Cider Days in Gungawamp

                                 I.

O, summer days in Gungawamp are more than passin’ sweet,

With bluest skies above an’ greenest grass beneath your feet,

An’ winter days in Gungy, too, are wonderful to view,

With all the world a perfect white ‘neath skies of grayish blue.

An’ warm spring days an’ autumn days, each hev their wondrous charm,

Fact any day’s a perfec’ day upon a perfect farm,

But seems to me I never found no days as blest, I jing!

Ez cider days in Gungywamp with all the joys they bring.

                                 II.

It ain’t so much the apple pile beneath the orchard trees,

That glistens in the autumn sun a-temptin’ uv the bees,

Although it makes a picture fair, its yellow, green an’ red,

A big bouquet upon the grass when other flowers are dead

An’ tempts the boys who go to school to fill their pockets all.

An' treat the blushin’ girls who wait outside the orchard wall.

They’re welcomed at the cider pile, for those are country ways,

All makin’ up the perfect joy uv Gungy cider days.

                                 III.

It ain’t so much the grindin’ cogs uv Miller’s ol’ gray mill

Thet turns all day behind the hoss, jest underneath the hill,

Where pulp runs down into the cheese all ready fur the press

Where run the juices in the tub a brown an’ golden mess!

It ain’t so much the foamy tub thet holds the juices rare

Where freckled boys with golden straws kneel most unceasin’ there,

But all contribute to the scene on which we like to gaze,

These little things all help to make the golden cider days!

                                 IV.

The ol’ hoss walkin’ round the track led by the swingin’ beam,

A gait ez stiddy ez a clock, reliable ez steam;

The pourin’ uv the apples in the hopper deep an’ wide,

The busy workmen down below, the presses true an’ tried.

The smashin’ uv the apple juice thet ushers from the cheese,

The ready “givin’” back an’ forth, the youngsters on their knees

The fillin’ uv the kegs an’ casks, the rough an’ ready ways,

But these ain’t all the fun there is in Gungy cider days.

                                 V.

There are the nights around the fire, the stories to be told,

Pop-corns an’ cider by the quart, an’ apples red an’ gold;

The apple parin’s, huskin’ bees, donations an’ surprise,

An’ best uv all the cider put mother’s big mince pies!

Ah, who would leave ol’ Gungy now, the best uv all the year?

Ol’ Gungywamp in cider ttime, with all its warmth an’ cheer!

The warm spring days, an’ summer days an’ other days are fine,

But cider days in Gungywamp are jest the days fur mine!

Oct. 31, 1910

                   First.

“I don’t want none of your high-priced wines,

     Uv which I’ve heard folks tell;

The fruit thet grows upon the vines

     Is only fit fur jell.

Champagne or cocktails, whiskey, rum

     To me ain’t any use;

All I desire right here to hum,

     Is Gungy apple juice!”

                         Bige Miller’s Cider Song

          Last.

“A little cider now an’ then

Is relished by the best o’ men;

A little more is better still

If made in Bijah’s cider mill.

Draw up around the open fire

An' see who is the biggest liar.

The night outside is cold ez sin,

But we don’t care becuz we’re in!

                       Hank Stubb’s Chorus

Vote For Me

It makes no difference what you’ve heard,

     Bill, vote for me;

Maybe I’ve said you were a bird,

     Bill, vote for me.

I’ve talked about you thus and so,

And called you hard names, yes, I know,

But that was very long ago,

     Bill, vote for me.

My father licked your father once,

     John, vote for me;

Because he called your father “dunce”,

     John vote for me.

Our families have fought they say

Like cats and dogs since that far day;

Let bygones be bygones, I pray,

     John, vote for me.

I cheated you? Well, yes, I did,

     Tom, vote for me;

I wouldn’t now, though, God forbid!

     Tom, vote for me.

I’d do for you the best I could;

I’m working for my country’s good,

So there’s a reason why you should,

     Tom, vote for me.

Oct. 31, 1910

That Women’s Bank

A women’s bank for women,

     Chicago’s latest fad;

If matters run real smoothly

     We’ll all be very glad.

They’ll have a woman teller

     And she will tell it, too;

The president a woman,

     A really woman crew.

A woman for the cashier,

     A woman for the clerk;

The janitor a woman,

     A maiden-of-all-work.

Directors, wholly women,

     O, what a time there’ll be

At the directors’ meetings

     If they don’t all agree!

Depositors all women,

     We pray some female crank

Won’t start, some evil morning,

     A run upon the bank.

And, just a hint in closing:

     O, burglar keep your hook

Out of the safe, and leave it

     To some fair lady crook!

Oct. 31, 1910

                                                  

THE CLAM PEDDLER

He comes to the door three times a week,

The clam peddler, clad in overalls,

Jumper and long hip rubber boots,

Which, in fair weather, are rolled at the knee.

His form is bent from stooping in the mud,

His hands and face are weather cracked

From long exposure to wind and sun and rain,

And yet he has a kindly face

Beneath the grayish stubble and the spots

Of clam mud sometimes clinging there.

He cries out “clams! Steamers, opened, long or round!”

At the back door, and his voice is clear

And pleasing, and suggests humor and good cheer,

But that is Yankee bluff – he’s after trade.

His eyes – they tell the story all too well.

He’s hopeless, hard, passé, a work machine,

A fool of fate who goes at every tide

And paws over the reeking mud

For clams. His back aches, he swears,

But whacks and holds on until his basket’s full,

Then pulls his wracked body together and goes

And peddles them from door to door.

He has no vision. The only thing he sees

Are mudflats, clams, nickels and dimes,

And then the village inn and – void.

