He played when summer sunsets glowed and
twilight deepened down,
His shrilling flute throbbed out and out in the
ears of the little town;
When the chores were done and his cattle fed
and the old horse munched his oats,
He took his flute to his racked old porch and
chirped his wavering notes.
And far and wide on the evening breeze from
the old house on the hill,
Went trinkling off the thin, long strains, like
the cry of the whip-poor-will.
And the women paused with the supper things
and harkened at the door,
And to the questioning stranger said, “Why,
that’s old Figger-Four.”
He bobbed to his work in his little field and
tidied his lonesome home;
He’d the light of peace in his quiet face, though
his shape was that of a gnome.
One knee was angled, hooked and stiff, the
mark of a fever sore,
And the saucy wits of the countryside had
dubbed him “Figger-Four.”
Yet those who knew him never thought of the
twist in the poor, bent limb,
And only strangers had a smile for the name
bestowed on him.
For if ever a man was a neighbor true, that
man, my friend, was he,
And the name he bore of “Figger-Four” was
our symbol of constancy.
’Twas he who came to the stricken homes and
closed the dead men’s eyes;
’Twas he who watched by the poor men’s biers
with a care no money buys;
’Twas he who sat by the fretful sick, and ne’er
could rash complaint
Disturb the placid soul and smile of the gnarled
old village saint.
And all came straight from out his heart, for
when one spoke of pay,
He simply smiled a wistful smile and said:
“That ain’t my way.”
A glistening eye was prized by him above a
golden store;
An. earnest clasp of neighbor’s hand paid every
debt and more.
And when there was no call for him from Tom,
or Dick or Jim,
He took his lip-stained flute and played a good
old gospel hymn.
So, when the placid, sunset skies were banked
above the town,
To every home and every ear those notes came
softly down.
And truly, friend, it used to seem the good old
man would play,
As if, for lack of else to do, to pipe our cares
away.
And tongues were hushed and heads were bent,
and angry home dispute
Gave way to silence, then to smiles, when
“Figger-Four’s” old flute
Sent down its long-drawn, mild reproach from
off the little hill—
Expostulation in its notes, a pleading in its
thrill.
And somehow, though the hearts were hot and
tongues were stirring fray,
Those dripping tones came down like balm and
cooled the wrath away.
He’d lived his lesson in our gaze; he was not
one who talked;
His life was straight, although, alas, he bobbed
so when he walked!
And though we’ve lost our richest men, we
mourn far more, far more,
The man we loved and who loved us, poor bent
old “Figger-Four.”
Allus was rowin’ it, early and late,
—Niff against this one an’ niff against that!
With a voice like a whistle, too big for her
weight,
That was the make-up of Aunt Phebe Pratt.
She’d give it to Ichabod, hot-pitch-and-tar,
Yappin’ as soon as he came to the house;
Allus was hankerin’ after a jar,
Allus was ready to kick up a touse.
But Ichabod he was as calm as a lamb,
Never talked back to her, no, s’r, not he—
Reckin that some men would rip out a damn.
But he was the mildest that ever ye see.
He’d set an’ he’d whistle an’ whistle away,
Waitin’ all patient ontil she got through;
She’d scream, “Drat ye, answer!” but Ick
he would say,
“Mother, ye’re talkin’ a plenty for two.
Who-o-o, who-o-o,
Who-o-o, who-o-o!
Nothin’ to say, mother! List’nun to you.”
Phebe is dead an’ has gone to her rest;
Ichabod lives in the house all alone;
—Ick isn’t lonesome because, so ’tis guessed.
He still hears the echoes of Aunt Phebe’s tone.
’Tis reckoned his ears were so used to the clack,
He somehow er’ ruther still thinks she is there;
Kind of imagines that Phebe is back,
An’ still is a-goin’ it, whoopity-tear!
Or p’raps she has ’ranged it by long-distance
line,
From her latest location, Above or Below,
To keep up her reg’lar old yappin’ an’ whine,
For fear the old man will at last have a show.
For he sets there an’ whistles an’ whistles
away,
Whenever there’s nothin’ in ’special to do;
An’ once in a while he’ll look up an’ he’ll say,
“Mother, ye’re talkin’ a plenty for two.
Who-o-o, who-o-o,
Who-o-o, who-o-o!
Nothin’ to say, mother! List’nun to you.”
