When a hen is bound to set,
Seems as though ’tain’t etiket
Dowsin’ her in water till
She’s connected with a chill.
Seems as though ’twas skursely right
Givin’ her a dreadful fright,
Tyin’ rags around her tail,
Poundin’ on an old tin pail,
Chasin’ her around the yard.
—Seems as though ’twas kind of hard
Bein’ kicked and slammed and shooed
’Cause she wants to raise a brood.
I sh’d say it’s gettin’ gay
Jest’cause natur’ wants its way.
—While ago my neighbor, Penn,
Started bustin’ up a hen;
Went to yank her off the nest,
Hen, though, made a peck and jest
Grabbed his thumb-nail good and stout,
Almost yanked the darn thing out.
Penn he twitched away and then
Tried again to grab that hen.
But, by ginger, she had spunk
’Cause she took and nipped a junk
Big’s a bean right out his palm,
Swallered it, and cool and calm
Hi’sted up and yelled “Cah-dah,”
—Sounded like she said “Hoo-rah.”
Wal, sir, when that hen done that
Penn he bowed, took off his hat,
—Spunk jest suits him, you can bet,
“Set,” says he, “gol darn ye, SET.”
There was Uncle Ezry Cyphers and Uncle
Jonas Goff,
And Deacon Simon Peaslee, with his solemn
vestry cough;
Mis’ Ann Matilda Bellows and Aunt Almiry
Hunt,
—At all the social meetings they performed
their earnest stunt.
They were strong in exhortation, and pro-
foundly entertained
The belief that talking did it if a Heavenly
Home were gained.
So they rose on Tuesday evening, at Friday
meeting, too,
And informed their friends and neighbors what
the sinners ought to do;
They explained the route to Heaven and ex-
horted all to go
In the straight and narrow pathway through
the blandishments below;
They were good and they were earnest, but,
alas, a little tame,
For month by month and year by year their
talks were just the same,
Until the folks who’d listened all those many
years could start
And declaim those exhortations, for they had
’em all by heart.
And those old folks talked so constant there
was scarcely time to sing,
For they just let in regardless and monopolized
the thing.
Now, benign old Parson Johnson died at last.
There’s scarcely doubt
That those prosy dissertations sort of wore
the old man out.
And he promptly was succeeded ere the church
had dried its tears
By a cocky, youthful pastor, who was full of
new ideas.
Now, he sized the situation ere he’d been in
town a week,
And he set to work to fix it by a plan that was
unique,
For he saw unless he did so—and the Lord
allowed them breath,
Those devoted saints would surely talk that
wearied church to death.
So he came to Tuesday meeting and upon his
desk he placed
A nickeled teacher’s call-bell and blandly then
he faced
An astonished congregation and explained he
thought it best
To condense the exhortations so as not to
crowd the rest;
For he said that in the worship all the members
ought to share,
And monopoly of talking by the elders wasn’t
fair;
Therefore, each could have five minutes, and
he’d ring to let each know
When ’twas time to cut the discourse and give
t’other one a show.
There were scowls from Uncle Ezry—there
were grunts from Uncle Goff,
And Deacon Simon Peaslee gave a scornful
vestry cough.
Then he laid his cane beside him and he strug-
gled to his feet
And commenced his regular discourse in re-
gard to tares and wheat.
He was scarcely fairly going on the punish-
ments of hell
When the pastor smiled and nodded and ding-
clink-ling went the bell!
All the old folks gasped in horror and a titter
soft and low
Ran along the youthful sinners who were back
on Devil’s Row;
And for just a thrilling instant Deacon Simon
lost his force,
With astonished jaws a-gaping—then continued
on his course.
To the pastor’s youthful visage swept a sudden
flush of wrath,
As the obstinate old deacon brushed him calmly
from his path,
And with all the college muscle that he had at
his command
The parson cuffed the call-bell with a swift
and steady hand.
There was riot in the vestry—deacon vieing
with the bell,
As he strove to paint the terrors of the hot,
John Wesley hell,
Till at last he balked and stuttered, gasped a
while and tried to speak,
Then sat down with tears a-dropping through
the furrows on his cheek.
