Slowly the toil-cramped, gnarled old fist
Wrought at the sheet with a rasping pen;
Halted with tremulous quirk and twist,
Staggered, and then went on again.
The wan sun peeped through the wee patched
pane
And checkered the floor where the pale
beams shone
In a quaint old kitchen up in Maine,
With an old man writing there alone.
And the pen wrought on and the head drooped
low
And a tear plashed down on the rusted pen,
As it traced a verse of the long ago
That his grief had brought to his heart
again.
Be kind to thy father for when thou wast
young,
Who loved thee so fondly as lied
He caught the first accents that fell from
thy tongue.
And joined in thy innocent glee.
Be kind to thy father for now he is old,
His locks intermingled with gray;
His footsteps are feeble, once fearless and
bold
Thy father is passing away.
Be kind to thy mother for lo, on her brow,
May traces of sorrow be seen.
Oh, well mayst thou cherish and comfort
her now,
For loving and kind has she been.
Remember thy mother, for thee she will
pray
As long as God giveth her breath
With accents of kindness; then cheer her
hard way
E’en thro’ the dark valley of death.”
Listlessly threshed in a careless court
The poor, plain tale of a home was told,
Furnishing food for the lawyers’ sport
And a jest at the fond and the foolish old.
The counsel said as he winked an eye,
“Deeded the farm to their only son;
And after’twas deeded they didn’t die
Quite as quick as they should have done.”
Drearily dragged the homely case,
Petty and mean in all its parts;
Quest thro’ the law for an old home place,
—Put never a word of two broken hearts.
Only a suit where the son and wife
Pledged themselves when they coaxed the
deed,
To comfort the close of the old folks’ life:
—Only another case where greed
Sneered at the toil of the long, hard years
Of martyrdom to the hoe and axe,
Writ in wrinkles and etched in tears
And told in the curve of the old bent backs,
—Bent in the strife with the rocky soil,
When the grinding work was never done,
With just one rift in the cloud of toil:
—‘Twas all for the sake of their only son.
Simply a tedious legal maze
With neighbors stirring the thing for sport,
too.
And loungers eyeing with listless gaze
This queer old couple dragged to court.
Meekly they would have granted greed
All that it sought for—all its spoil;
Little they valued a forfeit deed,
Nor selfishly reckoned their years of toil.
Heartsick they while the lawyers urged,
Mute when the law vouchsafed their prayer;
—Courts soothe not such grief as surged
In the hearts of the old folks trembling there.
What though the jury’s word restored
The walls and roof of the old home place?
Would it give them back the blessed hoard
Of trust that knew no son’s disgrace?
Would it give them back his boyhood smiles,
His boyhood love, their simple joy,
Would it heal the wounds of these afterwhiles,
And make him again their own dear boy?
Would it soothe the smart of the cruel words,
Of sullen looks and cold neglect?
And dull the taunts that pierced like swords
And slashed where the wielders little recked?
No; Justice gives the walls and roof,
—To palsied hands a cancelled deed,
Rebuking with a stern reproof
A son’s unfilial, shameless greed.
But love that made that old home warm,
And hope that made all labor sweet,
The glow of peace that shamed the storm
And melted on the pane the sleet;
And faith and truth and loving hearts
And tender trust in fellow men—
Ah, these, my friend, no lawyers’ arts
Can give again, can give again.
He always dodged ’round in a ragged old
coat,
With a tattered, blue comforter tied on his
throat.
His dusty old cart used to rattle and bang
As he yelled through the village, “Gid dap!”
and “Go ’lang!”
You’d think from his looks that he wa’n’t wuth
a cent;
—Was poorer than Pooduc, to judge how he
went.
But back in the country don’t reckon on style
To give ye a notion of anyone’s pile.
When he died and they figgered his pus’nal
estate,
He was mighty well-fixed—was old “Squeal-
in’ Jim” Waite.
But say, I’d advise ye to sort of look out
How ye say “Squealin’ Jim” when the’s
widders about.
They’re likely to light on ye, hot tar and pitch,
And give ye some points as to what, where and
which;
For if ever a critter was reckoned a saint
By the widders’round here, I’ll be dinged if he
ain’t.
For please understand that the widders call
him,
—Sheddin’ tears while they’re sayin’ it,—
“Thanksgivin’ Jim”.
He was little—why,
Wa’n’t scarce knee high
To a garden toad. But was mighty spry!
