, as far on the edge of the broken ice
As his arm could reach, when he sank and
died,
We found the worn old coon-skin cap
With the letters carefully tucked inside.
Oh, we’re getting under cover, for the “sport” is
on the way,
—Pockets bulge with ammunition, and he’s
coming down to slay;
All his cartridges are loaded and his trigger’s on
the “half,”
And he’ll bore the thing that rustles, from a
deer to Jersey calf.
He will shoot the foaming rapids, and he’ll shoot
the yearling bull.
And the farmer in the bushes—why, he’ll fairly
get pumped full.
For the gunner is in earnest, he is coming down
to kill,
—Shoot you first and then inquire if he hurt
you—yes, he will!
For the average city feller he has big game on
the brain,
And imagines in October there is nothing else in
Maine!
Therefore some absorbed old farmer cutting corn
or pulling beans
Gets most mightily astonished with a bullet in
his jeans.
So, O neighbor, scoot for cover or get out your
armor plate,
—Johnnie’s got his little rifle and is swooping
on the State.
Oh, we’re learning, yes, we’re learning, and I’ll
warn you now, my son,
If you really mean to bore us you must bring a
bigger gun.
For the farmers have decided they will take no
further chance,
And progressive country merchants carry armor-
plated pants;
—Carry shirts of chain-plate metal, lines of coats
all bullet-proof,
And the helmets they are selling beat a Knight
of Malta’s “roof.”
So I reckon that the farmers can proceed to get
their crops,
Yes, and chuckle while the bullet raps their
trouser seats and stops;
And the hissing double-B shot as they criss-cross
over Maine
Will excite no more attention than the patter of
the rain.
And the calf will fly a signal and the Jersey
bull a sign,
And the horse a painted banner, reading “Hoss-,
Don’t Shoot; He’s Mine!”
And every fowl who wanders from the safety of
the pen
Will be taught to cackle shrilly, u Please don’t
plug me; I’m a hen.”
Now with all these due precautions we are ready
for the gang,
We’ll endure the harmless tumult of the rifles’
crack and bang,
For we’re glad to have you with us—shoot the
landscape full of holes;
We will back our brand-new armor for to save
our precious souls.
O you feller in the city, those ’ere woods is full
of fun,
We’ve got on our iron trousers—so come up
and bring your gun!
Won’t you poke your buzzin’ stop-watch,
Daddy Time, and click ’er back
To the days of spider high-wheels on the
dinky Topsham track?
When they raced there in October for per-
taters, corn, and oats—
Sometimes paid the purse in shotes—
Drivers wore their buff’ler coats,
And the weather was so juicy that the boys
would take a vote
As to which would drag the better, suh, a sulky
or a boat.
Still ’twas fun, when the sun
Got the moppin’ bus’ness done,
And the field went off a-skatin’, half the pelters
on the run.
There was’Liza, Old Keturah Ann, and Dough-
nut Boy and Pat,
Their pedigrees was barnyard, but we didn’t
care for that;
So hooray! So hooroo! Oh, ye ought to see
’em climb,
They was racers, suh, from ’way back—but no
matter ’bout the time!
There was goers in that pack—
Look at Toggle-jointed Jack
With an action like a windmill, but the critter
he could rack!
And I’d like to have him back,
For I tell you, bub, I stack
On the high-wheel, razoo-races of the good old
Topsham track.
Oh, you oughter seen the send-offs, and you
oughter seen the tricks!
For the stretch was chock-a-blocko when they
scored ’em down by six.
And the starter he would whang-o on a dented
strip of tin,
But the drivers never minded ’less he cussed the
gang like sin.
The hoss-whips that they carried reached away
beyond the manes,
And they larruped ’em with chains—
Tried to lift ’em by the reins.
’Twas muscle, suh, that won the race in them
old days—not brains!
And you’d think to see the sawin’ and the
jerkin’ and the h’ists,
The boys they was a-usin’ partent webbin’s
made of j’ists.
Their elbows flapped like flyin’ and they yow-
wowed through the dust,
And ’twarn’t through lack of hollerin’ that ev’ry
man warn’t fust.
’Twas “Hi-i yah, cut the corners!” and “Hi-i
yoop, take the pole!”
“Don’t ye keep me in this pocket—let me ont
there, darn yer soul!”
“Gimme room there! don’t ye pinch me or I’ll
bust yer blasted wheel!”
“Hi, you sucker, that’s a steal!”