Though the banners greet his coming when our
hero journeys home,
Though the city, wreathed in colors, bears his
name on flag-wrapt dome;
Does he come for speech and music? Does he
come for gay parade,
And to see a moving pageant in its festal hues
arrayed?
No, a gray and rain-washed farmhouse, hid
beside a country lane
Is the goal of all his hurry, when our hero
comes to Maine.
And past spectacle and pageant, bannered street
and brave array
He is rushing, soul on fire, toward a dearer
scene than they;
And the hand that gives him welcome may be
calloused, may be brown,
But the fervor of its greeting can’t be matched
back there in town.
’Tis a plain old dad in drillin’ who will clasp
his hand; and then
He will shout, “Lord, ain’t we tickled! God
bless ye, how’ve ye be’n?
Why, massy me, ye rascal, how like fury ye
have growed!
If I’d met ye in the village, swan, I wouldn’t
scursely knowed,
Your face behind them whiskers; ’fore ye know
it boys are men!
Hey, mother, here’s your youngster! Land
o’ Goshen, how’ve ye be’n?”
And if, you home returning son,
Some tithe of honor you have won,
Sweeter than telling the world of men
Is telling the old folks “how you’ve be’n.”
Though of wealth and brains and beauty, festal
Maine has summoned all
And the banquet gleams in splendor in the
city’s spacious hall,
Does he envy them the viands spread beneath
their flag-wrapt dome?
No, never, as he sits there at the old folks’
board back home.
There are all the dear old good things made
by mother’s loving hands,
—Such things, so he discovers, only mother
understands;
There’s the old and treasured china, figured
blue with gilded rim,
Saved to honor great occasions—now the
whole is spread for him,
And the mother’s eyes are wistful; she’s as-
sailed by constant doubt
Lest, spite of all his fearful raids, he somehow
“won’t make out.”
But, though the wanderer strives to eat, his
heart keeps coming up,
And tears roll out of brimming eyes he lowers
o’er his cup,
And in the throat there swells a lump, not
grief,—and yet akin—
To see the old folks bowed so low, so snowy-
haired and thin.
And yet their happy faces glow, until they’re
young again,
And dad lights up his old crook pipe and says,
“Now how’ve ye be’n?
Set down and tell us how ye’ve fared and tell
us how ye’ve done,
You’ve sent us letters right along, but them
don’t talk it, son.
A minit with ye, face to face, beats hours with
a pen;
God bless ye, bub! Ye’re welcome back! Now
tell us how’ve ye be’n?”
Ah, happy he who brings success
Back here to Maine to cheer and bless
The folks who ask in tenderness,
—Taking you into their arms again,
“God bless ye, dearie, how’ve ye be’n?”
Uncle Peter Tascus Runnels has been feeble
some of late;
He has allus been a worker and he sartinly did
hate
To confess he couldn’t tussle with the spryest
any more,
—That he wasn’t fit for nothin’ but to fub
around an’ chore.
When he climbed the stable scaffold t’other day
he had a spell,
—Kind o’ heart-disease or somethin’—an’ I
heard he like to fell.
Guess the prospect sort o’ scared him; so, that
ev’nin’ after tea,
—After he had smoked a pipeful—pretty sol-
emn, then says he,
“Reckin, son, ye’ve noticed lately that your
dad is gittin’ old,
An’ your marm is nigh as feeble;—much as
ever she can scold!”
Uncle Tascus said so grinnin’; for the folks
around here know
That no better-natured woman ever lived than
old Aunt Jo.
“Now, my son,” said Uncle Tascus, “you’ve
been good to me an’ marm,
An’ you know we allus told ye, ye was sure to
have the farm.
An’ we like your wife Lucindy; there has
never been no touse
As is generly apt to happen with two famblys in
the house.
I can’t manage as I used to; mother’s gittin’
pretty slim,
An’ to hold our prop’ty longer is a whim, bub,
jest a whim!
So I’ll tell ye what I’m plannin’, an’ I know
that marm agrees,
We’ll sign off an’ make it over; then we’ll sort
o’ take our ease.
So, hitch up to-morrer mornin’—drive us down
to Lawyer True,
Me an’ marm will sign the papers, an’ we’ll
deed the place to you.”
Lawyer True looked kind o’ doubtful when
they told him what was on.
“I’ll admit,” said he, “that no one’s got a
better boy than John.
Now don’t think I’m interferin’ or am prophe-
syin’ harm,
When I warn ye not to do it; don’t ye deed
away your farm.