He was all of a whew
If he’d things to do!
’Twas a zip and a streak when Jim went
through.
But his voice was twice as big as him
And the boys all called him “Squealin’ Jim”.
He was always a-hurryin’ all through his life
And said there wa’n’t time for to hunt up a
wife.
So he kept bach’s hall and he worked like a
dog,
—Jest whooped right along at a trottin’ hoss
jog-
There’s a yarn that the fellers that knew him
will tell
If they want to set Jim out and set him out
well:
He was bound for the city on bus’ness one day
And whoosh! scooted down to the depot, they
say.
The depot-man says, “Hain’t no rush, Mr.
Waite,
For the train to the city is ten minutes late
Off flew Squealin’ Jim with his grip, on the
run,
And away down the track he went hoofin’ like
fun.
When he tore out of sight, couldn’t see him
for dust
And he squealed, “Train be jiggered! I’ll git
there, now, fust!”
—So nervous and active he jest wouldn’t wait
When they told him the train was a leetle dite
late.
Now that was Jim!
He was stubby and slim
But it took a spry critter to step up with him.
His height when he’d rise
Made ye laugh, but his eyes
Let ye know that his soul wasn’t much under-
size.
And some old widders we had in town
Insisted, reg’lar, he wore a crown.
As he whoopity-larruped along on his way,
There were people who’d turn up their noses
and say
That Squealin’ Jim Waite wasn’t right in his
head;
He was cranky as blazes, the old growlers said.
I can well understand that some things he
would do
Seemed loony as time to that stingy old crew.
For a fact, there was no one jest like him in
town,
He was most always actin’ the part of a clown;
He would say funny things in his queer,
squealin’ style,
And he talked so’s you’d hear him for more
than a mile.
But ev’ry Thanksgivin’ time Waite he would
start
And clatter through town in his rattlin’ old
cart,
And what do ye s’pose? He would whang
down the street,
Yank up at each widder’s; from under the seat
Would haul out a turkey of yaller-legged chick
And holler, “Here, mother, h’ist out with ye,
quick!”
Then he’d toss down a bouncer right into her
lap
And belt off like fury with, “G’long, there!
Gid dap!”
Didn’t wait for no thanks—couldn’t work ’em
on him,
—Couldn’t catch him to thank him—that
Thanksgivin’ Jim.
’Twas a queer idee
’Round town that he
Was off’n his balance and crazy’s could be.
They’d set and chaw
And stew and jaw,
And projick on what he did it for.
But prob’ly in Heaven old Squealin’ Jim
Found lots of crazy folks jest like him.
Cheerful crab was that old Posh,
—Warn’t afflicted much with dosh,
—Fact, he worked round sawin’ wood,
Earnin’ what few cents he could,
Got that name o’ Posh in fun;
Dad had named him Washington;
Children got to call him “Wash.”
Then at last ’twas jest “Old Posh.”
That’s the way you knew, a name
Sort of fits itself with fame:
If he’d growed some great big gun.
Would have called him Washington.
But “Old Posh” was just as good
For a poor chap sawin’ wood.
Critter never made no talk.
—Made his old saw screak and scrawk,
Earnt his dollar’n ten a day.
—Didn’t leave much time for play.
Had a wife and boys to keep,
Reelly had to skinch his sleep.
I’ve been out sir, late at night
Seen him at it good and tight.
Where he’d took it to be sawed
At a dollar’n ten a cord.
And I’d say. Ye’re at it late.”
Then he’d grunt himself up straight.
Slick his for’ead clear of sweat
And he’d say. “Wal, you jest bet!
Bankin’ hours don’t jibe in good
With this job cf sawin’ wood.
Still, when this ’ere don’t suit me
I kin go and climb a tree.”
That’s the crack he allus sent;
—I donno jest what he meant—
Likely’nough, sir, even he
Didn’t have no clear idee.
Still it seemed to fix the thing;
—He’d commence to saw and sing,
’S if at anytime he could
Git clean shet of sawin’ wood.
So he worked, s’r, all his life,
Kept his children and his wife;
Boys amount to more’n you’d suppose
—Got good jobs and wear good clothes.
If they’d turned out shiftless, gosh,
Never’d took the thing from Posh!
Posh, he died at seventy-one,
—Worked right up till set of sun.
Sawed his reg’lar cord that day,
Et his supper reg’lar way,
Told his wife warn’t feel in’ well:
Said he guessed he’d drowse a spell.
