A Rhyme

It was only a simple little rhyme,

     Telling its tale, a sad life’s story;

But a million souls thought it sublime,

For it breather of love and hope and glory.

c. Sept. 30, 1899

A Square Deal

I never stole a kiss, not one,

     Because I never had to;

I asked my sweetheart, just for fun,

If she would kindly loan me one;

     She said she would be glad to.

I never stole a kiss, not one,

     Because I never had to.

Sept. 30, ‘05

“Fall On The Crick”

Frosty round the aiges now

     Uv dear ol Lizzard Crick;

Red an’ yeller foliage

     Comin’ fast an’ thick.

Turkles they are diggin’ deep

     Where the banks are low;

Bullfrogs they are duckin’ frum

     Winter’s ice an’ snow.

Swallers they are swarmin’ now

     Fur their autumn flight;

Millions in the air awing

     Make a wondrous sight.

Ducks are settlin’ ‘neath the hills

     Where the water’s warm;

North’ard skies are stirrin’ up

     An October storm.

Bob White whistles on the marsh

     Callin’ to his mate;

Squirrel he is stockin’ nuts

     On his winter plate.

Herons foldin’ up their laigs

     Fur the south’ard flight;

Pick’rel hunt fur warmer holes

     Deep down out o’ sight.

Frosty round the aiges now

     Marshes fiery red;

Racoon busy ez a bee

     Fixin’ up his bed.

Winter’s comin’ on apace

     Chill is in the air;

But all roun’ ol’ Gungywamp

     Joy is ev’rywhere.

Sept. 30, 1912

ON THE ROAD

A southern conductor was considerably nettled over the complaints of a northern salesman at the slowness of his train. Finally, in desperation, the conductor said: “If you don’t like our speed sir, why don’t you get out and walk?”

“I would like to,” retorted the drummer, “but I’d have to wait so deuced long for my baggage!”

c. Sept. 30, ‘10

Hank Stubbs Soliloquizes

I don’t keer who found the Pole,

No I don’t, upon my soul;

Doesn’t matter much to me

Whether one, or two or three,

Six or ten, or only one

Done the job so long’s ‘twuz done.

What I want to know, I vow,

What is butter fetchin’ now?

Might hev been ol’ Dr. Cook,

Might hev been Bob Perry took

What they wuz to take. Mayhap

‘Twuzn’t took by either chap;

How could they take it, I declare,

Somethin’ that was never there?

But what worries me, I jing!

What’s pertaters goin’ te bring?

Huntin’ Poles ain’t on my list,

I ain’t no big scientist;

I’m a farmer threw an’ threw,

Keepin’ prices right in view.

Poles or airships ain’t fur me,

Got all I kin handle, see?

What I want to know, by gosh!

What’s the market pay fur squash?

Sept. 30, ‘09

Untitled (The Christmases Mother Made)

You can talk about your Christmas in the gay and festive town,

With its crowds of Christmas strollers promenading up and down;

With its lavish decorations, and its music sung and played,

But the Christmas to my notion was the kind that mother made.

As to mother’s bread and doughnuts I shall simply pass them by,

Not a word about her cookies of her golden pumpkin pie;

Not a line about her puddings or hard jams or marmalade,

But a volume in the praises of the Christmases she made.

O, the presents they were simple and devoid of tinsel bright,

And were fashioned by her fingers while we calmly slept at night,

And the stories that she told us they were true as true could be

‘Cause she heard her mother tell them Christmas times the same as we.

I won’t speak about her crullers tho’ they tasted super fine,

Nor the apple-jack that melted in your throat like luscious wine;

But the place where mother fitted, leaving others in the shade,

Was the genuine old-fashioned bang-up Christmases she made.

Sept. 30, ‘08

Roxanna Andrews Cone

A Warning

Now every steeple in the land

     And tall skyscrapers, too,

Would better take and extra brace,

     And keep a skyward view.

The airship man is coming round

     Chock full of speed and pluck,

And they are likely to get bumped

     Unless they dodge or duck.