“That’s a low-down trick, to squeal!”
“Oh, ye want some trouble, do ye? Wal, con-
sarn yer harslet, peel!”
It was tetchy, mister, tetchy, to go sassin’ on ’em
back,
When the crowd got interested at the good old
Topsham track.
There was Savage—Solly Savage—drivin’
Adeline Success—
He had speed to sell at auction, but they bribed
the cuss, I guess—
For he pulled her tight and good—
Pulled her settin’—then he stood.
Jest got up and braced his feet, suh, and he
pulled her all he could.
But the blamed old mare was fussy, wasn’t
posted on the deal,
H’isted up her skeeter-duster and let out one
mighty squeal.
She was leadin’ of ’em easy on the back stretch
at the turn,
And there wasn’t no mistakin’ that the race and
heat were her’n.
Ginger, ginger! She could go!
When she didn’t stub her toe,
Warn’t a horse in all the county stood a show
suh, stood a show!
Sol was madder’n snakes in hayin’—had a string
of catnip fits,
Just unfastened both the traces and she hauled
him by the bits.
And that rank old Adeline
She come snortin’ ’crost the line
Least a dozen lengths a leader, and they soaked
old Sol a fine.
Then the feller that had bribed him played tat-
too on Solly’s face,
And took back the dollar-fifty that he’d give him
for the race;
But the boys they licked the feller. Solly got
his money back,
For we stood for honest dealing at the good old
Topsham track.
Now come join me, all old timers,—hip, hooray
and tiger, too!
For the high-wheel days at Topsham and the
good old-time razoo—
For the days of spider sulkies and the days of
solid fun,
When we had a dozen knock-downs ’fore the
race could be begun;
When ’twas a Huddup, Uncle Eli,” and “H”
along there, John, or bust;”
And the man that finished fust,
Though he argued and he cussed,
Might not always get decisions—’twas accordin’
to the dust;
And ’twas therefore kind of needful, suh, right
after ev’ry heat,
To have another fight or so to settle who had
beat;
But they never left a grudge,
Even when they licked the judge.
And we wasn’t all teetotal, still we went it light
on “budge,”
For we never took no stronger than some good
New England rum—
Jest a mild and pleasant bev’rage—why, the
deacons they took some!
Then there wasn’t pedigrees,
And no chin-kerbumping knees,1
And an av’rage field would manage jest to keep
ahead the breeze.
But come join me, ye old-timers, in this pledge
and one hurrah,
For the spanking, wide-hoofed pelters of the old
days of “Hi yah-h-h,”
For a feller kinder feels
That he’d go without his meals
Jest to hear some more kiwhoopin’ from the old-
time trottin’ spiels.
When the wind was in the drivers—nowadays it’s
in the wheels.
When the tang was in the weather on those
autumn afternoons,
And the band got kind of dreamy in those good
old-fashioned tunes.
Oh, ’twas awful good to set there on the sunny
side the stand,
And to have your girl a-smilin’ and a-snugglin’,
hand in hand;
And to hear her, when you mentioned getting
started pretty soon,
Whisper, blushin’, “What’s the hurry? There
will be a lovely moon!”
Ah, there’s moisture on my eyelids and my voice
is gettin’ hoarse.
But ’tis prob’ly jest the mem’ry of the dust of
that old course.
Oh, Daddy Time, if somehow you could only
click your watch
And let a feller start again a race he’s made a
botch,
I wouldn’t ask no better place to start my life
anew.
Than on that stand that afternoon beside that
girl I knew,
With my arm behind her back,
And a hidden, bashful smack
To sweeten all the popcorn balls we munched
at Topsham track.
Here’s a lyric for the man who’s “druv’ the
stage,”
For the hero of the webbin’s and the whip;
Who has faced the wind and weather, fingers
calloused by the leather,
And in twenty years has never lost a trip.
Here’s a tribute to the sway-back, spotted hoss,
Who has struggled up the stony, gullied hills;
And his dorsal corrugations show the nature of
his rations,
—When he stops, he has to lean against the
thills.
Here’s obituary notice of the stage,
Chief of hopeless and dilapidated wrecks;
With the cracked enamel awning, and its cush-
ions ripped and yawning,
And the body bumping down upon the “ex.”
Here’s alas and oh, the ancient “buff’ler robe,”
With the baldness of a golden-wedding
groom;
When the rain and snow descended, then some
wondrous smells were blended,
Till the stage was scented very like a tomb.