For he reckoned, so he said.
That he’d saw a while ’fore bed.
—Warn’t no need of workin’ so,
Boys was earnin’ well, ye know.
But he couldn’t seem to quit.
—At it stiddy, saw and split.
Set that night there in his chair,
—Got to dreamin’, and I swear,
Snores they sounded near’s they could
Like a feller sawin’ wood.
Last he gave a mighty “plock”
Same’s he’d strike a choppin’ block,
When he’d set his ax an’ say,
“Wal, I guess that’s all to-day.”
Doctor got there quick’s he could,
—Said he couldn’t do no good.
Shock, ye know! It left things slim
When a man has worked like him.
“Hav’ to rest, I guess, a while,”
Posh said, with a crooked smile,
—Shock had twisted round his face,
Alwus does in such a case.
“Hav’ to rest, I reckin, for
Feel too tuckered out to saw.”
Jest a little ’fore he died.
Smiled agin and kind of sighed,
“Guess it’s all that’s left,” said he,
“Reckin’ I’ll go climb a tree.”
Here’s ho for the masterful men o’ Maine,
—Grit and gumption, brawn and brain!
South they go and West they flow,
The men that do and the men that know.
And Fame and Honor, Power and Gain
Come to the call of the men o’ Maine.
But away up back on the rock-piled farms
Are the gnarled old dads with corded arms,
The dads that give these boys o’ Maine
Health and strength and grit and brain.
Now the masterful men who have gone their
ways
Need none of my humble words of praise.
So, here’s best I have for the dads, the ones
Who have slaved and saved to raise those sons.
Here’s hail and again for the Maine-bred lads,
Then a triple hail for the dear old Dads.
They are bowed and bent and wrinkled, and
their hands are browned and knurled
They would never pass as heroes in the busy,
careless world,
For they bear no sword or ribbon, and they
show no victor’s spoil,
Only such as they have wrested from the weeds
and rocky soil.
They have wrung reluctant dollars from the
land, and all their gain
Has been spent to nurture manhood in the
rugged State of Maine.
And they need no decorations, only loving
thanks from those
Who built upon the sacrifice that bought their
books and clothes.
I bring some homely laurel for those wrinkled,
sunburned brows
Of men whose hands are blistered by the
scythe-snaths and the plows,
—For men who wrestle Nature with their bare
and corded arms
In an everlasting struggle with these grudging
old Maine farms,
Who lay their lives and hopes and joys’neath
labor’s bitter rule
To coax from sullen Earth the price that keeps
their boys in school.
In manhood of America—’mongst brawn and
pluck and brain,
Set high these humble heroes of the upland
farms of Maine!
And with the cheers you lavish on the men
behind the guns
Crowd in one honest, sincere shout for those
behind the sons.
They labor here in stern old Maine and every
cent is ground
From out the earth by pluck and plod. In
youth they never found
That open sesame to wealth the cultured mind
employs,
Such as to-day their humble toil bestows upon
their boys.
Those crosses signed by toil-cramped hands in
probate courts in Maine
The wavering quirks and curliques no mortal
can explain,
Those speak with pathos all their own of days
of long ago
When “bound-out” children trudged to school
through miles of drifted snow;
When scattered weeks of schoolin’ in the win-
ter time were doled
To hungry little youngsters, ill-clad and numb
with cold.
Now you’ll find them, grown to manhood,
proud and eager to dilate
On the brightness of the children they have
paid to educate.
They have patiently worn patches that their
boys may wear good clothes;
As they’ve struggled on their acres only God,
the Father, knows
All the makeshifts and privations of these
rocky old Maine farms
Where the boys walk straight to comfort over
toiling dads and marms.
Yet those bent and weary parents ask no
praises from the world,
Their comfort is to push a son as high as their
old, knurled,
And aching muscles can reach up; and, when
they pass away,
To know that he will never work one half as
hard as they.
Such is the stuff our heroes are, and when you
cheer the guns
And those behind them, reckon in the men be-
hind the sons.
The zeal and valor of the land in battle’s crash
and blaze
And deeds of heroes seeking fame must win
due meed of praise,
And yet above them all I set the humble sacri-
fice
Of toiling men who cent by cent amass the
hard-won price
That buys the Future for a boy, bestows the
magic “Can,”
Lays Power in his eager grasp and sends him
forth A Man.