There he bent in voiceless anguish with his old
gray head bowed low,
While the hushed and pitying people mourned
to see him grieving so;
And the parson left the platform and contritely
crept across
To the side of Deacon Simon and expressed his
deep remorse.
But the deacon raised his visage, and, with tears
still streaming down,
Glared upon his trembling pastor with a fierce
and scornful frown.
“Drat yer hide,” roared Deacon Simon, “do
ye think that leetle bell
Scart a warrior sech as I am out of talking
truths on hell?
’Tain’t no passon sets me down, sah! ’Tain’t
no bell ye ever saw,
But ye went and got me narvous and ye’ve
made me eat my chaw.”
Then the deacon, stern and angry, arm in arm
with Jonas Goff,
And with Uncle Cyphers trailing, stalked in
righteous dudgeon off,
And the sympathizing parish held a meeting
there and then,
And extolled the absent deacon as the most
abused of men;
And the parson’s walking papers hit his neck
below the jaw
In about the same location that the deacon lost
his chaw.
That teacher was the worst we ever tackled,
He warnt so very tall, and he was light.
—It is best to lay your egg before you’ve
cackled,
Though we never had a notion he could fight.
He acted sort of meechin’ when he opened up
the school,
—We sort of got the notion he was “It”—
and we tagged gool,
We gave him lots of jolly in a free and easy
way,
And showed him how we handled guys as got
to acting gay.
We showed him where the other one had torn
away the door
When we lugged him out and dumped him in
the snow the year before.
And soon’s we thought we’d scared him, we sat
and chawed and spit,
And kind o’ thought we’d run the school—con-
cludin’ he was “It.”
It worked along in that way, sir, till Friday
afternoon.
—We hadn’t lugged him out that week, but
’lowed to do it soon.
That Friday,’long about three o’clock, he said
there’d be recess,
And said, “The smaller kids and girls can go
for good, I guess.”
And he mentioned smooth and smily, but with
kind of greenish eyes,
That the big boys were requested to remain
for exercise.
And when he called us in again he up and
locked the door,
Shucked off his co’t and weskit, took the mid-
dle of the floor,
And talked about gymnastys in a quiet little
speech,
—Then he made a pass at Haskell, who was
nearest one in reach.
’Twas hot and stiff and sudden and it took him
on the jaw,
And that was all the exercise the Haskell feller
saw.
Then jumpin’ over Haskell’s seat, he sauntered
up the aisle,
A-hittin’ right and hittin’ left and wearin’ that
same smile.
And when a feller started up and tried to hit
him back,
’Twas slipper-slapper, whacko-cracker, whango-
bango-crack!!
And never, sir, in all your life, did you see
flippers whiz
In such a blame, chain-lightnin’ style as them
’ere hands of his.
And though we hit and though we dodged—or
rushed by twos and threes,
He simply strolled around that room and licked
us all with ease.
And when the thing was nicely done, he
dumped us in the yard,
He clicked the padlock on the door and passed
us all a card.
And this was what was printed there: “Pro-
fessor Joseph Tate,
Athletics made a specialty and champion mid-
dleweight.”
That teacher was the worst we ever tackled,
He warn’t so very tall and he was light.
—It is best to lay your egg before you’ve
cackled,
Though we never had a notion he could fight.
Origen Dickerson called the figgers
With a voice like a cart ex that needed some
grease.
He and his partner would fiddle like niggers
For supper an’ dollar an’ fifty apiece.
With forty couple upon the floor—
There wasn’t an inch for no one more,
We done the honors for all three towns
At the high, old Tuckville spanker-downs.
Yeak, yawk,
Grab for your pardners!
Yawk, yawk,
Wo’ hi-i-ish inter line!
Yankity, yump-de,
Yankity, yah-h de!
—For a fife and two fiddles that music was
fine.
And we pelted the floor and sashayed through
the door,
And balanced to pardners and sashayed some
more.
And when we got orders to “all hands
around!”
Warn’t half of the girls that could stay on the
ground.
For-rud and back! Wo’ haw, there, to Ella.
Wo’ buck inter line and balance to Grace.