Sept. 30, ‘09

The Fishing Outfit

He hates to put his fish pole by, and pack away each hook and fly, and pull his boat into the shed, and call the fishing season dead. The only joy that he will know all through winter’s ice and snow, will be to spin a lie each day concerning what he’s put away.

c. Sept. 30, ‘09

The Man Who Likes The Weather

They’s men at’s allus findin’ fault,

     Furever they’re complainin’;

A-findin’ fault on pleasant days

     Becuz it ain’t a-rainin’.

An’ then they’ll turn an’ swear becuz

     It rains two days turgether;

But give tur me the happy chap

Who likes all kind of weather.

Yew take a man ‘at never kicks

     In sunshine or in showers,

An’ he’s the man ‘at we kin trust

     With everything ‘at’s ours.

He loves the world, the world loves him,

     They git on well turgether;

An’ good ol’ age smiles on the soul

     Who allus likes the weather.

Sept. 30, ‘98

A Lass, Alas!

When Sybil reached her house in town,

     Her trunk did she unpack;

Forthwith she pulled her bathing suit

     From out the mighty stack.

“How can I use it up?” she mused,

     To think she hard did try;

“Alas!” she said, “it is too small,

     “’Twon’t even make a tie.”

Sept. 30, ‘95

B. Courier,

Oct. 13,

   ‘95

Pleasant Recollections

How dear to my heart was the check for my poem,

     When fond recollection presents it to view;

The first check, the last check, the only sweet checky,

     The moss-covered checky, so shortly I knew.

That much begrudged checky, that hard worked-for checky,

That tear bespeckled checky, so shortly I knew.

c. Sept. 30, 1894

Pub. in Boston Courier,

Jan. 13, 1895

(published in paragraph form)

Wish’t I Had A Baby

I wish’t I had a baby,

     A little toddle tee;

To pull out all my whiskers,

     An’ crawl aroun’ my knee.

‘Twould keep my mind frum growin’

     Kin’ er seedy-like an’ slow;

An’ keep my thoughts a-goin’

     Kin’ er where the orter go.

But my wife an’ I are growin’,

     Growin’ ol’ together fast;

An’ our prime uv life I reckon,

     Soon will be forever past.

I wish’t I had a tod’ler

     To pull me all apart;

To test my stock of patience,

     An’ find if I’ve a heart.

Sept. 30, 1893

(Irene Clevenshire Cone, the only one of three to survive infancy, wasn’t born until Oct. 22, 1897)

Nothing But Leaves

The leaves that shaded us so well

     All through the summer’s heat,

Are tumbling through the air pell-mell,

     And falling at our feet.

‘Tis as a youthful life cut down,

     Each leaf that falls to ground;

Tho’ useful be they dry and brown –

     Methinks I hear the sound

Of red-cheeked boys along the farms,

     In careless, noisy mirth,

With sacks of dried leaves in their arms

     And tumbling to the earth.

Yes, tumbling, pelting, pitching o’er

     Each other in the heap;

Then bearing home a winter’s store

     To where the cattle sleep.

And as I hear them in their glee,

     My old heart sorely grieves,

To think that I no more will be

     Pitched headlong in the leaves.

Sept. 30, ‘92

Pub. in

Conn. Valley

Advertiser

When Cider Tastes The Best

When autumn paints her ruddy glow upon each hill and dale,

And Jack Frost plays at hide and seek thro’ orchard, wood and vale,

Then comes the cider making time, the old horse walking round,

The apples crunching in the cogs, a mellifluous sound!

The press, with rye straw mingles with the pulp of red and gold,

The luscious cheeses dripping with a cadence yet untold;

And then the foaming tub of juice with boys and bees about,

An’ too, the straw with which we draw the mellow liquid out.

O then is when it tastes the best, a straw poked in the foam,

An’ we upon our bended knees to draw the cider home!

A golden goblet if you will, or cut glass and the rest,

But when we draw it thro’ a straw is when it tasted the best.

Then later when the cogs are stilled and all the cider’s made,

With twenty barrels in a row behind the old mill’s shade,

With twenty bung-holes waiting there to make a youngster smile,

I’d give a heap to take a straw and tarry there awhile.

I’d like to straddle every cask and sample every one,

And sozzle in that apple juice until the day was done;

And then I’d like to go to bed and dream that I were still

A-straddle of a cider cask down under Martin’s mill.

