E. Perley Atkins had a low—deep—bass.
The noise came out of his face,
But the place
Whence the sound sprung
And bubbled toward the bung,
When he sung,
To come lolloping up to his tongue,
In long fortissimo hoots,
Or staccato toots,
—That place was suttin’ly down in his boots.
Omp, omp!
That was the kind of a bass
That oozed from the face
Of E. Perley Atkins who lived in our place.
He sung at all the paring bees, the quilting teas,
and parti-ees
He sung at all the shindigees we had for miles
around.
He opened his lip and let her rip and folks were
never obliged to tease,
For he allowed
That he was proud
As well as the rest of the awe-struck crowd
Of the deep, profundo timbre of that sound.
Boomp, boomp!
He wended thus on his deep, bass way
Ready to omp, omp night or day.
He sung in the choir Sunday forenoon
And an hour later furnished a tune
For the Sabbath school and the Bible class,
With a voice that was meller’n apple sass.
At evenin’ meetin’ he came around
Full to the neck with that cream-rich sound,
And the way he would lead Coronation hymn
Would lift ye off’n your pew, by Jim.
On Monday nights he had a call
To sing for the Maltys at Jackson’s Hall.
Tuesdays the Masons and Wednesdays he
Sung like blazes for the I. G. T.
Thursdays, class-meetings, Fridays, sings
With Saturdays open for rackets and things.
A busy week? Well, I guess, but wait,
I mustn’t forget, my friend, to state
There warn’t no fun’ral for ten miles’round,
No dear departed tucked under ground,
No mourners jammed in a settin’ room,
Sozzled in grief and soaked in gloom,
But Perley was there with his rich, cream bass
To trickle like salve on the wounded place.
And the tears would dry on each mourner’s
nose,
They’d perk right up and forget their woes
And nudge each other and say, “Suz me,
What a beautiful funeral voice that be.”
And in time, though he sang for all who asked,
For saint and sinner, still he basked
In especial favor as one whose ease
And voice gave a tone to obsequies.
It’s whispered around, and I guess it’s so
That when he hinted he thought he’d go
To Rome and Paris to train that bass,
A widow and three old maids in the place,
Who were living along, no man knew why,
Decided they’d hurry up and die.
They just stopped breathing and died from
choice
For the sake of having that funeral voice
Draw copious streams from the mourner’s eyes
And give them a send-off toward Paradise.
—No man who’s monkeyed with bass B-flat
Got ever a compliment higher’n that.
He sung at all the paring bees, the quilting teas,
the parti-ees,
He sung at all the shindigees for twenty miles
around.
He opened his lip and let her rip,
Admirers had no need to tease,
And he sprung a bass that joggled the roof and
fairly shook the ground.
While the echoes of his “funeral voice”
Made even the cherubim rejoice,
As the melody pulsed against the skies
And ushered a soul into Paradise.
Couldn’t speak of nothin’ smart—no one strong
or spry—
’Thout old Talleyrand B. Beals to grab right
in an’ lie!
All the thing he’d talk about was chap by name
of Jim,
Ev’ry story that he told was sort of hung round
him.
—Said the critter’d worked for him twenty
years before,
—Yarn at last it got to be the by-word down
t’ th’ store,
When we’d hear of biggish things, “That,”
we’d say, “I swan,
Beats tophet, taxes, time an’ tide an’ Bealses’
hired man.”
Beals, though, clacked right on an’ on; would
set an’ chaw an’ spit,
An’ tell us’bout that hired man—couldn’t make
him quit!
Champyun jump or heft or swim— ’twas all the
same to him,
He’d wait till all the rest had shot, then plug
the mark with Jim.
Had to laugh the other day—boys were down
t’ th’ store,
Talleyrand got started in—the dratted, deef
old bore!
Silas Erskine’s boy spoke up—that’s Ez; wal,
Ez says he,
“Say, Tal, what ever come o’ Jim?” Old
Beals uncrossed his knee,
Said he, “A master cur’us chap, that Jim was,
I must say,
—Seemed to like us fine as silk, but off he
went one day,
—Went right off without a yip—didn’t take his
clothes;
Hank’rin’ struck him all to once—couldn’t
wait, don’t s’pose.
Didn’t even take his pay, which was some sur-
prise,
—Prob’ly, though, a lord or dook, trav’lin’ in
disguise.”
Beals he stopped an’ gnawed his plug; chawed
an’ chawed a while,
Then Ben Haskell hitched around an’ smole a
sing’lar smile.