So, unto these bowed, weary men with earth-
stained, calloused palms,
Who daily tread the up-turned soil on rough
and rocky farms,
Who pile their hoard of dollars up, by sturdy
labor won,
Who pour those dollars freely out to educate
a son,
To all of these who seek no crown I bring my
wreath of bay
And set it on their sun-tanned brows and on
their locks of gray, ‘
And when their dreary, long campaign, their
bitter toil is done,
God grant that each may live again, new-born
in honored son.
Then three times three, I say again, for
Maine’s true heroes now,
Whose hands are blistered, gnarled, and worn
by scythe-snath and the plow,
Who vow themselves to poverty, accept its
bitter rule
To coax from sullen Earth the price that keeps
their sons in school.
Cheer if you will for those who kill—the men
behind the guns,
But cheer again for those who build—the men
behind the sons.
Elias Rich would kneel at night by the wooden
kitchen chair,
He would clutch the rungs and bow his head
and pray his bed-time prayer.
And his prayer was ever the same old plea,
repeated for two-score years:
“Oh, Lord Most High, please hear my cry
from this vale of sin and tears.
I hain’t no ’count and I hain’t done much that’s
worthy in Thy sight,
But I’ve done the best that I could, dear Lord,
accordin’ to my light.
I’ve done as much for my feller man as really,
Lord, I could,
Consid’rin’ my pay is a dollar a day and I’ve
earnt it choppin’ wood.
I’ve never hankered no great on earth for
more’n my food and roof,
And all of the meat that I’ve had to eat was
cut near horn or hoof;
But I thank Thee, Lord, that I’ve earnt my
way and I hain’t got ‘on the town,’
And when I die I know that I shall sartin wear
a crown.”
Whenever he mumbled his simple prayer in
the kitchen by his chair,
Aunt Rich would rattle the supper pans and
sniff with a scornful air.
She’d never “professed,” as the saying is, she
never had felt a “call,”
And she constantly prodded Elias with,
“’Tain’t prayer that counts, it’s sprawl.”
There are some who are born for the pats of
Life and some for the cuffs and whacks,
Elias fought the wolf of want as best he might
with his axe;
He even aided with scanty store some desolate
Tom or Jim,
But at last when his poor old arms gave out no
hands were reached to him.
Folks said that a man who was paralyzed re-
quired some special care,
And allowed that the poor farm was the place;
so they carried the old folks there.
’Twas a heavy cross for Elias’ wife but Elias
ne’er complained,
To all of her frettings he made reply: “When
our Heavenly Home is gained,
’Twill be the sweeter for troubles here and
though we’re on the town,
God keeps up There our mansion fair and He
has our golden crown.”
They were dreary years that Elias lived, one
half of his body dead,
He sat in his cold, bare, town-farm room and
patiently spelled and read
The promise his old black Bible gave, and then
he’d lift his eyes
And look right up through the dingy walls to
his mansion in the skies.
They mockingly called him “Heavenly
Crown” when he talked of his faith, but he
Smiled sweetly ever and meekly said, “I know
what I can see!”
When he died at last and the parson preached
above the stained, pine box,
He said, “Perhaps this simple faith was a bit
too orthodox;
Perhaps allowance should be made for the
metaphors divine
And yet, my friends, I’ll not presume to make
such province mine.
Though in that Book the highest thought can
find transcendent food,
’Tis primer, too, for the poor and plain, the
unlearned and the rude.
And so I say no man to-day should seek to tear
it down,
Nor flout the homely, honest soul that claims
its golden crown.”
Friends placed above Elias’ grave a plain,
white marble stone,
And months went by. Then all at once ’twas
seen that there had grown
Upon the polished marble slab a shading that,
’twas said,
Took on a shape extremely like Elias’ shaggy-
head.
Then soon above the shadowy brows a crown
was slowly limned,
And though Aunt Rich scrubbed zealously the
thing could not be dimmed.
She always scoffed Elias’ faith without rebuke
through life
But now, the neighbors all averred, Elias
braved his wife.
For though with brush and soap and sand she
scrubbed and rubbed by day,
The figure seemed to grow each night and
those there are who say .
That many a time when the moon was dim a
wraith with ghostly skill
Wrought there with spectral brush and limned
that picture deeper still.
And there it is unto this day and strangers
passing by
Turn in and stand above the mound to gaze
with awe-struck eye,
And wonder if Elias came from Heaven steal-
ing down
To mutely say in this quaint way that now he
wears his crown.