For that is when it tastes the best, a straw poked in the foam,

Humped over on a cider cask to draw that sweetness home.

A golden goblet if you will, or cut glass and the rest,

But when we draw it thro’ a straw is when it tasted the best.

Sept. 29, 1901

“Easyville”

I’ve travelled round the world a bit, an’ I am goin’ still;

I’m tryin’ hard to find a place that some call “Easyville”.

They tell me folks don’t hev to work, an’ care is never found,

Thet all they do in “Easyville” is just to loaf around.

They hev enough to eat an’ wear, an’ sleep jest all they please

An’ pick the choicest fruits of life frum off the hangin’ trees;

Now do yew wonder I hev tramped these years o’er dale an’ hill

To find the everlastin’ joy an’ rest uv “Easyville”?

I think uv it all through the day an’ dream uv it at night,

I’m up an’ after it when comes the first faint streak o’ light;

I work an’ tramp an’ sweat an’ toil without no stop, an’ still

I never reach the height where I kin look on “Easyville”.

I ask my brother frum the North, “how looks it over there,

Hast ever looked on ‘Easyville’, hast seen it anywhere?”

He shakes his head; my brothers frum the East and West the same,

An’ yet they cast a yearnin’ look when I pronounce the name.

O, “Easyville”, so I am told lays jest beyond the chain

Of mountains called “Ambition, Push an’ Toil an’ Stress an’ Strain”,

An’ I hev looked these many years, an’ I am lookin’ still,

An’ mebbie when I git to God He’ll show me “Easyville”.

Sept. 29, ‘07

Then and Now

Last summer when the days were fair,

     And country skies were blue

When maidens roamed the country ways

     As city maids will do,

She rode for hours in his boat,

     And walked with him on land;

And ‘neath the silv’ry moon she let

     Him hold her slender hand.

Today she met him here in town

     Upon the busy street;

And in her costly autumn gown

     She looked full passing sweet.

But did she meet his smile and show

     Her little hand so fair?

The only thing she handed him

     Was just an icy stare.

Sept. 29, ‘10

The Peters’ Turkey

John Peters and Jim were brothers two

Who quarreled sometimes, as brothers do;

They had not spoken for nearly a year,

And were growing to hate each other, I fear.

John lived a mile and a half from Jim,

Each had a family dear to him.

The women and children could friendly be,

But John and Jim were at enmity.

Winter came on, and the snow came down,

And Christmas grew near in Waybacktown;

John raised a turkey both fat and sleek,

And stroked and hefted him every week,

And planned in his selfish, lordly way

A mighty dinner for Christmas day.

His wife suggested they send for Jim,

Whose expense was large, whose income slim,

To bring his family Christmas day,

In the good old true New England way.

But John was stern and thundered “No!”

And watched his favorite turkey grow

With eyes aglow with a selfish light

That told of a mighty appetite.

The morn came round when John was to kill

The fattened gobbler which sent a thrill

To the breast of his owner every time

He thought of his Christmas dinner prime.

He entered the shed, and blank despair

Spread over his features everywhere,

For he found someone had come at night

And stolen his Christmas heart’s delight.

And he staggered in to his house once more,

A saddened man to his cold heart’s core.

Next day an invite came up from Jim

For all to spend Christmas day with him,

A beautiful dinner they were sure to find,

Of the real old true New England kind.

Now John was selfish and liked to dine

Where food was plenty and things were fine,

And dreading his own poor dinner slim

Consented to go and dine with Jim.

So Christmas day they were all on hand –

Jim’s dinner they found both full and grand;

The biggest turkey in Wayback town

And John was happy to sit him down.

Old times were forgotten there and then,

And John and Jim like sensible men

Began a brotherly love anew

That should last them both their whole lives through.

And in the midst of the joyous meal

Jim showed a mirth he could not conceal,

And taking a note of a recent date

He laid it beside his brother’s plate.

And when John asked what the bill was for

Jim said he owed it “accordin’ to law”;

He said the turkey they’d dined upon

Was the one he stole from his brother John.

Sept. 29, 1901