Grab holt o’ hands, there, and swing by yer
feller,
Clek—clek, gid-dap-along, git inter place.
And the dust would rise and the lamps would
shake
Till ye’d think their chimblys was goin’ to
break.
For we’tended to dancin’ right up brown
At a high old Tuckville spanker-down.
Squeak, squawk,
Pick out yer feller!
Raw-w-wk, raw-w-wk,
Form on your set!
High-deedle, do-o-o de,
High-deedle, dah-h-h-de!
We swung by the waist in them dances, you
bet.
There wasn’t kid slippers, there wasn’t tight
boots,
There wasn’t silk dresses, there wasn’t dude
suits,
There wasn’t no banquet—ten dollars for two—
But a good brimmin’ bowlful of hot oyster
stew.
We’d darnce twenty numbers and all the en-
cores,
—Get home in the mornin’ ’bout time for the
chores—
And all the next day the work was like play,
The girls doin’ housework would waltz and
sashay;
The boys would astonish the stock in the yard
By forgettin’ and yellin’, “Hi, all promunard!”
Hi-i-i, yah-h-h!
Ladies to center, there!
Hi-i-i, yah-h-h!
Balance ye all!
Wo’ hi-ish up the middle, bear down on the
fiddle,
By ginger,’twas fun at the Tuckville Grand
Ball.
The street parade was gorgeous and the show
was mighty fine
—Them fellers on the trick trapeze was cork-
ers in their line,
And all the lady riders was as pretty as they’re
made,
And kept the climate fully up to ninety in the
shade.
The chaps that did the tumbling acts and every
funny clown
Was just as slick an article as ever came to
town.
I’ve got to tell yon, neighbor, that it all was up
in G,
Including all the things I saw and what I
didn’t see.
But though I did a master sight of rubber-
neckin’ ’round,
A-lookin’ here and gawpin’ there, why, gra-
cious, me, I found
From what the folks have told me since, I
missed the finest things,
—I hadn’t eyes and neck enough for all them
three big rings.
And honest, if 1 had my choice, I’d good deal
ruther go
To just a good, old-fashioned sort of hayseed,
one-ring show.
The people used to gather when Van Amburgh
came to town
With a lion and an elephant, a camel and a
clown.
There wasn’t “miles of splendor,” as the cir-
cus programs say,
But folks got up at daylight, drove in early in
the day;
And they perched along the fences while the
dozen carts or so
Came trailin’ through the village with the old
Van Amburgh show.
It wasn’t just “stupendous,” but the people
didn’t jeer
And say it wasn’t up to what the circus was
last year!
O, no, they crunched their peanuts and they
took things as they’d come,
And heard a lot of music in the rump-rump of
the drum.
For things, you know, seemed fresher in the
days when we were young,
And tinsel passed for solid stuff when lady
riders sprung
Through papered hoops, or danced and frisked
upon their charger’s rump
And vaulters spun to dizzy heights with one
jer-oosly jump.
They did those ding-does master fine some
twenty years ago
And you never missed a wiggle at a one-ring
show.
I won’t pick flaws with modern ways of doing
all these things,
For folks have got to living on the gauge of
three big rings.
But while the whirl is going on, it seems, my
friend, to me
That half of what goes past your nose is things
that you don’t see.
And when the angel cries, “All done,” and
when the lights go out,
You’ll jostle to the dark Beyond amidst a diz-
zied rout.
And life that’s lived at three ring pace I fear
will only seem
A useless sort of patchwork thing—a mixed-
up fruitless dream.
Why wasn’t “father’s way” the best? Though
there was less array,
Though men had less of creeds and cults than
what they have to-day,
The old folks then from Life’s great tent went
slowly thronging out
With calm, well-ordered years behind, unvexed
by care or doubt.
And though in old Van Amburgh’s days the
thing moved rather slow,
You didn’t sprain your moral neck in looking
at Life’s Show.
That Hiram Brown he come to school and
brung in seven ticks;
He picked them off his father’s sheep—jes’ like
his dratted tricks!
One day that critter put a toad right in our
teacher’s chair,
She squatted down—and then got up! And
warn’t she mad for fair?
