When Renie Rows

When Renie asks to take the oars

     To try her hand at rowing,

And boats are few, and calm is there

     Upon the river flowing,

I gladly hand them o’er to her,

     And turn unto the steering;

For when ‘tis calm, and Renie rows

     There’s much of joy appearing.

When Renie rows the light skiff makes

     A wake both wide and winding,

And I am closely occupied

     The tiller smartly minding.

We sheer to right and sheer to left,

     The grassy bank oft striking;

But Renie at the oars creates

     A picture to my liking.

The color flashes to her face,

     Her happy laughter ringing;

Her skirts around her ankles lie

     In sweet confusion clinging.

The short sleeves of her filmy waist

     Grow shorter with her rowing,

And two plump arms move back and forth

     The pink of health-glow showing.

Full soon she tires, the work is hard,

     She looks at me with pleading;

I leave the tiller to its fate,

     And let it sway unheeding.

One oar apiece! A gallant crew,

     We drift midst lilies growing;

When Renie rows I’m always glad

     To help her with the rowing.

June 30, 1903

If You Were Here Tonight

Darkness has settle o’er the camp,

     The pine-knot fire is burning bright;

The moon shines boldly on the lake,

And glimmers now the muskrat’s wake –

     Sweetheart, would you were here tonight.

A loon calls softly for its mate

     Where mountain shadows drown the light;

My heart reverberates the cry,

More lonely than the loon am I –

     Sweetheart, if you were here tonight!

Nor silvery moon nor glowing fire

     Can cheer me like your presence bright;

Before my dreams you vision flies –

This spot would be a paradise

     Sweetheart, if you were here tonight.

June 30, ‘06

                                                                        Kezar Lake from camp, North Lovell Maine, August 1922

Mary Again

Mary had an automobile,

     With which to ride around;

And everywhere that Mary went

     The automobile was found.

It started up too soon one day,

     Poor Mary had no hold;

She nearly turned a somersault –

     The rest shall not be told.

June 30, 1904

The Sailor Man

Jim Hall he was a sailor man,

     A sailor man was he;

He anchored to the State of Maine

     When not upon the sea.

A sailor man, now if you please,

     Is not a humble tar,

Nor yet a skipper, high or low,

     He’s more than that by far.

Jim Hall he was a sailor man,

     A sailor man was he;

He went into the forest bold

     And picked him out a tree.

He worked the tree into a stem,

     He hewed and laid the keel;

He planked the ship, and cut the spars

     And stripped them of their peel.

Jim Hall he was a sailor man,

     A sailor man was he;

He spliced her ropes, and calked her seams,

     And launched her in the sea.

He cut her sails and lashed them on,

     And ballasted his craft;

And knew the workings of his ship

     For’ad as well as aft.

Jim Hall he was a sailor man,

     A sailor man was he;

He built his ship and took command,

     And headed her for sea.

He knew his course and held her there,

     And every sea did span,

And brought her safely back to port –

     He was a sailor man.

Jim Hall he was a sailor man,

     A skipper of renown;

His like is hard to find today

     In any seaport town.

And when he died, at ripe old age,

     ‘Tis told in language plain,

He was the only sailor man

     Down in the State of Maine.

June 30, 1904

Note – While I’m not sure if this is related, the following is from ‘Two Years Before the Mast, By Richard Henry Dana:

‘‘Jim Hall,’’ the sailor who was made second mate of the Pilgrim in Foster’s place, after several years’ successful career as Captain and Manager of the Pacific Steamship Navigation Company on the west coast of South America with the title of Commodore, returned to this country, having saved a competence, and settled at East Braintree, Massachusetts. He called on me at my office some ten years after my father’s death. He was six feet tall, a handsome man of striking appearance, with blue eyes, nearly white hair, a ruddy countenance, and a very straight figure for one of nearly eighty years of age. He was born at Pittston, Maine, July 4, 1813. He is said to have commanded twenty—seven different vessels, steam and sail, and never to have had an accident, ‘‘never cost the underwriters a dollar.’’ He died April 22, 1904. His wife (Mary Ann Kimball of Hookset, N.H.) survived him.                                                                                                                                                                                                p. 158 

Then and Now

In days of old,

When nights were cold,

     And Jack Frost in his prime;

We heaved a sigh

For hot July,

     And good, old summer time.

Now winter’s o’er,

July once more,

     We’re hot beyond account;

And now we yearn

To take a turn,

     On Greenland’s ice mount.

June 30, 1904

The Unmusical Wretch

“I’d rather sing than eat,” she said,

     In manner passing sweet;

And then he put his foot therein,

By saying with a heartless grin:

     “I’d rather hear you eat.”

c. June 30, ‘10

Don’t Blame the Cow

Up goes the price of milk, by heck!

This world’s a great big crook;

The baby gets it in the nick,

     Someone should get the hook!!

 c. June 30, ‘10

Adoni Complains

“Dees Boston eesa slowa town,”

     Adoni said to me;

“Dey chuta have da greata theengs

     New Yorka people see.

Dees folk’ dey gat no greata breedge,

     No Statue Leeberty;

Dey gotta no beeg Central Park,”

     Adoni said to me.

“Dees Boston folk’ dey have no race

     Weeth aeroplanes, w’y?

Ever other place da airship feel

     Da greata beega sky.

I lik’ for see som’ theeng tak’ place,

     Da beega worlda fair;

Or som’theeng lika beega race

     Weeth airsheep in da air.”