I have seen so many cases—heard ’em tried
most ev’ry term—
Where a deed has busted fam’lies, that, I swow,
it makes me squirm
If I’m asked to write a transfer to a relative
or son.
Tascus, please excuse my meddlin’, but—ye
hold it till ye’re done.”
Uncle Tascus, though, insisted. He was allus
rather sot.
He allowed he’d show the neighbors jest the
kind of son he’d got.
—Said he’d show ’em how a Runnels allus
stuck by kith an’ kin,
So the lawyer drew the papers—an’ they started
home agin,
Uncle Tascus held the webbin’s—he has allus
driv’ the hoss—
John he chuckled kind o’ nervous. Then said
he, “Wal, pa, I’m boss!
Now ye’ve never got to worry—I’m the one to
take the lead,
Things were gettin’ kind o’ logy—guess I’ll
have to put on speed.
An’ as now I head the fam’ly, an’ you’re sort
of on the shelf,
Guess I’ll”—John he took the webbin’s—
“guess I’d better drive, myself.”
Wal, s’r, Uncle Tascus pondered, pondered,
pondered all that day.
An’ that evenin’ still was pond’rin’, as he
rocked an’ smoked away.
John he set dus’ up t’ table, underneath the
hangin’ lamp,
Ciph’rin’ out that legal paper with its seal an’
rev’nue stamp.
Then he folded it an’ chuckled. “That’s all
right an’ tight,” he said,
“Lawyers tie things tighter’n Jehu. Dad, ye’d
better go to bed.
You an’ marm are gettin’ feeble; mustn’t have
ye up so late!
I’m the boss—” John sort o’ te-heed, “so I’ll
have to keep ye straight.
’Sides, I’ll need ye bright an’ early. In the
mornin’ hitch the mare,
Take that paper down t’ court-house. Have it
put on record there.”
Uncle Tascus took the writin’, pulled his specs
down on his nose,
Read it over very careful. Then says he, “My
son, I s’pose
You are jest as good’s they make ’em; I hain’t
got no fault to find,
You are thrifty, smart an’ stiddy; rather bluff,
but allus kind,
An’ I guess you’d prob’ly use us jest as well’s
ye really knew,
But I hain’t so awful sartin that I’m done an’
out an’ through!
—Tell ye, son, I’ve been a-thinkin’ since ye
took an’ driv’ that hoss,
—Since ye sort o’ throwed your shoulders an’
allowed that you was boss!
Hate to act so whiffle-minded, but my father
used to say,
‘Men would sometimes change opinions; mules
would stick the same old way.’”
Uncle Tascus tore the paper twice acrost, then
calmly threw
On the fire the shriv’lin’ pieces. Poof! They
vanished up the flue.
“There, bub, run to bed,” said Tascus, with
his sweet, old-fashioned smile.
“These old hands are sort of shaky, but I guess
I’ll drive a while.”
The mackerel bit as they crowded an’ fit to
grab at our ganglin’ bait,
We were flappin’ ’em in till the ’midship bin
held dus’ on a thousand weight;
When all of a sudden they shet right down an’
never a one would bite,
An’ the Old Man swore an’ he r’ared an’ tore
till the mains’l nigh turned white,
He’d pass as the heftiest swearin’ man that
ever I heard at sea,
An’ that is allowin’ a powerful lot, as sartinly
you will agree.
Whenever he cursed his arm shot up an’ his
fingers they wiggled about,
Till they seemed to us like a windmill’s fans
a-pumpin’ the cuss-words out.
He swore that day by the fodder hay of the
Great Jeehookibus whale,
By the Big Skedunk, an’ he bit a hunk from
the edge of an iron pail,
For he knowed the reason the fish had dodged,
an’ he swore us stiff an’ stark
As he durned the eyes an’ liver an’ lights of a
shag-eyed, skulkin’ shark.
Then we baited a line all good an’ fine an’ slung
’er over the side,
An’ the shark took holt with a dretful jolt, an’
he yanked an’ chanked an’ tried
To jerk it out, but we held him stout so he
couldn’t duck nor swim,
An’ we h’isted him over—that old sea-rover—
we’d business there with him.
A-yoopin’ for air he laid on deck, an’ the skip-
per he says, says he:
“You’re the wust, dog-gondest, mis’able hog
that swims the whole durn sea.
’Mongst gents as is gents it’s a standin’ rule to
leave each gent his own—
If ye note as ye pass he’s havin’ a cinch, stand
off an’ leave him alone.