Here’s a word for all the weary miles he
ploughed,
When the drifts had piled the stage-road
mountain high,
When the night shut down around him and the
north wind sought and found him,
And the tempest chilled his blood and blurred
his eye.
There were only country letters in the bags,
And the bags were lank, and yet his word was
“Must.”
And he felt as if the nation knew his fierce
determination
That he’d have the mail sacks through on time
or bust.
Here’s rebuke to those contractors who have
skinned
The stipends of our Uncle Sam’s star routes,
Till the men who drive the stages hardly get
enough in wages
To keep their little shavers’ feet in boots.
Here’s a lyric, then, for him who drives the stage;
When you ride behind his ragged back, don’t
frown,
But endure the bang and slamming, for the
man who’s earned the damning
Is the contract-sharp who bid the wages down.
The neighbors came a-nosing ’round and said the
horse could trot
—He oughter up and killed him then, right
there upon the spot;
A-killed him, yas, and tanned his hide and made
it into boots,
Then worn ’em out a-kicking’round them neigh-
borly galoots
Who set the bee to buzzing under Ezry Booker’s
hat,
And filled him up and chucked him full of non-
sense such as that
He’d got a hoss ’twas bound to make his ever-
lasting pile,
And what he got to do, of course, was handle
him in style;
That he must bandage up his legs and figger on
his feed,
And give him reg’lar exercise and work him out
for speed.,
His knees, his neck, his breast, his thighs, the
way he lugged his head,
And all his other symptoms looked to “speed,”
the neighbors said.
So Ezry he just sucked it in, as child-like as
could be,
—It cost him thirteen dollars to look np the
pedigree.
Then one day down to Laneses store he ribbled
off a mess
Of names that struck your Uncle Dud as so much
foolishness.
“I’ve traced him back,” so Ezry said, “to Mor-
gan blood ’nd Drew,”
To what’s-his-name and this and that, and which
and t’other, too.
And Ezry banged the counter, just excited as
could be,
A-arguing out the knots and kinks in that there
pedigree.
Land sakes! He couldn’t seem to think of
nothing but that plug:
—Neglected work, let slide his farm, went crazy
as a bug.
But there! The neighbors stood around and
said to go ahead,
And Ezra like a blamed old fool just swallowed
all they said.
Ef they’d turned to and burned his barn ’twould
been a prison crime,
But ’twould have been a better thing for Ezry
ev’ry time.
He could have got insurance then, but ’twas a
total loss
When they torched Ezry up to back
A Blamed
Old
Hoss!
Of course he had to put that horse in some good
trainer’s hands,
And trainers, as the man who’s tried deereckly
understands,
Ain’t driving just to take the air, for scenery or
for health,
But sort of grab a feller’s leg and milk him for
his wealth.
And there were blankets, straps, and girths, and
bandages and boots;
Pnoomatic sulkies, pads, and shoes, and hoods
and stable suits;
And lotions, too, and liniments—the best of
hay and oats,
And Lord knows what of this and that for trot-
ters’ backs and throats!
Then came the entrance fees, of course, and
travelling expense,
For Ezry lugged that trotter round, and didn’t
have the sense
To know when he was fairly licked, but always
would persist
That “that air hoss another year is going in the
list!”
The trainer said he’d have him there; the neigh-
bors thought so, too;
So Ezry pulled his pocketbook and said he’d see
him through.
So ’round the circuit went the hoss and, though
’tis sad to tell,
“The Flying Dutchman” didn’t fly—he never
got a smell.
And when he’d come a-puffing in behind the
whole blamed crowd
Then Ezry swore and shook his fist, and argued
’round, and vowed
That all the rest was down on him and had,
without a doubt,
Just pooled together in a scheme to shut The
Dutchman out.
The driver said so, anyway, and then, you know,
a few
Good neighbors took him out one side and said
they thought so too.
And so—but land, it’s plain enough how Ezry’s
money went
—He wound up his race-hoss career without a
blasted cent.
What’s more, he ain’t the only one who’s sunk
his little pot
In fubbing ’round from track to track with
horses that can’t trot.
—He ain’t the only man in Maine whose ever-
lasting curse
Has been some darn-fool neighbors, and his itch
to win a purse.
And, as I’ve said, if they’d turned to, and burnt
his barn instead
Of cracking up that hoss so much and turning
Ezry’s head,
He could have got insurance then, but ’twas a
total loss
When they torched Ezry up to back
A Blamed
Old
Hoss!