Why He Sings

‘Tis not to place himself above

     The folk he is among;

But that some soul may learn to love

     The simple song he’s sung.

c. Nov. 30, 1892

Winter On The “Crick”

It’s winter time on “Lizzard Crick”,

     An' things is froze up tight;

All “Gungawamp” an’ miles beyond

     Is dressed in togs uv white.

The woods lie deep with fallen snow,

     The stream is bridged with ice;

An’ muskrats, turkles, frogs an’ toads

     Are bunked in snug an’ tight.

Across the ramblin’ ice-capped stream

     Ol’ Mt. Tom towers high;

A monster, white-clad sentinel

     Against the dull gray sky.

The barren trees whip back and forth,

     Swayed by the wintry wind;

The stealthy fox behind the walls

     Seeks food uv any kind.

The woodman’s axe rings loud and clear,

     An’ trees come crashin’ down;

The cattle mellow through the snow

     An’ drag the logs to town.

A startled rabbit from the brush

     Leaps o’er the glist’ning snow;

The plaintive bayin’s uv a hound

     Tell uv a fox’s woe.

Down in the bend the sun beats warm,

     An' hungry pick’rel wait

Beneath a foot of snow-capped ice

     To seize the temptin’ bait.

A campfire smoke is curling up

     Beneath the shelt’rin’ hill;

An’ fishermen walk to an’ fro

     With stealthy steps an’ still.

It’s winter time on “Lizzard Crick”,

     Wish I wuz there today

A-fishin’ with the boys again

     In jest the same ol’ way.

The rumblin’ uv the frozen stream

     Would be ez music sweet;

An’ ha’f a string uv “Lizzard” fish

     Would make my life complete!

Nov. 30, 1902

Nature Sonnets (By the Village Poet)

Pa fetched a skunk in yesterday,

     That he ketched in a big steel trap o’ his

     Which he had set out where the hen coop is.

And talk about your perfume, by the way,

It beat all kinds of rose and new mown hay.

     Ma said she had a mind to leave the farm,

     And burned some coffee to dispel the charm,

And even that would scarce drive it away.

Pa said he guessed it was worth while to ketch

     The skunk because it ketched his chickens so;

He said he’d put it on a board and stretch

     The skin as long and wide as it would go,

And being black he lowed that it would fetch

     A dollar, which every bush don’t grow.

Nov. 30, 1910

Cheer The Way

Would you make your burden lighter

     As you journey on your way?

Would you make the goal shine brighter

     At the close of labor’s day?

When you meet a fellow toiling

     Give a word of hope and cheer;

‘Tis a way of storm despoiling,

     Clearing up the atmosphere.

For the joy you give your neighbor

     Casts its shining back on you;

It will help to ease your labor

     As the journey you pursue.

Nov. 30, 1910

Nature Sonnets (By the Village Poet)

‘Tis nice to hear the rooster crow at dawn,

     When all the world is opening its eyes

     And red is breaking through the eastern skies,

For then we know that dismal night is gone,

And that another happy day is born.

     How fine to spring from bed with health aglow

     With the thermometer say ten below

And greet a golden frosty country morn!

And thus it is the rooster, noble bird,

     Announces to the world the coming day;

Sad must that mortal be who’s never heard

     His “cock-a-doodle-doo,” so bright and gay.

I fear we’d over-sleep, upon my word,

     Did not the rooster sound his roundelay.

Nov. 30, 1910

Pub. Judge

Tied Down

The chorus girl when out to lunch

     Is somewhat disconcerted;

She cannot kick the way she used,

     So long she’s hobble-skirted.

c. Nov. 30, 1910

Ac, Judge

Dobson the Nervous

“He is so nervous,” people said,

And each would shake his troubled head.

He should consult a specialist,

Or some fine morn he will be missed,”

And like remarks his friends would say

About poor Dobson ev’ry day.

For Dobson would sit in his chair

And twist and squirm and softly swear;

Would jump and walk about the room

Then settle down in awful gloom.

“Alas!” said they, “He has a bat

Or he would never act like that.”

At last they told the boss that they

With Dobson could no longer stay.

The boss took Dobson to one side

And questioned him. Then Dob’ replied:

“Rough on them, sir? It’s worse on me,

I’m breaking in my flannels, see?”

Nov. 30, ‘09

A Little, Low Time

When you’re a bit sad and the work goes bad,

     And your thoughts won’t glow like a stream,

And your eyes are blurred and your blood unstirred,

     And you can’t go on with your theme,

Don’t kick your chair with a wild despair,

     Or wail like a lonely loon,

Just think of the joy that comes to the boy,

     And whistle a little low tune.