“Told that hired man,” said he, “I’d never let
it out,
Guess I’d better tell it, though, an’ settle all
this doubt.
Want to say right here an’ now, to back up
Beals,” says Ben,
“His Jim did sartin wear the crown amongst
all hired men.”
S’prised us all when Ben said that,’cause he
us’al planned
All the hector, tricks an’ jokes’t were put on
Talleyrand.
Ben, though, kept right on his talk. Ben says,
then says he,
“Here’s the secret how he went for I’m the man
that see.
Happened down in Allen’s field day he disap-
peared,
Jim came’crost the intervale; straight as H he
steered
To’ards that silver popple tree; up that tree he
dim’,
—Set there, sort o’ lost in thought, a-straddle
of a limb.
Jest as I’d got underneath he sighed an’ took a
piece
Of mutton taller—give his boots a heavy co’t
of grease,
Greased his fingers nice an’ slick an’ then—an’
then, I swear,
Grabbed them boot-straps, give a pull an’ up
he went in air.”
—Ought to heered us critters laugh—gre’t big
“Haw, haw, haw-w-!”
Jason Britt he dropped his teeth, Erskine gulped
his chaw,
Talleyrand jest set there grum—fin’ly snorted
“Sho!
Think ye’re smart, ye pesky fool! Lemme tell
ye, though,
’Tain’t so thund’rin’ big a stretch ye made then
when ye lied,
Bet ye Jim could lift himself, providin’ he had
tried.
Stout? I see’d him boost a rock—” “Minit,
Tal,” says Ben,
“Hain’t got done my story yit! Jest ye wait
till then.
—Soon’s I see’d that critter start, hollered
loud’s a loon,
’Jeero cris’mus, Jim,’ said I, ‘startin’ for the
moon?’
Jim looked down an’ said, says he, ‘Don’t
know where I’ll fetch,
Ner care a rap so long’s I dodge old Beals, the
mean old wretch!
Trouble is, consarn his soul, his feed has been
so slim
I’ve fell away till northen’s left’cept clothes an’
name o’ Jim.
Reckin then I’ll h’ist myself,’cause, ye see, I’ve
found
It’s blame sight easier raisin’ up than holdin’
to the ground.’
“Then he give them straps a tug an’ up he went
from sight,
—Stood an’ watched him till he growed to jest
a leetle mite!
He’s the champyun hired man, sartin sure, be-
cause
Critter went to Paradise, prob’ly jest’s he
was.”
Talleyrand he got so mad he actyal wouldn’t
speak,
Didn’t come t’ th’ store agin for more’n a solid
week. .
Soon’s he edged around some more wa’n’t no
talk from him
’Bout no hired men, you bet! Clack was shet
on Jim.
Inventor Jones—Eliphalet Jones,
Ah, he was the fellow for schemes!
Though critics might carp and his rivals throw
stones,
They never vexed Uncle Eliphalet Jones,
Or troubled his radiant dreams.
He calmly asserted that every day
One hundred inventions, or so, came his way;
They flocked through his mind in such myriad
rout
He hadn’t the leisure to figure them out.
But he said if a fellow should chase him around
With a pencil and notebook’twould surely be
found
That projects prolific were shed from his brain
As a wet bush, when shaken, will scatter the
rain.
When he plowed, when he hoed, when he
sowed, when he mowed
He was steadily throwing off load after load
Of notions, he stated—each notion a mint
For the chap who would take and develop the
hint.
But Eliphalet Jones—Eliphalet Jones
Was so busy with farmwork and clearing off
stones,
So busy with milking and errands and chores
He scattered inventions by dozens and scores
With a liberal hand, but with barren effect,
For they dried on the cold, arid sands of
neglect.
But for all he forgot he would cheerfully say
There were always as many the very next day.
And he figured it up; though enormous it
seems
He had fashioned and fired some ten thousand
schemes.
Now, out of that number a limited few
Eliphalet tackled and engineered through;
A few little notions right out of his head
To help out the farmwork, he carelessly said.
One patent, a holder to hitch a cow’s tail
So she couldn’t keep swatting the man with the
pail;
A few dozen scarecrows of hellish design,
Real impish constructions to jig on a line
That was jerked by a water-wheel down in the
brook;
All the horses that passed, if they got a good
look
Tumbled down stiff and dead or else, frantic
with fear,
Kicked the wagon in bits and spun’round on
one ear.
And he rigged a contrivance by which ev’ry
morn
His old Brahma rooster descending for corn,
Stepped down on a lever that flipped up a lock
And down came the fodder in front of the
stock.