“No, notheeng, but da sam’ ol’ gait,

     Lik’ feefty year ago;

Dees Boston eesa slowa town,

     Meester Jocos’; dat’s so.

Just wait, we queeck heem up I theenk,

     We have som’day,” said he,

“A smart Eetalian for mayor,”

     Adoni said to me.

June 30, ‘10

Wed.

Rustic Paradise

Settin’ in a leaky boat

With a pole an’ line an’ float,

Waitin’ for a fish to bite

Is the chief uv my delight.

Waitin’ fur the bob to sink

In the blue, reflected drink;

Waitin’ fur the pole to bend

With a fish upon the end.

Ain’t no place I ever see

Where that I would ruther be

Than ol’ “Lizzard” days like this

Soakin’ in her summer bliss;

Settin’ in a leaky boat

With a cider jug afloat,

Holdin’ on a white birch pole

In the shade o’ “Bullhead Hole”.

Airships an’ sech fillergree

Don’t hev any claims fur me;

Wouldn’t take an auto ride

‘Wuz I paid fur it beside.

Ez fur settin’ on the stoop

Talkin’ with some nincompoop

But the weather, no sir-ee,

“Lizzard Crick’s” the spot fur me!

“Lizzard Crick” an’ “Bullhead Hole”,

Rest there fur a weary soul;

Water smooth as glass and fair,

With the sky reflected there.

Shadders deep along the shore –

Who could ask fur any more?

Furren places? No sir-ee,

“Lizard Crick” will do for me!

June 30, ‘10

A Young Patriot

Little Sammy Simmons started in today

To celebrate the Fourth in his very own way.

He had thumbs a pair, and he had fingers eight,

But hasn’t now as many, I’m sorry to relate.

He had a little cannon which at dawn he tried to fix;

It went off prematurely, and then he had but six.

They fixed him up, then Sammy was very much alive;

He dropped his father’s pistol, and then he had but five.

But Sammy was patriotic, he stole out through the door,

And monkeyed with a chaser, and then he had but four.

They locked him in his chamber; the porch they didn’t see;

He found a cannon cracker, and then he had but three.

He tried to stop a rocket before it upward flew,

Alas! It wouldn’t linger, and then he had but two.

With two he reached the village to mingle in the fun;

A set-off box exploded, and Sammy had but one.

But Sammy, nothing daunted, remained as he’s begun;

He tried to stop a pinwheel, and then he counted none.

But Sammy’s patriotic, is looking forward now

To coming celebrations with joy upon his brow.

June 30, ‘09

Da Beega Man

Da Beega man I like for shave,

     He always tak’ my chair;

He som’tam spreeng a joke weeth me

     When I cut heesa hair.

He say, “I have not mucha hair,”

     Weethout da smile or laugh;

“You have no right for charga me,”

     He say, “but justa half.”

I know he maka joke weeth me,

     So when he come for shave

I have a gooda one for heem,

     Some joke w’eech I have save.

I say to heem, “You face so beeg

     Can’t shave for sama price;

Et take so longa time for do

     I have to charge you twice!”

June 30, ‘09

A Man Of Straw

I sit a scarecrow in the field

To warn the birds away

Because they picked my choicest fruits

     Most hungrily each day.

I felt quite satisfied; with might

     So hideous a sight

As that outlandish dummy there

     Will fill the birds with fright.

Again I wandered to the field,

     Alas! my keen dismay;

A bird perched on my scarecrow’s (arm)

     And trilled a saucy lay.

June 30, 1914

(on back side of last page of ‘Old Hen Jones’)

Modern Oculism

There was a man in our town,

     And he was wondrous wise;

He set a cannon cracker off,

     And blew out both his eyes.

And when he found his eyes were out,

     With all his might and man,

He got a pair of bellowses,

     And blew them in again.

June 30, ‘95

B. Courier,

Oct. 6, ‘95

Oculism - the skilled practice of a practical occupation. http://www.vocabulary.com/dictionary/oculism

Aspiration’s School

W’en I begun I wus a poet,

An’ I meant the worl’ should know it.

So, hard I rhymed bot night an’ day,

An’ sent an’ sent an’ sent away.

Then did the tide begin to slacken,

An’ all my brilliant hopes to blacken;

An’ inch by inch I los’ my fame,

For back an’ back an’ back they came.

“Well, then,” said I, “I’m jest a writer;

A fust class literary fighter.”

So, then I mailed another batch,

But back it came – “warn’t up to scratch.”

Now then, I’ve come to this conclusion,

An’ min’ you, frien’s ‘tis no delusion:

I’m jest a harmless, rhymin’ fool

Thet’s kicked frum aspiration’s school.

June 30, ‘91

Pub. in Cam.

  Press

A Wood Song

Out in the woods by the crystal lake

     Out in the woods for a breathing spell;

Out in the woods midst bush and brake,

Away where the stream and the boulders make

     A song which the woodsman loves so well.

Woods, woods, out in the woods

     Free as the bracing air;

Free as the birds that sing all day,

Free as the deer that bounds away,

     Afar from all thought of care.

The tent is pitched and the campfire made,

     The hammock swings beneath the tree;

The rods are ready the lake is near,

The boats are light and the day is clear –

     Out in the woods, the life for me!

Woods, woods, out in the woods

     Free as a child at play;

Free as the brook that dips along,

Free as the joyous woodland song,

     Out in the woods today.

c. June 29, ‘02

Kezar Lake, North Lovell, Maine