Don’t whistle so loud you’ll disturb the crowd,

     Or startle the cat from its doze;

Don’t whistle an air that will bring despair

     On the faces of friends or foes.

But when you are glum, and the work won’t come,

     Don’t think from success you’re immune;

Just apprise your brain you’re a boy again,

     And whistle a little low tune.

Nov. 30, 1909

In Stokes’s Grocery Store

A circle gathers ev’ry night

     Say twenty odd or more,

Around the big invitin’ stove

     In Stokes’s grocery store.

Nail kegs and cracker barrels take

     The place uv fine settees,

An’ here the circle spends its time

     In most luxur’us ease.

Here’s where the farmin’s carried on,

     Here’s where the hay is raised;

Here’s where the cords of wood are cut,

     An’ where the stock is grazed.

Here’s where the monstrous clams are dug,

     Instead uv on the shore;

Great deeds are done around the stove

     In Stokes’s grocery store.

The women folks around the town

     ‘Low ef these great affairs

Would only happen close to home

     They’d all be millionaires.

But while they’re luggin’ up the coal,

     Or wood frum out uv door,

These warriors are fightin’ still

     In Stokes’s grocery store.

The nights they come the night they go,
Spring, summer, winter, fall.

An’ still they meet there regular,
The settlers, one an’ all.

I’d tell you more uv what they do,
And rake them fellers o’er,

But I must go and take my seat,
In Stokes’s grocery store.

c. Nov. 29, 1908

When Pa Shingled

When I was but a little chap, O, many years ago,

I well recall the day because it was a day of woe;

Pa he had shingle of his house, with some to spare, he thought,

But when he come to finish off he found that he was short.

“My boy,” said he quite harsh to me, “do you know where they be?”

At first I wouldn’t tell an’ then fear took ahold of me.

My pa, enraged, demanded why I his them from his sight,

“Becuz,” said I, with tear and sigh, and tremblin’ from affright,

“I didn’t want none left around for fear, for fear, you see,

They’d come in play most any day for use in spankin’ me!”

My pa he didn’t say a word, but cut a paddle out,

An’ fitted it, I won’t say where, a hundred times about.

I well recall the day and all, tho’ distant it may be,

Cuz when pa shingled uv his house he also shingled me!

Nov. 29, ‘08

Nature Sonnets by the Village Poet

A tiny snowflake came today at morn;

     It was so tiny one could scarcely see

     It’s coming. Then soon followed two and three,

Till by and by a white showed on the lawn

And ere we knew it a snow storm was born.

It was the first snow of the idle year,

And it was gladly welcomed far and near,

     Except one person held it up to scorn.

One person only, he a man profane,

     Who loves not nature nor the dainty snow,

Who curses awful at the sound of rain,

     And who would send cold weather far below

Because he drives to meet the daily train

     O’er hill and dale a dozen miles or so.

Nov. 29, 1910

(Joe Cone’s father-in-law, Adam Clevenshire, ran a livery service out of East Haddam landing)

If I Was Boss

                                (Thought out by the office boy)

I wish I was the boss round here

     Things wouldn’t be as they are now;

I’d have a better atmosphere

     Around the office, anyhow.

I wouldn’t have the best dressed clerks

     Come in most any time of day,

And then the one who really works

     Put in more hours at smaller pay.

I wouldn’t ‘low the help to speak

     About the owners as they do,

And say the boss he is a “freak”,

     I’d punch their noses black and blue.

I’d have two office boys instead

     Of one to do the work I do;

And then he wouldn’t be so dead     

     Before the long day’s work is through.

I wouldn’t let each dopey guy

     Maul our stenog’ the way they do;

But I would let the office boy

     Talk to her when he wanted to.

Perhaps I will be boss someday

     If I just work and never shirk,

And then I’ll fire them clerks away,

     And me and her will do the work.

Nov. 29, 09

In Winter Quarters

The north winds blow

     And we shall have snow,

What will the airship do then, poor thing?

     ‘Twill rest in the shed

     With a bag on its head

And get ready to fly in the spring, poor thing.

c. Nov. 29, ’09

Ballad of Gungawamp’s First Moving Picture Show

                                       I.

A well-dressed feller come to town, one who could talk, you bet,

An’ handed out a cheap cigar to ev’ry man he met,

An’ pasted up some poster bills, them gaudy things, you know,

Announcin’ of a big event, a movin’ pictur’ show.