Still, these were but puerile notions beside
The thing that he hoped for—his spur and his
pride,
His climax of schemes ere he went back to
dust—
For he vowed that he’d fathom the secret or
“bust;”
That if motion perpetual ever could be
Discovered by mortal, that man should be he.
So he fussed with his springs and his wee-jees
and wings
And all sorts of queer little duflicker things,
And he builded queer whiz-a-jigs, then with a
frown
He ruthlessly, scornfully cuffed them all down.
Well, the years hurried by, as the years surely
will,
But Eliphalet Jones he was confident still,
For he constantly vowed that some thingumy
spring
Put somewhere “would settle the dad-ratted
thing.”
Yet the years skittered past and his head was
snow-white
And he almost had solved it, but never “jest
quite;”
So the neighbors employed some satirical tones
When they chanced to refer to Perpetual Jones.
But hail to his name and remember his fame!
At the last—at the last, friends, he won the
great game!
He died at the birth of his triumph,’tis true,
And he left only words—yet I give them to
you,
Convinced they’re a gift to the world, without
doubt,
Or will be as soon as the thing is worked out.
He sat in his chair by the window one day
While his grandson was out with a puppy at
play;
And the boy hitched some meat to the tail of
that pup,
Then he gave him a twirl and the puppy “gee-
ed up,”
And he spun and he spun and he spun and he
spun
Just as fast at the last as when he begun,
But the tail and the meat ever kept just ahead
Of the clamorous jaws as the puppy dog sped.
“There she is,” cried Eliphalet, “darned if she
ain’t!
There’s perpetual motion!” and pallid and faint
He fell prone and dying. They lifted him up
And his eyes, glazed with death, looked their
last on that pup.
And through the dark shade of mortality’s fog
He gasped, “All you need is the right kind of
dog.”
Inventor Jones—Eliphalet Jones,
Ah, he was the fellow for schemes;
Though critics might carp and his rivals throw
stones
They never vexed Uncle Eliphalet Jones,
Or troubled his radiant dreams.
Aunt Brown—Jemimy Brown—
Was a spinster, spinner-weaver of merited re-
nown;
Our town set it down
As a fact beyond disputing there was never
any suiting
Like the suiting that was made by Spinster
Brown.
She raised the wool she made it of, she even
raised the sheep,
She fed ’em on the toughest straw the hired
man could reap
She spun the thread with double-twist and
made a warp and woof
So tarnal tough it really seemed’twas almost
bullet-proof.
And when the cloth was shrunk and dyed and
ready for a suit
The men in town would almost fight, they’d
get in such dispute
Concerning who had spoken first—the farthest
in advance—
And therefore had the prior claim on Aunt
Jemimy’s pants.
The cloth that folks make nowadays is slimpsy,
sleazy stuff;
It’s colored up in fairish style and fashionable
enough!
But blame the goods! It’s made to sell—it
isn’t made to wear—
These trousers here I’ve worn five year, and
that is merely fair.
But when you bought a cut of cloth of Aunt
Jemimy’s weave,
You got some stuff to last you through, you’d
better just believe!
Why, ’bout the time that modern pants are get-
ting worn and thin
A pair of Aunt Jemimy’s pants were scarcely
broken in.
I’ve got a pair up attic now, made forty years
ago
They’re just as tough as iron still and Time
has made no show.
They’ve stood the brunt of honest work and
dulled the tooth of moth,
And there they stand, as stiff’s a slab, good,
plain, old-fashioned cloth.
And so I think it’s only right that tribute
should be paid
To those old sturdy pioneers—the pants Je-
mimy made.
The day I first put on those pants I held a
break-up plough—
The farmers of these later days don’t have
such wrassles now;
I drove six oxen on ahead, a pretty hefty team,
For farming in those old, old days took mus-
cle, grit and steam;
You didn’t stop for rocks and stumps, nor
dodge and skive and skip,
Or else you’d have to lug your meals on ev’ry
furrow’s trip,
And so the only thing to do was make the oxen
tread
And hold the ploughshare deep and true, and
plunk ’er straight ahead.
So back and forth and back and forth I
ploughed and ploughed that day;
I tackled ev’ry rock and snag that dared dispute
my way,
Until the only critter left was one old maple
stump,
And I?—I gave the team the gad—and took
’er on the jump!
She split in halves and through I went, but
back she slapped, ker-whack,
And gripped Jemimy’s pantaloons right where
she’d left the slack.