But what of the clam peddler, after all?

He’s a human being; he works and eats and drinks

Like thousands of men in every walk of life,

And he’s as happy and as successful as they,

And brings as much good to humankind.

So why turn him from the door with a snarl?

If you don’t want to buy “clams! Steamers, opened, long or round,”

The least you can do is wish him well,

And send him, smiling, on his way.

Oct. 31, 1916

Early To Bed

“Early to bed and early to rise

Makes folks healthy, wealthy and wise,’

My mamma this each night has said

When I don’t want to go to bed.

One time I told her, “I don’t see

How ‘tis you are more wise than me,

When you don’t go till awful late

An' I am ‘bliged to go at eight.”

The only answer she could find

Was, “run along and never mind.”

Oct. 30, ‘07

Winter Apples

I would sing of winter apples,

     Now the trees are bare and cold,

Now Jack Frost has stripped the forests

     Of their raiment red and gold.

Lonesome now the orchard monarchs,

     Bending to the wintry blast;

Moaning for their swaying apples,

     Which are gathered in at last.

I would sing of winter apples,

     In the cellar warm and snug;

Apples poured in dusty barrels,

     Or, mayhap. the old stone jug.

Apples stacked in bins or barrels,

     Apples crimson, green and gold,

For the party, or the “parin’”,

     When the nights are long and cold.

I would sing of winter apples –

     As the treasure of the farm;

Sing of nights around the fireplace,

     Of the “wishing’s” mystic charm.

Apples russet, apples yellow,

     Apples blushing as a bride;

I would sing of winter apples,

     Jewels of the countryside!

Oct. 30, 1916

Over Her Glass

O, Hilda is fair as the blush of the morn,

     Her lips are as red as red wine;

And the light in her eyes when she’s filled with surprise,

     Is a gleam that approaches divine.

I like to watch Hilda when sipping her tea,

     She’s such a bright, cheerisome lass;

I like her the best when she’s drinking with zest

     And looks at me over her glass.

Her eyes are like stars that dance in the night,

     And look through the veil of my soul;

They give me a thrill, and she knows that they will,

     And a hunger I cannot control.

She sits and she sips all unconscious ‘twould seem,

     Of the harm she is causing, alas!

All the blood in my veins seems to deluge my brains

     When she looks at me over her glass.

O, Hilda is young and exceedingly fair,

     And knows not a care of the day;

And whenever we dine her laughter, like wine,

     Seems to drive all my burdens away.

I like her wherever she chances to be,

     She’s a winsome and lovable lass,

But I like her the best, when her fair lips are prest

     And she looks at me over her glass.

    

Oct. 29, ‘10

Psalm of Speed

Lives of rich men oft remind us

     We can make our lives likewise,

And, departing, leave behind us

     Dust clouds in the poor man’s eyes.

c. Oct. 29, 1910

The Song That Killed

“You are the star

     That guides my way;”

You lead me far

     Both night and day.

I follow you

     Where’er you go;

Beyond the blue,

     Across the snow.

O, distant star!

     Draw near this spot;

You are so far

     You hear me not.

Won’t you delay,

     Take me along,

Or let me pay,

     My way in song.

O, star, no more

     I see your light;

The heavens o’er

     Are dark as night.

In vain I call

     In vain I cling;

Why did you fall

     When I would sing?

    

c. Oct. 29, ‘09

A Power for Good

The man who says the world is wrong,

An’ ruther weep than hev a song,

An’ says in tones uv misery,

‘Tain’t nothin’ like it uster be,

An’ says he wouldn’t trust no more

His life-long neighbor lives next door,

An’ says they ain’t no use to try

To git ahead, he’d ruther die,

An’ home an’ friends ain’t wuth a rap –

What would you think uv sech a chap?

Now don’t git in a state like this,

Becuz you’re surely goin’ to miss

An’ awful lot uv fun each day,

Ez surely ez you live that way.

This picture isn’t overdrew,

They’s jest sech folks beside o’ you;

An’ what they need is daily food

Uv humor in their solitude.

Don’t let yourself git right down blue,

An’ think all things have gone askew;

Don’t b’lieve the worst uv feller man,

But b’lieve the very best you can.

Bring friendliness into the heart

Thet tries to live from you apart,

An’ you will be a power fur good

All threw your blessed neighborhood.

Oct. 29, ‘09

Plea of the Singer

I do not ask for wealth or fame,

     Nor honored place amongst the wise;

I do not ask to have my name

     Cut into stone for staring eyes.

I do not care old worlds to view

     Nor go where go the merry throngs;

I’d like to sit sweetheart with you,

     And listen while you sing my songs.

I do not seek to stir the hearts

     Of multitudes as men are want;

I do not wish to ply my arts

     Or put up any showy front.

All I would ask is some remote,

     Sequestered nook beyond the throngs

Where I into your face could look

     The while you sang my humble songs.

Oct. 29, ‘09

Sunday

          Oct. 31, ‘09

Frosty Mornin’s

O I like these frosty mornin’s

     When it’s lyin’ white an’ thick

On the walls an’ tumbled fences

     An’ the banks uv Lizzard Crick.

Puts a spring in heel an’ elbow,

     An’ a lustre in the eye,

An' a feller feels like goin’

     Where the game an’ fishes lie.

O I like these frosty mornin’s,

     When the air is keen an’ still,

An’ the cider’s drippin’ freely

     Over there in Martin’s mill.

June is fine an’ full uv promise,

     With its roses red an’ thick,

But I like beyond all others

     Frosty mornin’s on the Crick.

Oct. 28, 1903