The grocer men they got a pass, postmaster ayer the same

Fur hangin’ up the bills around so people, when they came

Fur groceries or fur mail would read an’ wanter go;

An’ fur a week all Gungawamp jest hankered fur the show.

                                       II.

Well, after waitin’, seemed a year, the evenin’ come along,

An’ to the Gungawamp Town Hall there went a mighty throng;

They come frum near, an’ frum afar, the young, the old an’ slow

Becuz ‘twuz new the Gungawamp, a movin’ picture show.

We’d heard the city people tell about them great machines

How they would pictur’ real live folks in home an’ furrin’ scenes;

Uv soldiers fightin’ in the wars, an’ railroad wrecks an’ all,

An’ so uv course it wuzzn’t strange we filled the old Town Hall.

                                       III.

They fin’lly turned the lights all down an’ switched on their machine,

An’ jest a ha’f-way picture come upon the cotton screen;

They fussed an’ fiddled with the thing, an’ couldn’t make it go,

An’ then the boys begun to yell an’ guy the pictur’ show.

The thing it buzzed an’ sputtered like ‘twas full o’ pepper sass,

An’ all the time a streak o’ light wuz comin’ through the glass,

But fully ha’f an hour went by afore they made it go,

An’ so we settled down once more to see the picture show.

                                       IV.

First thing they showed wuz Uncle Sam a-standin’ on a ball

A wavin’ uv a flag which meant that he wuz boss uv all;

Uv course we cheered an’ stamped our feet, an’ encored long an’ loud,

An’ made ‘em throw it on again, to satisfy the crowd.

An’ then come one uv Washin’ton goin’ ‘crost the Delaware

An’ for a minute most the crowd thought it wuz pretty fair,

Then some one saw some trickery was tryin’ to be done

An’ for a while it looked ez tho’ we ‘us goin’ to git some fun.

                                       V.

There stood George Washin’tom ez straight ez any soldier should,

An’ men wuz pokin’ uv the ice, an’ rowin’ best they could,

But they wuz usin’ uv a boat right up to date, an’ so

Some feller up front says he, “this is a fakir’s show!”

Ha’f uv the people then riz up an’ wanted back their cash

An’ lowed ef ‘twazn’t comin’ soon some things would go to smash.

The movin’ pictur’ man he begged fur them to settle down,

An’ he would put some pictur’s on, a credit to the town.

                                       VI.

They settled back into their seats, but most uv them wuz filled

With doubt, an’ when the next one come what faith they had wuz killed.

He throwed a southern river scene, an’ on the bank there lay

An alligator sleepin’ like, an’ children come to play,

An’ pretty soon the “gaitor” woke – a make-believe one, too,

An’ grabbed a child an’ swallered him jest like real “gaiters” do.

Some woman in the audience she jest let out a bawl,

An’ there wuz somethin’ doin’ then in Gungawamp’s Town Hall.

                                       VII.

The boys upset the blamed machine, an’ run the men out-door,

An’ tore the screen from off the stage an’ stamped it on the floor.

The grocer man he tried to speak, postmaster ayer the same,

But they hed got admission free, an’ both wuz in the game.

They chased the movin’ pictur’ men way up the street an’ then

The sheriff come upon the scene an’ quieted ‘em again.

But many years went by before, ez ev’rybody knows

A movin’ pictur’ man durst come to Gungawamp with shows.

Nov. 29, ‘09

When Father Goes To Shoot

                                                 

When father takes the old gun down

     From off the kitchen wall,

Where usually she hangs at ease

     From spring to middle fall,

He gets a lot of rags around,

     And oil cans, two or three,

And swabs the barrel up and down,

     As happy as can be.

He oils the lock and trigger, too,

     And polishes the stock,

Until the whole thing shines as bright

     As mother’s parlor clock.

He mends and fills his shot bags up,

     And fills his powder horn,

And talks about his hunting trip

     All day from early morn.

He has ma order flour in

     To make a squirrel pie;

And promises the neighbors round

     Of game a great supply.

And by and by he saunters forth,

     Into the forest deep,

And bids me follow in the rear,

     A goodly distance keep.

Pa tramps and tramps o’er weary miles,

     And maybe spies a crow;

He shoots at everything he sees

     But nothing is laid low.

He homeward turns at close of day

     Dejected sore and lame;

His jaw is set, his spirit broke,

     He’s far from feeling game.

The gun is hanging on the wall,

     And ma and I are mute;

‘Twill be another year, or more,

     E’er father goes to shoot.

Nov. 27, ‘05