But you’ve slobbered along where you don’t
belong, an’ you’ve gone an’ spiled the thing,
An’ now, by the pink-tailed Wah-hoo-fish,
you’ll take your dose, by jing!”
So, actin’ by orders, the cook fetched up our
biggest knife on board,
An’ he ripped that shark in his ’midship bulge;
then the Old Man he explored.
An’ after a while, with a nasty smile, he giv’ a
yank an’ twist,
“Hurroo!” yells he, an’ then we see the liver
clinched in his fist.
Still actin’ by orders, the cook fetched out his
needle an’ biggest twine—
With a herrin’-bone stitch sewed up that shark,
all right an’ tight an’ fine.
We throwed him back with a mighty smack,
an’ the look as he swum away
Was the most reproachfulest kind of a look
I’ve seen for many a day.
An’ the liver was throwed in the scuttle-butt,
to keep it all fresh an’ cool,
Then we up with our sheet an’ off we beat,
a-chasin’ that mackerel school.
We sailed all day in a criss-cross way, but the
school it skipped an’ skived,
It dodged an’ ducked, an’ backed an’ bucked,
an’ scooted an’ swum an’ dived.
An’ we couldn’t catch ’em, the best we’d do—
an’ oh, how the Old Man swore!
He went an’ he gargled his throat in ile, ’twas
peeled so raw an’ sore.
But at last, ’way off at the edge of the sea, we
suddenly chanced to spy
A tall back-fin come fannin’ in, ag’inst the sun-
set sky.
An’ the sea ahead of it shivered an’ gleamed
with a shiftin’ an’ silvery hue,
With here a splash an’ there a dash, an’ a rip-
ple shootin’ through.
An’ the Old Man jumped six feet from deck;
he hollered an’ says, says he:
“Here comes the biggest mackerel school since
the Lord set off the sea!
An’ right behind, if I hain’t blind, by the prong-
jawed dog-fish’s bark,
Is a finnin’ that mis’able hog of the sea, that
liverless, shag-eyed shark!”
But we out with our bait an’ down with our
hooks, an’ we fished an’ fished an’ fished,
While ’round in a circle, a-cuttin’ the sea, that
back-fin whished an’ slished;
An’ we noticed at last he was herdin’ the school
an’ drivin’ ’em on our bait,
An’ they bit an’ they bit an’ we pulled ’em in at
a reg’lar wholesale rate.
We pulled ’em in till the S’airey Ann was wal-
lerin’ with her load,
An’ we stopped at last’cause there wa’n’t no
room for the mackerel to be stowed.
Then up came a-finnin’ that liverless shark, an’
he showed his stitched-up side,
An’ the look in his eyes was such a look that
the Old Man fairly cried.
We rigged a tackle an’ lowered a noose an’
the shark stuck up his neck,
Then long an’ slow, with a heave yo-ho, we
h’isted him up on deck.
The skipper he blubbered an’ grabbed a fin an’
gave it a hearty shake;
Says he, “Old man, don’t lay it up an’ we’ll
have a drop to take.”
An’, actin’ by orders, the cook fetched up our
kag of good old rum;
The shark he had his drink poured first, an’ all
of us then took some.
Still actin’ by orders, the cook he took an’ he
picked them stitches out,
An’ we all turned to, an’ we lent a hand;
though of course we had some doubt
As to how he’d worn it an’ how’twas hitched,
an’ whuther’twas tight or slack,
But as best we could—as we understood—we
put that liver back.
Then we sewed him up, an’ we shook his fin
an’ we giv’ him another drink,
We h’isted him over the rail ag’in an’ he giv’
us a partin’ wink.
Then he swum away, an’ I dast to say, although
he was rather sore,
He felt that he’d started the trouble first, an’
we’d done our best an’ more.
’Cause a dozen times’fore the season closed
an’ the mackerel skipped to sea,
He herded a school an’ drove ’em in, as gen-
tlemanlike as could be.
We’d toss him a drink, an’ he’d tip a wink, as
sociable as ye please,
No kinder nor better-mannered shark has ever
swum the seas.
Now, the moral is, if you cut a friend before
that you know he’s friend,
An’ after he’s shown it, ye do your best his
feelin’s to nicely mend,
He’ll meet ye square, an’ he’ll call you quits,
providin’ he’s got a spark
Of proper feelin’—at least our crew can vouch
this for a shark.