The team was going double-quick—the oxen
plunged along—
I held the old oak handle-bars, I gripped ’em
good and strong—
And there I was, the living link’twixt stump
and plough, because
The cloth it stuck there good and tight between
those maple jaws.
Jemimy never planned on that, in making pants
for me;
She made ’em solid, yet of course she gave no
guarantee
That they would stand a yank like that—but
still I clung and yelled,
Those oxen plunged and tussled and—Je-
mimy’s pants, they held!
And the stump came out a-kicking, roots and
dirt and stones and all,
But those pants weren’t even started by that
most tremendous haul,
And to prove this ’ere is truthful, should some
scoffer cast a doubt,
I have saved the chips and hewings where they
came and chopped me out.
Aunt Brown—Jemimy Brown—
Was a spinster, spinner-weaver of merited re-
nown;
Our town set it down
As a fact beyond disputing there was never
any suiting
Like the suiting that was made by Spinster
Brown.
Elkanah B. Atkinson’s tarvun was run
On a plan that was strictly his own;
And he “reckoned that dudified sons of a gun”
Would far better leave him alone.
He allowed that he always had plenty to eat
For folks that liked vitt-u-als plain;
An’ when ye came down to pettaters and meat
His house was a credit to Maine.
The garding truck they raised themselves,
They killed their pork; and the but’ry shelves
Jest fairly groaned with jells and jams;
—In a shed out back they smoked their hams.
And old Elkanah used to brag
They laid down pickles by the kag;
And they had the darndest hens to lay
—Got fifty eggs most ev’ry day—
And ev’ry egg was big’s your fist
And fresher’n a whiff of mountain mist.
The whole blamed house it used to shake
When old Elkanah pounded steak,
For he used to say what made meat tough
Was ’cause some cooks warn’t strong enough.
And he piled the grub right on sky-high:
Soup and meat and fish and pie
—All the courses on first whack—
And then Elkanah he’d stand back
And say: “There, people, now hoe in;
When ye’ve et that grub, pass up ag’in;
Of course we hain’t no big hotel,
But some few things, why, we dew well.”
P. Mortimer Perkins came down from New
York,
—A salesman for corsets and things;
With his trousers all creased and a lah-de-dah
walk,
As if he were jiggered by strings;—
Arrived at the Atkinson tarvun one night
And says to Elkanah, says he:
“I want to be called just as soon as it’s light,
For I’m going first train, don’t ye see.
It’s very important I go by first train,
But I find in these country hotels
The service ye get gives a fellah a pain
—They don’t even answer the bells.
Now I want to be called for that train, me good
man,
For it’s very important I go;
Now weally, old chappie, please see if you can
Just do a thing right once, y’ know-
Ye may call me at four, and at half after four
I’ll bweakfast; now recollect, please!
Before I wetire I’ll tell you once more;
—You’ll get the idea by degwees.”
Elkanah B. Atkinson lowered his specs
To the very tip-end of his nose;
Says he: “When a feller he really expec’s
To go by that train, wal—he goes.
Jest fall right asleep and don’t worry a mite;
This hain’t -no big city hotel,
But we’ll git ye to goin’ termorrer all right,
For there’s some things we dew fairly well.”
Elkanah B. Atkinson sat all night
And kept the office fire bright.
He nodded some and yawned and smoked,
And at half-past three he went and poked
The kitchen fire; then pounded steak
And set potatoes in to bake.
Started the coffee and all the rest
And then went up to call his guest.
Bangity, whang! on the cracked old door!
Whangity, bang! It checked a snore.
P. Mortimer Perkins opened his eyes
In the cold dark dawn with much surprise,
And under the coverlet warm and thick
On the good, old-fashioned feather tick,
Felt the cold on his nose like a frosty knife
And was never so sleepy in all his life.
But still bang, whang on the cracked old door!
And Elkanah shouting, “Mos’ ha’f-pas’ four!”
But the louder the old man pounded and yapped
The more the drummer garped and gapped.
At last says he: “Is it stormy—oh-h-h?”
“Wall,” says Elkanah, “she’s spittin’ snow.”
P. Mortimer Perkins snuggled down
And says he, “This isn’t a blamed bad town;
I say, old man, now please go’way,
I’ve changed my mind, and I guess I’ll stay.”
Elkanah B. Atkinson then says he:
“This changin’ minds is a bad idee;
I’ve set in that office there all night
So’s I could git ye up all right.
An’ breakfus’ is on, an’ the coffee’s hot;
Now, friend, ye can go on that train or not,
But I tell ye now, right off- the reel,
Ye’re goin’ to git up and eat that meal.”