He brung in crawly bugs and things, a mouse
and onct a rat,
An’ then he sort o’ wound things up with
suthin’ wusser’n that.
The teacher cotched him that time, though, and
my! she combed him down
An’ I was sent to cut the switch that walloped
Hiram Brown.
Them ticks was in a pill-box doctor left when
Bill was sick,
An’ they was measly lookin’ things;—say,
j’ever see a tick?
While we was readin’ testermunt Hi stirred
’em with a pin,
—We all was wond’rin’ what he’d got, for he
was on the grin.
Then when the teacher turned her back, Hi
made for Ozy Blair
An’ turned the whole blamed seven ticks right
loose in Ozy’s hair.
Then Ozy had a spasm fit like what he’s sub-
jick to;
He squalled and clawed and bumped around till
he was black an’ blue.
An’ teacher took her fine-toothed comb an’
raked an’ scraped his head,
—It come nigh bustin’ up the school that way
that he raised Ned!
The teacher made us all set up as stiff and
straight as sticks,
An’ then says she, all raspy-like, “Who was it
brung them ticks?”
We couldn’t help it—swow to man!—We
looked at Hiram Brown
An’ Hi he set there redd’nin’ up and sort o’
lookin’ down.
An’ teacher sniffed an’ then she scowled an’
giv’ her sleeves a twitch,
An’ turned to me an’ then says she, “Ike, go
an’ cut a switch.”
’Twas dretful nice outdoors that day—it set a
feller wishin’
That he could cut an’ run from school an’ put
his time in fishin’.
’Twas one them soft’nin’ sort of days an’ while
I was a-pickin’
A switch, it come acrost me what a shame to git
a lickin’
On such a mighty pleasant day. So I shinned
up a tree
An’ cut a slimpsy popple switch that wouldn’t
hurt a flea.
Then I went in—there teacher was, a-waitin’
by the door,
The scholars set as still as death an’ Bill stood
in the floor.
But how they snickered when they see that
dinky little switch,
—The teacher broke it up on me an’ giv’ my
ear a twitch,
Says she, “You try that on agin, you’ll
git it
worse, you clown!
Now go, an’ see’f you know enough to cut
that switch for Brown.”
Seems’s if it warn’t so nice outdoors. It kind
o’ stirred my mad
To divvy up that way with Hi—’Cause ’twasn’t
me ’twas bad!
Says I, “By jing, I’ll even up.” I took my
biggest blade
An’ cut a switch that, honest true, it almost
made me ’fraid.
I didn’t trim it very dus’—by snummy, I felt
wicked,
I left the knobs all stickin’ out—an’ some of ’em
was pick-ed.
I passed ’er in. The teacher she ker-wished it
through the air,
An’ Hi he shivered; ’twas enough to fairly
curl his hair.
She fixed her hairpins so’s her pug it couldn’t
tumble down,
An’ then says she, like bitin’ nails, “Take off
your coat, Hi Brown.”
Then Hiram Brown he got right down an’
begged an’ teased an’ prayed,
She hit him once—an easy clip—an’ then he
fairly brayed.
He acted out in master style;—why, sence he’s
come of age
He’s makin’ money like all sin, play-actin’ on
the stage.
Our teacher was an easy mark—the tender
hearted kind—
When Hiram got to takin on she went and
changed her mind.
Says she, “You’ve been a naughty boy but if
you now repent
I’ll spare the rod but punish you in this way.”
Jee, she went
An’ sent that Hi acrost the room to sit with
Helen Dean,
The girl I liked the best in school; an’ Hi was
jest serene!
That warn’t the wust, for after school he licked
me like the deuce
Because I left them knobs all on. Oh, thun-
der, what’s the use
Of tryin’ to be good, sometimes? I know it’s
wicked talk
To intimate that vice may ride when virtue has
to walk;
To hint that folks of honest ways but moderate
in wits
May have their noses rubbed in dirt by rascal
hypocrites,
But truly, friends, it does appear that only mar-
tyrs’ crowns
Are passed to worth down here on earth;—the
rest to Hiram Browns.